"Brava" for an inspiring afternoon! wrote Ada Fleisher about our Arts Fest in the Willow Grove Room at the Giant Supermarket in Suburban Philadelphia.
Ada, always so kind and gracious.
Not only was it a "New Directions Arts Fest", it was a celebration and appreciation of YOU by so many! Well deserved!
Cast of thousands included - that crunch you hear in the background is me chewing Snyder Mini Pretzels, one of the healthy foods Giant donated to us.
Sarah Lynn Deming, Ethan Iverson, Ada and Rich Fleisher, Ed Lakata playing the 4 string banjo, Helen and Larry Kirschner (Larry left before we could photograph him playing the Casio Electric Keyboard) Imani Scott in a strong voice, Bob Scott, her dad with pencil drawing of Sandra, his beloved late wife and other creations - I love when he said that at ND we're unaware of color -
Mark Kessler who passed around drawings of his late wife, Coley, and read poems about her, Chris Celio, bodybuilder, who is studying for his master's in education online, Linda Barrett, discussing her alcoholic father she's right that it doesn't mean you can't love him
A baseball park is named after him Barrett Baseball Park in Chester PA.
Rem Murphy, whose poem is published below, Marie Higgins the Lovable and Emotional.
A problem confronted by therapists is people don't express their emotions. Marie does. One of her poems is SHE COLLECTS POETS. It's fastened to my kitchen cupboard in glorious technicolor.
She's published several books including a famous book on spirituality. I have a copy in my bedroom. She showed us a hardback from the point of view of her dog Tucker.
White-haired Ken Ivins who wrote a fantasy poem about making love on a train.
This morning I woke up to the smell of coffee.
Sarah and Ethan had brewed coffee in my Chemex coffee pot. They made Dunkin Donuts Coffee.
Years ago, I had given up coffee for about ten days.
You can't imagine how depressed I was.
Suddenly I had an idea!
It was like a light switch turned on. All my cares disappeared and I felt fine!
ARTS FEST A HUGE SUCCESS
I had no idea what New Directions meant to so many people.
Linda, Ada and Helen Kirschner, of our daytime meetings at the Giant. I was disappointed
that Shane didn't show up.
Shane, come back, Shane, come back. One of the greatest westerns ever made. Bad Day at Black Rock. Yrs ago, my dad and I saw it at the Cedar-Lee Theatre in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.
Dad, come back, come back. Oops, I forgot you were dead.
Ed Lakata, who has Parkinson's Disease, did a spectacular job playing the four-string banjo. He fell in love with the Mummers. He and his dad would have duets, his dad played the violin.
Imani Scott and dad Bob Scott, a graduate of Carnegie Mellon. The family is originally from Pittsburgh. A true talent, the school recognized a brilliant student regardless of skin color.
Loved how Donna Krause made so many helpful comments.
Below is Marie Higgins, who lives on the next street, Ball Road. She and Tucker, her pup, would run together. She showed us a hardback book she made from Tucker's point of view.
Ethan delighted us with his playing the electric keyboard.
This morning we ate at Mom's and then they left in my car to go to Cousin Niki's where Steve is celebrating his first year of sobriety!!!!
Novelist Barbara Custer read a selection from her horror novel. She looked lovely in her post-funeral outfit. Nice string of pearls. Have you read the Guy de Maupassant story The Necklace?
Oh, Ruthie, stop showing off!
THE POET IN THE UNDER WORLD
by Rem Murphy
Dearest Aimee,
I’m writing these lines to you
From the famous down under.
My sixpence thievery
Paid for my one-way ticket,
Of which you are well aware.
I arrived several weeks ago
On March the 12th,
And no, I can’t honestly tell you
That I’ve arrived safely, and all in one piece.
The best I can say is
I’m still alive,
Though honestly, dear,
The one thing I’ve learned
Over the last six months--
That’s not saying much.
We sailed on the Charon,
Appropriately enough.
Chained to the wall, two-by-two.
Braceleted with leg-irons.
Entombed in a sunless,
Cramped, and lice-infested
Sewage sluice,
Otherwise known as the hold,
Which pitched like a drunken Welshman
While the timbers groaned
For two solid months
After we left Rio de Janeiro,
Making everybody sick.
Towards the end we ran out of rations,
But never mind,
By that point none of us could eat.
I’m writing to let you know
Not to expect me back.
Honestly, when summer comes
In another eight months,
There’s no guarantee I’ll make it.
The sun is beastly hot.
In the fields we go around naked,
Just like the natives.
If you drop from exhaustion,
They beat you, and fling you in a cage,
Like you were some kind of wild animal.
If you complain that you’re tired,
That’s even worse,
They give you forty lashes.
I also want you to know
I’m taking another wife.
I realize, in the eyes of the Church,
This is a mortal sin.
But truthfully, dear,
I have no option.
A willing enough wife
Knows how to steal
Into the bush, that is,
With the regimental sergeant,
And thereby acquire
Some much needed provisions,
Such as, a loaf of bead
Or a quart of rum.
This is the sort of thing that can’t be helped.
This is the way it’s done down here.
By the time you read this
In another six months
Our dear sweet Emily
Ought to be turning six.
If she asks about me,
Please, tell her that her papa loved her,
And that she was the joy of his life,
But now he’s lost to the world.
*
Robin, head of the community center, and Joan, gave us loads of healthy snacks including grapes, cheese and Ritz crackers, tiny bags of Snyder's Pretzels, iced tea and coffee. How did the ice come in?
