The moment I got home, fortified by delicious Maxwell House coffee, I went into the kitchen and saw three woodpeckers atop the remaining maple tree in the backyard.
Each pecked ferociously on the tree. I thought they were fighting for the hand of a dainty little maiden bird.
May the best genes win.
I injected 10 units and was 'normal' when I got home.
Was half an hour late as I began writing at 11 am. Took an important call for New Directions.
The support group always come first.
Martha left early so didn't take a pic.
What a wonderful poem she wrote! THE THING BETWEEN YOU AND ME.
It was about someone she does not like.
How cool is that!
Very.
Lines include
To be honest, I don't like you
disdain oozing from every crease
and wrinkle (that's from the person
she doesn't like)
The unlovely spirit in me
salutes the ugly spirit in you.
Namaste.
Rem surprised us with a new talent he has - he's a very effective mimic or impersonator. He did Ronald Reagan very well.
He read us 3 more chapters of his novella Today's the Day. As you know each chapter title is the name of a song.
Sitting in the morning sun
Smoke on the water
Peaceful easy feeling
He's got a great sense of humor and we laffed as he read it.
He began by saying "The Great Communicator was on the idiot box." This was "Ronnie" as he called Ronald Reagan. Nixon, he said was an antisemite, despite having Henry Kissinger as his 'sexy' Secretary of State.
The rondel, which is very hard to write, but fine poet that he is, he had no trouble writing ARMED ONLY WITH A VIOLIN. You've seen these people on the street or in the subway. He put a couple of dollars in his violin case.
Thother work was PLEASE DON'T SLAM THE DOOR.
Yes, people do dat who arrive in the hall of his apartment.
When I left B's house, I realized as I walked out, that I let go of the door, not knowing if it would slam or not.
I made 7 copies - perfect - of my 5-page short story, THE RUNNER.
Got the idea from a funeral I attended a couple of weeks ago.
Ideas always come from somewhere. When I told this to my daughter, Sarah, yesterday, she said Stick to your original idea, which was to write about - gee - I can't remember the main character's name. He has
schizoaffective disorder and is a race-winning runner.
Ethan said he read the book The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner. It's also a movie. British movies are among my fave.
When that buzzer goes off, I jump out of my deep sleep.
Time to write a poem, I thought.
What to write about?
Ideas included stopping at Starbucks last night before Ethan and Sarah drove me home. There was a small brouhaha, which Ethan noticed, where some mentally ill individual was making trouble at the counter.
I was actually surprised the group liked my poem.
Hold on, I'll take a quick foto, while my pink camera is findable. Yes, I lose it a lot.
EARLY APRIL
Upstairs in my study
it's opera day on
WRTI
Madame Butterfly
trills in high notes
that come forth
like a scream
Downstairs
a symphony of birds
speaks in couched
language though
they probably sing
of the same joys and
despairs as the Butterfly.
Begone, this is my
turf. It's my turn,
you idiot, on Scott's feeder.
How dare you plunge
into the bird bath before
me. I am the king - the
blue jay.
And what above love?
The chickadee is building
a nest in the green
bird house in the
front yard.
And who is that backing
into the red bird house in
the back yard?
Nests, eggs, fledglings
feathers upon the ground
souvenirs from the cold
lonely winter all of us
have survived.
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