Thursday, January 10, 2019

Egyptian Licorice Tea - Cinquan for the Creamers - Poem: Silence

Well, I just tucked two tea bags into an envelope, along with a ND brochure, and mailed off to The Creamers.

Also wrote them a cinquin, whose syllables are 2 - 4 - 6 - 8 - 2

Scuse me while I sip on the tea. Decaffeinated. I always test my memory in the morning and ask myself What did I watch last night?

I did invite folks from the memory unit at Penn to come speak to us.

They asked for reimbursement for the ride over. "I understand," I wrote. "But we've never paid guest speakers."

Tea with Mary
and Tony while the cats
jump, snooze and leap through the kitchen
Mmm! Good!

MARK HYMAN was telling us his rules for eating well.

He told us what he had for every meal. How, I wondered, can he feel FULL?

BUT he spoke so fast it was really strange, he of the Cleveland Clinic, where a friend from our writing group in Lambertville, NJ, got a consultation about his heart. Sorry, Bob Muller, you're stone cold dead.

And they don't come back!

On my To-Do List is to write a poem called SILENCE.

That's me clearing my throat.


For once I'd like to sit on the living room couch
in silence.
Kalie, the little white dog across the street,
fur, soft as a man's mustache, gives a
perfunctory bark, This land is MY land,
you better step back.

The mailman approaches. Headphones hide
conversations and music on WDAS-FM,
a black station.

And HOWL goes the wind.
It howls for the death of
my cousin Chez Ray, feted,
they say, on Facebook.

What's it like, I wonder,
if you are dead.
Maybe you wear a bridal gown
or a crown of feathers.

A thousand ways to die
Only one way to be born
through the sliding board.

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