Writers Group meets at B's - Ruth, Donna, Marf, Linda and Beatriz - My poem: Movement in Seven Parts

Old photo of Donna's nails. She does em herself.

Am gonna put the text in here and then run downstairs to put in the new photos.

Hold on! Found this short video by writer Ian McEwan on love in writing fiction. 

Linda and I are always late as we complete our selection for the week.

Linda wrote a terrific poem for her nephew Graham called MY REASON FOR RUNNING. Good lines include "freshly washed sunlight... unrelenting grey rain... blinding light shock of rain."

He'll love it, we assured her. His mom does not appreciate Linda's poetry prowess. She also wrote two autumn poems, one about a Bonfire.

We're a little coterie of writers. We stay in our own world. My family is not interested in my work, with the exception of my sister Lynn, who is one of my "readers."

I also took a sultry photo of Donna

Beatriz wrote one of her essays on a pollinator we'd never heard of.
     The crab spider. She showed us many pix of this crafty fellow who camouflages himself like any good soldier would and then springs for his prey. His appetite is rapacious - what mean dat? - and he likes worms, which he divides up in segments, saving them for his little ones.

Donna's new poem BLACK MOON was brutally honest about her family members. Bc she has bipolar disorder, she will not be allowed to hold the new baby.

Cruel and misinformed.

She was just published in Twisted Sister. Look, you can read all her poems here, including Black Moon.

BRUSH WITH HEAVEN was Martha's piece about a close call with death. Dyou believe she had heart failure? Based on a kidney infection that affected her heart.

The Abington hospital docs and nurses were wonderful. And of course her late parents made an appearance. Dad told her Don't give these good people a hard time, while Mom said, It's not your time.

She also brought in a poem. 

  All booted up, I was the first to arrive. Brought Triscuits and Gouda cheese as a snack. B provided banana chips. The word chip referring to the possibility of it chipping your tooth OR continuing with a chip on your shoulder.

The idea for my new short story came while I was in the kitchen preparing my omelet and listening to TIS by the late Frank McCourt.

I would write about life in a nursing home, do it in several parts, before our hero Sean McNally goes to an assisted living home.

The words poured out of me nonstop. So far, it's only two pages. Part One and Part Two. People liked it, tho I haven't reviewed their comments which is important to do.

I'm reading the columns of one Colson Whitehead, author of the new book Underground Railroad. The writing in his columns is divine, but basically a waste of time. You don't learn anything, but he'll give you a good laff and upon occasion you'll learning, such as Get to the point, don't use five words, when one word will do.

Read him here.

   Colson, I'm listening to Call the Midwife in the car. When I'm finished, your book is next. It's resting comfortably in a little pouch.

The night before our meeting, I was watching the Japanese News called NHK. Some news item showed a man bounding down the stairs. How gracefully he danced down.

Gotta write a poem about dat, I thinks. So for the writers group I wrote six movement poems, but then on the radio last night I heard something about swimming naked in the a lake in Breton. Wow, what a good topic I thought, so this morning I wrote my seventh movement poem.

Lemme know what you think. Now, I'll run downstairs, boot on but feeling better bc I put long pants over it, so it feels more normalized.

SEVEN POEMS ON MOVEMENT

ADAM

Adam, oh, we all like Adam

sits a’chair staring at computer screen

waiting to be interrupted

straightbacked and stiff,

as if there’s back trouble,

it’s only from being in the orchestra pit

of the librarian’s chair. 

“Whazzup?” he asks, a quick

smile lighting up his cheeks

like an apple best eaten slowly.

***

MAN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

A far-off lens portrays a man

running down the stairs, outdoor

stairs in southern California, arms

swinging at his sides, as if he has

practiced for years, each leg bending

at the knee and thigh and ankle,

going faster, faster, faster, and

I shout Instant Replay but the

screen has turned black.

***

THE CREPE MYRTLE IS LATE FOR THE BALL

A southern belle, forced by her owner

to bloom up here, she caught a cold,

and stood lifeless in the front yard.

She twisted her infected branches and

looked up at the sky. Are ya done with

me? she asked. I've lived here five years

dancing in place to the Nutcracker Suite.

Cold showers from the hose bathed her

withered limbs, like Whitman did

the dying. More cold showers up

and down her once famously beautiful

body, the ballerina.

She was tough, she was resilient, she

refused to die. Her beauty's returned

the Belle of Cowbell Road.

***

THE MAN AT THE STARBUCKS

How can anyone stand so straight?

How can anyone have hair like that?

White, all white, with a tiny ponytail

peacock-proud to ornament

the man in line.

Tall, he bent toward the aproned

barista. I’ll have Decaf, he

said. Here was a man who would

sleep well at night.

I’ll make a fresh cup, said she.

And I heard all, my head turning

as I waited for my pumpkin spice

latte, which I could barely pronounce.

Later, at table, I sat at a distance

my curiosity aroused like a calico

cat sniffing round the cake plate

Whatever was he reading, as his

white head dipped deep into the

paperback book. A man who

would rouse the stars to dream about.

***  

WAITING IN LINE

The line wasn’t long.

I forgot that I don’t have

to be busy every minute

so I stopped reading

the book I would buy.

Real life is more important

than any history book you’ll

buy for your son’s fortieth.

A woman with gleaming white

hair, the color of the noonday

sun, was leaning over, laughing.

Good thing I have insomnia,

she said. There’s a million

cable channels and nothing is….

Yeah yeah. As I read in bed

last night, All the Light You Cannot

See, the Gloaming White was

somewhere in the area, reading

herself to sleep, as Dr Amen, Patrick

Stoner, and Patti Paige sang me
to sleep.

***

UNBEARABLY BREAKABLE

Spider skittered around the

slippery porcelain sink with

its bits of spinach and peanuts

the journey of his life, trying

to get free before more cold

water came pouring down

the spout.

A shroud covered his head,

with quivering posterior

he injected his venom to

no avail, and was thrown

down a high place, tumbling

tumbling, eight legs

a-tremble, no web to

carry him down.

Suddenly.

Nothing.

***

MIDNIGHT SWIM

She and he were seen from

the window swimming. The still

moon lit up each naked body.

Look at that slim white arm

curling from the water, up,

then splash, slender as a

ribbon. He was nearby, the

hair on his arms flattened down

like fleece, bubbles spitting

from his mouth. The watcher

goes back to bed, listening

to their splashes – they sound

like celebratory ducks – as

He and She embrace like

majesties, then head for the

locker room on shore.