Monday, February 1, 2016

Wake up! Wake up! You've got a lotta work to do tonight, Ruthie! - Poet's Haven publishes two of my poems - Thich Nhat Hahn and Shaker Furniture

Image result for occupied norway tv show Immensely enjoyed the first episode of Occupied on Netflix. "Occupied" is the most expensive production Norway has ever produced. Funny bc I said to Scott last night that I'd like to visit Norway.

Why, he said. Scott has no desire to travel except to the Giant Supermarket and the Seashore.

Oh, I said, the Fjords and to eat their fish cuisine and drink their beer. Scott and I were watching and sleeping thru Downtown Alley and then Mercy about the Civil War. They amputated a leg.

After I had my bloodletting at Quest in Jenkintown, I rewarded myself by eating at The Corner Bakery in Abington. Cheese omelet, fresh fruit cup - I removed the fresh pineapple so I wouldn't choke to death - and some whole grain bread.

Excellent waiter James who told me when the Hazelnut Coffee was ready. I was seized with a desire to chat with the black woman sitting across from me at the next table.

I waited until she finished chewing her pancake and said loudly This is a really good place, I've never been here before.

This was also her first time. A friend's son works here but was not on duty now. Prices are reasonable, we agreed.

Image result for corner bakery in abington

Ever notice how everything you write about is in the past?

MARCY, was that call from California from you? Will call back tomro.

 Sarah's b'day is Feb 7 so I got this little package ready to send her. Two berets, four packets of Bigelow's Plantation Mint - am sipping on mine now - it smells like chewing gum - and of course a poem I wrote and stapled onto a heart I cut out.

Mike Macrone from my accountant's office put it in two columns. I did do it myself, but the columns weren't even.

The mailing cost was $2.94. A new woman at Bryn Athyn was being tutored by Maria. Her name was Fia, short for Sophia, which, she said, no one can pronounce.

You should see the people in Occupied with their Norwegian names.

Oh no! I said at one point. I'm having my usual trouble where all the men's faces look alike, except, fortunately the prime minister's as he's older and has no facial hair. He can borrow some of mine.

 Paul Newman stamps and also Janis Joplin.
Listened to my erudite audio book The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross , a staff writer for The New Yorker.

Am learning so much.... like a sieve. Imperative that I listen in the kitchen while making this labor-intensive Eggplant and Chickpea casserole. Recipe by Martha Rose Shulman from the Times.

Confession: I've always loved her recipes but thought her name was Marsha.

I told Scott when he came over to say gbye before he walked to the train that the Eggplant was tough. He said you have to cook it a long time. I did follow instrux but it's still very chewy.

Yesterday this master procrastinator posted some fotos on FB. I was communicating with Judith Lawrence who just sent me two magnificent poems for the Compass:  Bathrobe Days and Daytona Beach, her new home.

I used to read my poetry at St Phillips Church outside New Hope, but Liz Bowman discontinued the readings cuz no one showed up!!!

 My cousin Chef Ray Sewell was inquiring about his grandmother... OUR grandmother, so I sent him this photo. Mom gave it to me. So, there were three kids, all of em dead now.

Foto is below. 

Harriet (Ray's mom) - she changed her name from Hyacinth which she didn't like - BTW I can hear her laffing now - Hy had a fabulous laff - then Marvin and then my dad. Dad called her Mama.

Next to her is her fave person in the world, her sister Rose. They were like twins. When lil Ruthie was born, she was named after Aunt Rose. Mom didn't like the name Rose - too sweet - so she chose Ruth, even tho she had an Aunt Ruthie, from Miami, who had tic douloureux or trigemeninal neuralgia. She finally got an operation that stopped this excrucatingly painful condition.

Aren't you glad to learn about dis? I'd forgotten all about it. Of course part of Aunt Ruthie's face was paralyzed by the removed of the nerve, but so what? 
Now, I'm gonna tiptoe into the kitchen and grab some trail mix. Scusem moi!
Last nite at Scott's we were sleeping to Austin City Limits when I woke up. Time to go home. But I suspected I was low.

Yes, I knew I was cuz my vision was affected. The TV screen was mottled. Jeez, I thought as I gathered my stuff and went downstairs.

I gulped down a couple handfuls of his Raisins and then walked home, looking up at the stars.

I was in an altered state. Went right to the fridge and ate two small tubs of Chobani Raspberry Chocolate yogurt and then I took my blood sugar.

28.... the lowest I've ever been.

We'd eaten pizza last nite and I injected 12. When I checked my sugar it was up to 200. My mistake was injected 8.

Shoulda waited for it to go down by itself.

Will I ever catch on?

Dear Ruth Deming,

Thank you for submitting "DINING WITH THICH NHAT HAHN" to The Poet's Haven. We love it and will be publishing it in the Poetry Gallery.

Thanks again.


Vertigo Xi'an Xavier
publisher, The Poet's Haven
AND the same day, yesterday, they said

Dear Ruth Deming,

Thank you for submitting "Shaker Furniture" to The Poet's Haven. We love it and will be publishing it in the Poetry Gallery.

Thanks again.


Vertigo Xi'an Xavier
publisher, The Poet's Haven
 My heart soared like a helium balloon reaching Mars.

May I change my mind about working on my novel tonight?

Image result for colleen hoover
Fairly good novel. Colleen is only 36, lives in TX, and has written 7 novels and 1 novella.


When I began eating my omelet
sprinkled with scallions
and melted cheddar,
hot to the tongue
and thought of my Christmas shopping
and the places I’d go

I asked Thich Nhat Hahn to
sit with me in the kitchen
to help me savor my food.

In dark robes
he bowed his head
over tea I prepared,
delicately lifted the white cup
as he bowed again
meeting my eyes,
eyes that have seen much
some of it wrapped into books
or poetry or praying for peace.

Taste returned to my tongue
the omelet and the goodness of
the hen who had given her life for me
I became one with the morning
The sun shone into my living room
I bowed my head in thanks for its
arrival that morning
Then lifted my glass of water
stared at the clear cold liquid
then drank,
it is cold and it is good to me.

And the master across the table
pinkie lifted as
he drained the last of his jasmine tea.


At the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Narrow wood
and fair
cut from trees
of another America
worn at the
touch points
shy furniture
caught behind the museum’s glass wall
like a ballerina hooking up her dress.

The desk and rocker
the candelabra
upended like a bird on wing,
flow without order or design
in their latest
retirement place. Another
room, dark as
a porch in twilight
houses a high, narrow bed.
We can’t go in.
Who warmed their legs beneath these sheets?
Or dreamt of forbidden touch?

Really, it wasn’t so long ago that
they left, half a century merely,
the Great Ones, sitting in
the farmhouse for
their last regal portraits,
turning their ancient heads
like captive eagles
still listening
for the scuff of shoes
on the kitchen floor.

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