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.
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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!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.
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.
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.
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