Tuesday, July 25, 2017

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.


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

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



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.

Image result for rice pudding

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.


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!


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

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 


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!



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.

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