"My Jenny" is published - Poems: Prayers for Donna - A Prayer for our Nation - New poem: Eyes

Lynn took this pic from her iPhone.

"Nice fake smile," I advised the two of us.

Just discovered my short story My Jenny was put online by The Quail Bell Press.

Isn't that a lovely name? Quail Bell?

Read the story here. 



The late Jim Harrison, novelist and poet, who died March 26 in Patagonia, Arizona, at age 78 of unknown causes.

Just checked out a huge book of poetry by him and am reading an article about him in Esquire.

Watched David Brooks on the Charlie Rose Show.

Here's a great Q that David Brooks posed:

What would you do if you weren't afraid.

Well, I just sent this note to a senior center in Trevose PA, home of a Bruster's Ice Cream, if it's still there. Fear factor.... very low.

Hello!

I'm a psychotherapist in private practice looking for a paid part-time position helping senior citizens.

What I'd love to do is run a creative writing group where we would eventually publish our own little magazine.

I'm a published writer and run a Writer's Group out of Willow Grove.

Please view some of my poems here http://blackpetalsks.tripod.com/yellowmama/id1421.html

Thanks and looking forward to your response.

 Mailed in three poems to an online Christian mag which I think is called Calvary Cross. I learned about it bc three of my poems were rejected by a very good nature lit mag with a terrific creative name.

As a show of support to me, do NOT click on the link.

Titles of my poems are He Is Risen - A Prayer for Donna (suffering horrific depression) - and A Prayer for Our Nation.

PRAYERS FOR DONNA

The rattlesnake of
Depression squeezes
her

Voice quivers
like a high-strung
violin

Save me
save me
she calls to
her Jesus

My voice
joins with hers
Save her
Sweet Jesus
before she
dies on her
cross

***

A PRAYER FOR THE FATE OF OUR NATION

Terrorists
plot with
the confidence
of a sheik

Serial killers
stutter with
excitement as
they spot
their next
lonely soul

The Republican
candidate grins
like a child on
the playground

Pushing, bullying
throwing sand in
Davy's face

His foes are
catatonic as
the frozen
moon

Even God has
lost his nerve
awaiting the
Apocalypse.

Marcy and I are parrying back and forth. My eyes are gradually closing. Couldn't nap bc of all the Maxwell House Coffee I drank that my sister Donna brewed for us this morning.

Am gonna write a quick little poem now and then read myself to sleep.

EYES

I am led down a

labyrinthine

corridor

Sit in the big chair,

says younger-than

spring-daffodils

Trisha

And tilt back your head

Loving hands put

amber liquid

on my lower lids

dab dab with

the tissue

I basketball toss

across the room

a small room, it is

tall as a sapling

Doctor George

enters

Looks at the book

in my lap once

then twice

I try to please him

by staring wide-eyed

as if the sun-god Apollo

had entered and

lit up the room

his eye practically

impregnating mine

as Trisha records his

arpeggio of

numerology

I drive back home

Radio silenced

to contemplate the

extraordinary ecstasy

of our God-like

ability to See.