Sunday, September 10, 2017

Hurricane Irma - Many Poems: The Enormous Walk - The Little Green Piece of Paper - Lie Back and Relax (Dr George) - Sightseeing on the Way to the Grocery Store - Fireflies

Image result for hurricane irma            Irma rages on. All sorts of people are dying who have nuffin to do with the hurricane.

65 degrees here in my house. Up for good after awakening to Miranda. I start my back-hurting morning by sitting for five mins or so at the computer.

Scott and I took a super-long walk yesterday which I documented with a poem.


(Used this title bc of ee cummings' the enormous room - his 1922 autobiog)

Was upstairs in my composing room
when Scott arrived for a walk.
Go downstairs and entertain yourself
I said while frantically submitting
poetry and a short story to Halcyon,
deadline today.

Why so frazzled? My new Microsoft Word
program sucks! If I could I'd send it
reeling into a disaster area.

There! You horrid thing.

Twilight slid in slowly as we
walked the path in the back yard.
A huge clump of poop lay on the trail.
Human? Dog? Whose? And Why?

Our twin sneakers avoided it as
we stopped at the railroad tracks
to make sure the sucker wouldn't
round the bend and smash us
to pieces, Reese.

A steep hill filled with houses
greeted us. We heard yelling.
A huge shiny home on wheels
stood silent in the drive. And
in the garage the rump of an
old car from the 30s.

We moved to the high school
where heavy construction was
in the works. We sidled past
seats in the stadium. I waved
to a teammate on the other side.
No game or baton twirlers tonight.

In the pocket of my shorts, yes,
I was chilly, my glucose tabs
clinked together like ice in

Astroturf, said Scott. I bent
down to feel its perfect stubby
blades that barely move.

Players say it hurts their knees. Worse, if you've
run on it for years, many get cancer
and die. A link?
Sorry, relief pitcher Tug McGraw.

We took Terwood Road home.
The auto shop blazed with
sunflowers, tall as basketball
players, preening like the jealous
queen in Snow White.

Off the side of the road
an Audi TT 2001, was for sale.
As usual, I went into overdrive
imagining how I could buy it.
Both me and the sports car are
low to the ground, deliciously
shiny, as least my earrings are.

Was that Patrick who drove by and
honked? Where were they coming from?
Certainly not the Dairy Queen,
which will be open another
90 minutes.

We walked up Ball. Here's where Marie
Higgins lives, I said to Scott. Each house
stood atop a bright green hill.

I checked my sugar when I got home.
Low, so I chugged down a Chobani
Blueberry, with pretzels stuck inside,
and poured a riotous bowl of trail mix.

Not dead yet. And we'll keep it that way.
Unless, when I watch Bullitt with Scott,
Bill Hickman runs me over.
Image result for bill hickman in bullitt  Bill's very serious. Drives with leather gloves. The Bad Plus wrote a song about him.

Great meeting of our Writers Group. Worked all morning on The Smell of Cookies for Halcyon. Glad you enjoyed it Marcy! Hope Monique does.

She and Lisa O'Shea have an elaborate set of rules we must follow. I did not, so I had to do all my poems over again. They must relate to Fall. All her seasonal issues are due on the 10th of the month.

Image result for person tearing their hair out


Mist spreads across pond
Bullfrogs emerge to find mate
Hello beauty queen!  


You might think I'm on the massage table
covered by a white sheet with the sound
of Chopin playing in the distance

But, no. I am at the eye doctor's, the
gentle Doctor George. My pink toenails
peek from my sandals, as the doctor
dims the light and says, Put your
chin here.

A delightful indentention fits my chin
just so. Look straight ahead, he says,
and don't blink, as Stacey records his findings.

I just like being in his presence.
I stall, thinking of ways not to leave,
not to go back to the waiting room
with its smell of Folger's coffee
and the gulping frog-like sound of the water cooler.

Doctor George, I say, as the light
goes on, gradually as the morning
sun through my drapes at home.

Tell me some new findings in the
world of ophthalmology. This may be
the first time I've ever pronounced
that tongue-twister rubber baby buggy
bumpes of a word.

They're doing a lot of research in
the field of macular degeneration,
he says. Getting closer to understanding
it and finding a cure.

I smile. My aunt is 99 and has the disease.
Instead of reading, she listens to audio
books, I say.

Good thing we have them, he says, handing
me my backpack and walking me to the door.

In the car, I turn on Gary Paulsen's
"Hatchet" about a young boy lost in
the wilderness and swatting mosquitos.

Am I practicing what to do if I go
blind from glaucoma? I am a suspect
as he calls it.

Certainly not. The maple leaves
flutter down, gently as cob webs,
as I drive triumphant
down my street.



So you think homo sapiens
are complicated? We, with our
Dostoyevsky's, our Vladimir
Putins with the soft blue eyes,
and The Grateful Dead Hour
on XPN, long after Jerry has
been churned into ice cream.

They've come out of hiding,
the urge to mate is so strong.
Don't look now but they were
hiding under the backyard deck,
beneath the bark of the sycamore,
inside the BBQ grill in every
American's home.

I hail and salute them!
Bonne nuit, says I, as I
goes out on me front porch,
What a splendid night.
Not a single firefly out.

Would you make love in
the rain? Be patient,
little men. Your little
gals await. And
babes aplenty.

Blink on, blink off, blink on, blink off. 

Oh, hello Joan Effel. We exchange postcards. Her new German Shepherd foundling is Remi.

Beatriz showed me how to take closeups.


It arrives every Fall.
Thin as a cucumber slice,
Wiggly as a worm after the rain.
I carry it like a status symbol
from the township building

I have paid my taxes!

This is why you won't find
me buying new purses at
Marshall's, throw rugs
at Best Buy, or
dangling earrings,
my favorite, at
Clare's at the mall.

Besides, I rationalize,
who needs more things!

Now I can relax in this
glorious house I bought.
Pouring a bowl of peanuts,
pretzels, and raisins,
I sit outside on the
front porch, shut my
eyes and gaze toward the sun.

The ground near me quivers.
Opening my eyes, I see a
fat groundhog, stopping
to examine his host,
then scampers
post haste toward
his home under the deck.

How fine it is to be
Appreciated by a
Wild creature who grazes
Like a moo-cow on the grass.



What marvelous sights
I viewed. Remember what
Howard Carter said
at the mouth of
Tutankamen's Tomb?

"Yes, I see wonderful things."

A flash of white caught my eye.
Bright white like the flash of
a camera. It was a bare-chested
man in shorts jogging
down the sidewalk, then
looking both ways, crossing
the street and disappearing
into the trees like a deer.

In front of me the sheen of a
BMW almost blinded me. Its back
window read "Promotional Car."
A phone number was listed,
all done with the artistry of a
Japanese calligrapher.

What did I have to offer
the celebrants of this fine
Fall Day? A silver-haired
woman of an age incalcuable
wearing huge purple sunglasses
with diamonds on the corners.

A smile. A huge smile
as wide as the sun.


Breakfast anyone?

While I'm chomping on my eggs, I shall be watching Game of Thrones. Season One.

Image result for Peter Dinklage   Peter Dinklage.

Goodbye Game of Thrones. 

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