Let there be light - Poems: The Monarch - The Mirror

Oh, hello there!

Is anyone listening?

Whew! I thought I was all alone.

Was telling my friend Marcy I couldn't think of anything to write but she assured me something would come to me.

Which it did.

Told her I wondered what it was like to have a psychotherapist. I of course AM a psychotherapist but that doesn't mean I don't need help myself.

Have I ever had a good therapist?

Hmmm. Nothing is coming to me. Beth Lindsey perhaps. Hold on as I goggle her.

She, sadly, departed life on earth. 

Here she is after she became a Buddhist nun and moved to England. I published a true story about her but can't remember where.

Did I tell you I'm listening to The Grateful Dead?

They are one band that really grew on me.

Oh! Get off, get off, Garcia and Lesh are growing on my legs and arms.

Earlier, when I went outside to test the weather, and had my sneaks on, I simply began walking down the street even though I had to pee and didn't know my blood sugar.

Low is what you've gotta worry about. Anything under 80 is low.

Beth, do you remember me? Dyou believe I got friggin .... oh, never mind.

So I'm walking down the street. Feeling guilty that I don't visit Carol, who sits all day in her living room, with the fan twirling, and her Down syndrome son Bruce in control of the remote.



I posted the above photo on FB, except this pic is off the Internet.

I wrote a nice poem about the monarch. One person unsubscribed to my New Directions email alerts. AWeber never tells you who it is.

Push and shove?

Hold on and I'll find the poem for ya.

THE MONARCH

King of Beauty
King of Flight
You hover around the purple blossoms
Finding strength for the flight of your life.

In autumn, you'll join your brethren
in the former home of
The Aztecs, Mexico, so many
peoples and lands and governments
were here before we were

Give praise for the multitude
of Life.

***

Was notified I got something published in River Poets Journal. It's called LET THERE BE LIGHT and I had no idea what it was about.

Editor Judith Lawrence writes, The Journal has been posted to the web site in PDF format. To view, go to www.riverpoetsjournal.com. On the menu tab, click on "Special Editions-Anthologies." Once that page opens, click on “Windows - 2017 Special Edition.pdf" file to view the Journal.

Here's what it's about. A dozen yrs ago my sister Donna and I drove to Cleveland. I stayed with Aunt Selma, while she stayed at friend Joyce's.

When no one was looking I opened up the blinds in the family room.

Verboten!!!

***

THE MIRROR

I chanced a glance
just now - cute! -
and remembered
when we lived in the
apartments

and looked in the blue
rimmed mirror from
the Now and Then Shop

I was in the middle of
my nervous breakdown
and thought I resembled
my newly dead dad

Where are they now?
The Now and Then Shop?
My dad? And all the
darling clothes he
bought us from
Majestic Specialties?

What me wear? Today
you'll see me modeling
navy-blue culottes
from the thrift shop
and a black Picasso-like
top. Doff your hat
as I walk by
wishing I were
floating in the
ole swimming hole.

***

I think I've mentioned I'd like to end each blog post with something special.

Tavis Smiley sez Keep the Faith.

He's a spectacular dresser.



My shoulders are too narrow to wear a suit like his.

LET THERE BE LIGHT.

Great film - Life on the Line - Poem: This Ole Pole - Poem: Miles' End

Woke up very late after watching the 2015 action drama LIFE ON THE LINE.  It's a riveting story about "line men."  From Wiki

A lineworker (lineman is a tradesperson who constructs and maintains electric power transmission and distribution lines.

A lineworker generally does outdoor installation and maintenance jobs. Those who install and maintain electrical wiring inside buildings are electricians.

At the end of the film, there's a tribute to all the dead linemen. Look at it here.  The names of the 'fallen' scroll on by.  I happen to know one dead lineman and sent off the website.


LIFE ON THE LINE starred John Travolta, b. 1954, so he was about 62 in his role as a much younger man, a line man. I discovered the film by accident as I was searching for films by Travolta, who I consider a terrific actor.

***
Went to the kids' house last night, following my direx on how to get there bc of the Edge Hill Road Bridge detour.

Max, 4, always comes running out as soon as I enter.  For some reason, Grace was interested in spending time with me. What a kid!

I'd made a new dish I sort of invented. Asparagus and pasta. Protein was chunks of cheese and pecans.

I'm unable to post photos on here.

Behind my house is a old pole on which line men will climb up if necessary.  One time when Dan used to live here he went out and talked to the guy, who installed some free cable for us.

I'm gonna write a quick poem now which I'll then post on FB.

THIS OLE POLE

Who looks at it now?
Who pays attention?
Jes me, because of the John Travolta
movie, The Linemen.

