Over an hour on the phone with Marcy and Gloria - Poem: A Bowl of Clothespins

The Belsh Family moved to southern California 15 yrs ago, after their house caught on fire. No one was home. Apparently it was the wiring of an appliance.

It was a lovely multi-story house with books and plants and a piano. Today Marcy takes piano lessons, unlike moi, who continues to procrastinate.

BUT at last I'm ready to work on The Compass. Brewed Starbucks Coffee - nice strong roast - and while chatting with my friends, I dunked - you better believe it - a chocolate croissant from The Giant Supermarket into it.



A quick aside:  There is nothing good on Netflix. Am watching a show with a lot of yelling and screaming called something like Bandersnatch.

The young protagonist goes to therapy, which is fun to watch.



Book Group today at Upper Moreland Library.

I kept falling asleep while reading Mrs Dalloway. Read it last night and most of today, leaving home at 2:20 and arriving late.

I had 100 pages to go. I certainly didn't mention it and I did read the last 10 pages. I loved the ending, which I mentioned to the very large group of praps 14 people, including some smarties which is a term my late friend Carolyn mentioned to me.

Her name is still listed in my green silk address book.

Speaking of Carolyn, I called another Carolyn today.  Hoped I dialed the right number and I did! We parted company a couple of years ago. She didn't recognize my voice. She's a great poet but said she hasn't been able to write anything. Stuck!

As soon as we got off the phone, I sent her a card, in which I said something like:

January 3, 2019

19 acorns sitting on my windowsill
19 hand-shaped leaves left on the maple tree
19 taps of the woodpecker on the bird house
19 library books waiting to be read

By hook or crook, I was gonna show off and tell her you can write about anything.

Now before I go a'Compassing am gonna ride my stationery bike. Am reading a fab book borrowed from Rich and Ada called THE LIBRARY by Susan Orlean. Every turn of phrase is extraordinary.




Yes, it's a lovely red.

Should I read this - or the Haruki Murakami book, which I've told you is exquisitly boring but I'm in no hurry when I read it.




POEM: A BOWL OF CLOTHESPINS

In my night-bright kitchen
a clear glass bowl sits modestly
as a toadstool, filled with
dozens of wooden clothespins.

Time to celebrate your usefulness,
your ordinariness, and the simple
joy you take in fulfilling your
duty.

It's all about springs! Well,
the modern kind anyway.

Good for stopping a sneeze
a bloody nose (my little Sarah
had those as a child) and perfect
for sharing with a grandson or daughter.

For me, like the late Sister Wendy Beckett,
I find a simple joy in their uncomplicated
well-constructed beauty.