They climb the pole, their
equipment jangling at their
waists, a purtier sound
can't be imagined.

The sound of work being done.
Hard hats. White trucks the
color of appaloosas riding
on the plains.

Wild blackberries grow out there
With my working gloves on
I fill up the wheelbarrow and
dump the garden clippings
over the cliff.

Imagine somersaulting
over the cliff and
wondering, Who will
eat my eggs
cooling on the
kitchen table.
***

Needed to store the following poem somewhere, so here t'is.

MILES' END

in memory of Miles Dewey Davis III (1926-1991)

After the lights went out
and the smoke
like gray ribbons of cloud
drifted into the other room,
he departed,
carrying at half mast
his horn,
much the way he did as a kid,
but this time not daring to
ask for even one more solo,
one more tumbledown sobbing arpeggio
clambering skyward,
leaving the stage instead for
more restless, wondrous countries
than ever his breath could tell.

**

So when I woke up, which was about an hour ago, I thought, Wouldn't it be nice if I got an email like this:

Good morning Ruth! So glad you're part of this world. You contribute so much. Today you have a party to go to in Roslyn,,, etc etc

NOW if I could sell this sort of email, I could make some money. I used to subscribe to all sorts of emails that would come in the morning. Many were inspirational. I guess as a person who had all sorts of probs back then, including bipolar, they served a purpose.

All right. Let's get to those eggs NOW.

Whew! Obamacare still intact, tho needs lotsa work - Poem: Big Fat Spider - The Latest Terrible Thing

Senate Rejects Repealing Obamacare.

Take that, Trumphole!





THE BIG FAT SPIDER

Not again. He's poised
on the side of the
sink. My first thought
Is God testing me?

I know what I must do.
A cardboard carton of
lobster bisque is
soaking on the
white porcelain.

I empty it out
then scoop up
Mr Spider and
open the back door.

The spider has
escaped and is
making its way
up my arm
and under my dress.

Shake shake shake
goes I. The itching
stops and I view
the half moon.

God's smiling at me.

***

Went to Mom's after the evening news. She was being served by sister Ellen. I brought Amish potato salad - never again - so tangy it seems like it's 'bad' - but the maestro behind the counter said it's cuz they use so much vinegar.

Pucker pucker pucker.

Ellen made delicious Guatemalan Coffee. Nothing like hot coffee in your tummy. Mom enjoyed it too.

We discussed the green cup she served it in. Some folk don't like it. Why? The wide mouth makes it cool down faster. So, what you do is keep refilling it.

***

Tonight's job was to type up more of Mom's recipes. Tres difficile!

So, in addition to the Brownies and the Lemon Squares, I've added Gefilte Kraut, Mom's Meat Loaf with Hunt's Tomato Sauce, and Sweet and Sour Meatballs (with pineapple chunks in the sauce and water chestnuts in the meatballs).

I had some of the recipes myself in my yellow plastic file box I brought home from Texas when Sarah was two!

***

So, I'm trying to work with older folks.



There's a place called The Manor or something like that. I filled in the online app. It was unclear that I'd finished it, so Scott routed me over there.

I walked into the front lobby. You couldn't see inside. There are three levels of care depending on your memory.

I came prepared in case the HR person could see me. My resume, three references and one of my Intell articles.

Twenty minutes from home. Perfect for me. A job I will never get!

***

Reader? Attencion! What's the latest terrible thing that's happened to you?

So, Russell Eisenman sends his email list his new favorite female vocalist.

Unfortunately she's dead.

Leukemia. I think she was in her 40s.

So I play the YouTube link. You can't even hear her voice. It's as if an airplane is flying two feet from her geetar.

BUT I can't make the link turn off. So whenever I turn on my speakers, there's her voice with the airplane or the steam engine or a locomotive blocking out her voice.

What shall I do?

Well, I shut off the downstairs computer. I'm upstairs, gosh, it's late!

Can't wait to see if it worked.

Obamacare looks like a lost cause - Poems: Aunt Martha - Eating Rice Pudding with Simon - Joan the Valkyrie

 First, the terrible news about our country. Looks like Obamacare will be overturned. Read the Times article here. Mitch McConnell below, a skilled politician.

 
 
Scott was just here helping me SCAN a document saying I was the author of Eating Rice Pudding with Simon, which will be published in TRUTH SERUM PRESS of Australia.  Not surprisingly I couldn't remember the poem, but was able to locate it, not by echo-location - who does dat anyway? - but by the Search-Me Button. Poem will be published at bottom of this note.


AUNT MARTHA

She grasps the rails of
the wicker rocking chair
eyes closed
listening to the rain

Nothing better than
sitting out on the
covered front porch
letting this world

and the world beyond
sift through her like
the flour she uses
to bake fine cakes

for her beloved
David. To the
sound of a car
or two whooshing

by, her characters
come to her, one by
one, like animals
on the Ark. She

smiles as they
nod hello, thanking
her for the gift
of creation.

The white mail truck
drives by. Mailman
Leo steps out. "Too
many here to stuff
into the mailbox,"

he says, dropping
off a foot-high
stack of envelopes
some of which

drop to the wet
grassy ground.
"Oh no!" she remembers
"it's my birthday."

And so it is.
Happy Birthday,
Miss Martha, Aunt
Martha, Mom, Gram,
Daughter, Husband and
All those thoughtful
friends!

Forgotten? Never.
Beloved? Always.
Thanks from your
forever friend,
R Z D

***

EATING RICE PUDDING WITH SIMON

I pick my prettiest bowl

a gift from Helene before

she went to the old ladies'

home and spoon in the

Rice Pudding from

Altamonte's Market.

The aroma of cinnamon

and vanilla and perhaps

of heavy cream tantalizes

me, as it does Simon.

We sit at the kitchen table

exchanging loving looks and

"Ain't this delicious!" he

liked speaking in poor grammar

with his genius IQ

A curmudgeon is what he was,

wiser and sillier than any man

I’ve ever met, coming downstairs

late at night to watch television

and leave cheese and cracker

crumbs for me to vacuum

the next morning

We'd eat Rice Pudding at the

Eagle Diner, Bonnet Lane,

and way over at Lancer's on

Street Road

Who says you can't eat Rice

Pudding with a dead man? He

comes around when he feels

like it and I welcome him

with a kiss.

***

Although I'm not the most honest person in the world, erring to get my work published, I do obey the dictum, This must not have been published anywhere else. I did keep my word about the Rice Pudding poem.



Am going on FB now. Wish me luck as the stormy weather is slowing things down. At the mention of stormy weather, my mother would burst into song from her place at the kitchen table.

MISS BISSELL AND I CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE HOUSE

I think of Miss Bissell as a fine lady in furs
ever so accommodating as we waltz around the house
lovingly, we smoosh across the Persian rug I bought
in rainy Paree and put through baggage at Orly, why, a
French orphan could have stowed away inside

The living room houses fistfuls of crumpled-up papers
that shall be tossed into the recycling bin in the
kitchen. Did you know they make park benches out
of these or is it lasers for missiles?

Upstairs we go! Did Miss Bissell give a sigh of
fatigue or was that I? Past the double-doored closet
in the hall we go. Their things are in there. Their
books, textbooks, paperbacks, and notebooks with rings.

Only look forward, she comforts me, as we move into my
writing room, where awake until four last night, I submitted as the sun cleared its throat and began its daily ascent.

Never mind, Dear, she whispers, if they don't like it, someone else will.

Emptying her chamber pot of dust and dental floss, I return
her to her cradle, where she winks at me and say Good Day!


CONCERT IN THE RAIN

Sad it would be to see if
the gazebo and the huge
park were drowning in
the rain

But Barefoot Bobby and
the Breakers were oblivious
as were the usual fans
who gather in the
stadium in the park

"Yellow matter custard
dripping from a dead dog's
eye," they sang in harmony,
my late brother David's
favorite song

The Barefoot Bobbies were
jumping up and down on
their Magical Mystery stage
that kept them dry and
shouting

Y'all okay out there? This
is the best concert we've
ever given

All the way from Doylestown,
PA. I too jumped and danced from my
canopy under the tree, my pink
toenails shining from the rain.

Two blond girls - their children -
jumped through hula hoops, balanced
them on their arms, their legs, a
brown pigtailed girl from the
audience ran up to join them

Music unites us all. What are you
afraid of I kept asking myself.
Of getting wet? Is this any
different than showering
in the green bathroom?

My car plowed through the
rain on the backstreets
You're fine, you're fine,
I said as I steered my
arc home.

Then called Mom and wished
her well. Eye surgery in
the other, the blurry eye.

Courageous? Optimistic?
Solid as a lemon square.
That's Mom. "I'll see
you around dinner-time
tomorrow night" with
her new five-thousand
dollar pair of eyes.


Barefoot Bobby and the Breakers 

LOVE OF MAIL TRUCKS

Sunday morning
quiet as a raindrop
drying on the holly bush

A sound splits the atoms
of the air. The universal
mail truck.

A soothing white
mashed potato background
flashes of red and blue
like party balloons

Filled with things.
Ah, things, how we love them.
Look! The mail truck is

pulling up at your door.
The mail girl, clad in
sexy blue shorts and a

cap pulled over her eyes
has brought you your
fondest desire.

Quick! Tell us what it is.
And I will tell you mine.

**
Scott's childhood friend Paul Bongart, a mail carrier, liked this poem on FB.

***
Half an hour until the PBS News is on. That means half an hour to write a poem about Joan, the cousin of Nancy across the street.

Be right back with the poem, unless I drop dead of a sudden heart attack. Fifty percent of heart attacks you drop dead immediately!

***

JOAN THE VALKYRIE

She comes to visit her cousin Nan

once a year. I wish it were more.

I saw her unmistakable pose on the

front porch. No one's gonna mess with her.

Legs apart to steady her 88-year-old self.

she’s sensibly dressed in shorts with pockets

A cellphone sits in her palm,

showing her newest darling

Remi the German Shepherd she rescued.

Why would anyone shoot a dog in the hip?

The bullet's still there but under Joan's

kind and loving care, she thrives, barks,

licks, and eats her fill.  

Disneyworld was Joan's bailiwick until

age banished her. Wrinkles fleece her

face like fine yarn. Like me, she likes

her naps. She comes over and I show her

around. Mobiles hang from my ceiling.

Paintings on my walls. A wicker basket holds

my shoes on the Persian rug

I bought in rainy Paree.

She stares at the shoes.

"You know," she says, fiddling for

the right words. “You’re…different!”

I know, I said, and I don't care.

She thumbed the photos for me on

her cellphone. There’s her beloved son Bruce

who works at The Hartford.

She'll leave tomorrow and return to

the mobile park where she'll unite with

Remi. Used to be an orange grove, with

golden oranges swinging on the vine.

Eat one for me, Joan, I say, and nuzzle your

pup on his hairy see-through ears.

How can two women, so different, 17 years apart

be so alike! Have I mentioned she talks

to everyone? Helps everyone she meets

on her life's journey? What awaits her

on her Frontier flight home? Who will meet

Joan the Astonishing? Her child-like wonder

teaches all who encounter her.

She lives in the moment. Cherish her.

She knows what she wants.

And, by golly, no one’s gonna stop her.

Interesting and tragic things I saw on the Net today - Poem: The Hose

Good article in the July 14, 2017 Downbeat about Ethan Iverson, wrin by Matthew Kassel. Talks about Ethan leaving The Bad Plus after 17 years.
Read the story here.

 

Watched a terrific documentary last night about Gordon Getty, composer and son of J Paul. In one of the last scenes Gordon was shown with Paul's fifth wife, a gorgeous redhead, age 100. She is still singing, which is how she and Paul met. Torch singer, you might say.

Gordon is 83 and very active.  Married with many children.

His face is very sweet.

        A pic of Gordon and his wife, Ruth Deming. Shhh! That's how I got the money to buy my new white socks at Model's. I wear em in the kitchen to anchor myself, otherwise my feet would stick like suction cups to the floor.

Joan and the Bells was my fave piece Gordon and the orchestra played. He said he loved the story of Jeanne d'Arc.



Did you know there's a Jeanne d'Arc credit union?

C'mon. Enough is enough.

How about the Bridge of Christ Being Pierced in the Side with a Spear?

Am listening now to the Appassionata Sonata. So passionate, so modern, so jazz-filled.

Play it Danny!

What a tousle I had this morning with my new and worse Canon computer.

Look Ruth! When you make a copy on ND paper, you place it face down in the Tray with the TOP PART facing the wall.

We do love a good tragedy now and then, don't we?

I read a couple of em and thought, Who, besides me, would be interested?

MY SUPPORT GROUP!

So I sent them stories, which, you too, can read about

Was this happy and successful teenager pushed or shoved?

Will building a NET to catch potential jumpers at the Golden Gate Bridge do any good?

I asked the group for their opinion. Will they reply?

No one ever answers.

These will be some topics I can discuss with Mom when I go over later to help bake cookies. They're for her 96th bday party in August. I think she'll freeze everything.

THE HOSE

Gently, gently,
I water the tiny
green tomatoes
swaying on the vines

The cucumber bears a
purple fleur, and the
eggplant climbs
the trestle
Such munificence
here in my own sideyard.
I swivel around to give
my car a good cleaning
Swoosh! Swoosh!
The sound is marvelous,
powerful.
Were I Philip Glass
I would write Alabama
in the Time of Civil Rights
Dark chords. Discordant. Then
sweet litte piccolos to mark
the four little girls
swinging on a star, laughing,
playing, greeting their friends,
maybe even you and me someday.
What's for breakfast? I ask myself.
Something brand new, for sure.
Around the World in Eighty Days
will soon play on my audio in
the kitchen, as I scramble up
my eggs n cheese and other
grocery fare.

Am gonna lie down in bed and READ!!! Hence, to fall asleep?  No no no!

Poem: At the Tate Modern and Hello, A Murder of Crows

By ZEID


AT THE TATE MODERN

In a video of the new wing
of the Tate Modern
we rise from our seats
and experience
life anew

Our sacred earth
becomes a jingle of
paradise. We move
from strand to strand
touching, feeling,
nuzzling

We experience the fog
of London. I so like
the fog here on my
street when clouds
descend and the
world looks strange.

Strange. Mysterious.
Incomprehensible.
The minds of everyone
we know. And will know.

Go forward, says the clock.

***

HELLO MURDER OF CROWS

As I take my accustomed seat
on the green lawn chair
they greet me

if that's what it's called
AW AW AW
Hello, Murder of Crows

I respond in my best
voice, as I shovel
my egg omelet

into my hungry mouth.
Just as they feed
their open-beaked

darlings whatever
they've fished up
for them today.

Help yourself to the
bit of fallen mushrooms
coffee grounds and
other detritus

left behind by this greedy
human, who's a lot like you!

***

I emailed Scott and said, you must watch this video I watched on Charlie Rose. Trump is nothing but a Russian mobster! 

 Everything came in at once, including new registration stickers!

 Gotta throw half of these address labels away as they're not any good.

Got this LOVELY brochure in the mail. Will make a card out of it later.

 The last of my fab chili! This time I yielded to the desire of adding peanut butter to it. Guess if it was any good or not!

 Best thing I ever did was to buy unbreakable dishes.

At the Giant I bought Good Humor bars, almond flavor.

Fantastic! I ate two and my blood sugar was relatively okay.

So how come your little toe has fallen off?

Seamus Kelleher at the Sunday Night Masons Mill Concerts

  Michael Palin, who I've just rediscovered, starred in this PBS mystery called Remember Me. Was lying in bed watching it and I'd left the remote in the basket of my exercise bike so I couldn't soften the shockingly loud bursts that startled me and woke me up.

Feedback is poor on my newest short story which I think is titled The Light in the Clearing. I like it a lot.

Palin was born in 1944 so he's not terribly old, but he is terribly good with his quick smile, his loud outbursts and the threats to his dignity.

After I ate at the Demings, I went to the Masons Mill Concert. Poem below.

I wasn't gonna visit them bc I was too lazy to drive over what with the detour, but when I heard the voices of the kids, I said, Screw it, I'm going.

The detour is very confusing for me. I have the direx in the car and have great success following them but the stress is enormous.

Par example, find The Olive Garden. Make a left after the Olive Garden. Eyes glued to the street to find that proper lane.

Then you get to a huge curve in the road - well, follow the curve - and you'll be on the correct road. That curve is the worst part. When I used to work at Sym Manor, I used to practice driving there while lying in bed.

THE IRISH BARD HERE IN OUR TOWN

A little green gazebo serves as the
stage where the Irish Bard performs
he knows not where, just travels
like an itinerant peddlar selling
wares to the hungry in Moldavia

Hungry are we for charm, intimacy,
toe-tapping music, tales of love
and woe. See us gathered in the twilight
of our small park? People amble by the
stage in summer shorts and white dresses,
some toddle forth on walkers
proud as first graders

Seamus Kellaher engages us in music
of his own making. Right here on our
spit of land, an afterthought, really,
from the sports fields, but music
belongs here. And look, they come!

He wrote a song for a returning vet he
met in Reno. He also sang about the
green fields of France where swords
had been drawn.

He witnessed it all. War, that most horrid
of things, blood staining the green fields
and making mothers cry.

I'm glad I was there. As I backed out of a
tight space across the street in an industrial
park I kept open my windows, wanting to catch
every last droplet of song sailing over the
hot asphalt and under the high quiet stars
nodding with sadness.

PHOTOS Please:

Judy Adler look-alive. Ellen agreed.

 Thanks for remembering the trash cans. I broke a pair of sunglasses on the way over and tossed it into a trash can.

 Nice little portrait above. I'm waiting for the Township to call and hire me for my intimate portraits.

They sat next to me.

Very interesting looking couple. HE - his profile - looked like the late Morley Safer. And SHE was prettier than expected.

Seamus, how about some promo for ya?

His website.

Okay, back upstairs I go to lie in my quagmire of terrible books.