A bucket of ice, just like at home when you throw a party for your friends.
*
Later that night, we ate on Scott's huge deck: fresh corn, lobster, salmon, and Ginger Ale, flavored with stevia.
Asparagus.
They're all in the Uriah Heap compost now, in Scott's back yard, except for me.
Can't figure out how to rotate these photos - Bob Scott. One of 19 children. Many of them have passed.
Your wife, Paula, I said to Ed, will be really proud of you.
He used two harmonicas as they come in different keys.
Ed was a little nervous until he warmed up.
All of us felt the same way.
Margie Lawlor stopped in and told us about her new volunteer job at a local theatre. Good for you, Margie!
Jane Barrett, Linda's always-supportive mother.
I brought a bunch of poems in a green folder and read a few.
UNCLE JOE DAUTCHER'S FARM MARKET
On my upstairs bulletin board
their business card. Ellen and I
stopped by one hot summer morning.
Hiring? I asked.
Sure, said a portly woman.
Can you cook?
You tell me what to do,
and I'll do it, said I,
mopping my brow.
I wasn't fast enough
and Dautcher's went under
the wrecking ball.
Not another condo
on smothered farm land.
The pumpkins were large
as tiny planets,
the tomatoes cuddly
as baby does,
and the cinnamon buns
were weighed on the scale
and packaged in boxes
white as the winter sky.
Sure, they made a fortune,
and now they have time
for themselves. Sitting now
on the rocking chairs
on the porch, with Uncle Joe
calling, "Babe, how bout
some of them cinnamon buns?"
Just a sec, she says, going
into the house. "Always wanted
to hire this woman."
Is that them calling now?
*
PURPLE
Let your mind travel back to the 15th century BC.
Christ was not yet born nor was the prophet Muhammed.
The Jews were traveling in sandals across the deserts
preparing their inquisitve minds for the one and only one
Deity.
Royal robes were needed in the time of The Iliad
and The Odyssey. Most precious was purple, from
the shells of a sea snail. Thousands of the tiny
soft creatures must be found. Obedience was a necessity.
The snails soaked, a tiny gland removed, and a
color transformation took place. A color so bold
so brassy so infinitely beautiful that all who
looked were spellbound, in love with a color.
I wear my Purple like a proud head-dress.
For I, born on Christmas Day, allow the stars
and constellations to twinkle through my
hair, once dark brown, then dyed red, blonde
and now the color of royalty, Purple.
ARUNDAL WAY
On Sundays you invited your friends
over to play. Oldsters all of us.
You'd show us your
backyard garden complete with
reflecting pool. Your cat Missy
would try to catch birds mid-air.
Missing by a mile.
Your pot-growing son Michael
was making a fortune in Colorado
and bid you move out west in your
golden years.
Tearfully, you drove your white Nissan
Maxima with sun roof, while he pulled one of those
orange U-Hauls, a man who was afraid
of nothing. He and his girl were
mountain climbers and ATV bikers.
You tried to like Colorado. Gave it
your all. The mountains seemed to
imprison you. Your girlfriends
were all back home, your beloved
Donna you guided into a second
marriage, Sandy a born-again
prophet, and Evelyn who lost
her marbles and was put out to pasture.
Oh, you had your cat and the two
of you roamed your new condo
together, a talking cat
as those Siamese are. I always heard her
babbling in your lap, so much
to talk about.
You did not go to Colorado to die.
Who does? You still had your movies,
your New Yorker magazines, and your
cat Missy, until she was called to
kitty-kat heaven.
You had no choice but to join her.
Two pals ascending toward the
moons of Jupiter, as if it were
scripted by a Spielberg or Frank Capra,
goodbye Judy goodbye.
*
MUSHROOMS
In tiny writing
"B. Moisset"
appears at the bottom
of the painting.
If this were the PBS News
a sign would come on and say
75 percent of Americans
do not like mushrooms.
I tasted my first mushroom
when I lived in San Francisco,
a salad my friend Iris made us.
I stood up from my chair.
Walked around the room with
its floor to ceiling windows
that gave onto Golden Gate Park
below.
Chewy like licorice
Tasty like Kikkomon Sauce
Lovely like parasols or silver
airplanes flying in the sky.
Mushrooms, forever.
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE
At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in.
It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back
in house slippers and morphine.
On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container
I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.
Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry.
Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn.
I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head
Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.
Ruth, Arts Fest 2019 was a smashing success. Thank you so much for hosting this wonderful event. Everyone's arts contributions were compelling. It was good too reading your blog on the Arts Fest.
Not only was it a "New Directions Arts Fest", it was a celebration and appreciation of YOU by so many! Well deserved!
Cast of thousands included - that crunch you hear in the background is me chewing Snyder Mini Pretzels, one of the healthy foods Giant donated to us.
Sarah Lynn Deming, Ethan Iverson, Ada and Rich Fleisher, Ed Lakata playing the 4 string banjo, Helen and Larry Kirschner (Larry left before we could photograph him playing the Casio Electric Keyboard) Imani Scott in a strong voice, Bob Scott, her dad with pencil drawing of Sandra, his beloved late wife and other creations - I love when he said that at ND we're unaware of color -
Mark Kessler who passed around drawings of his late wife, Coley, and read poems about her, Chris Celio, bodybuilder, who is studying for his master's in education online, Linda Barrett, discussing her alcoholic father she's right that it doesn't mean you can't love him
A baseball park is named after him Barrett Baseball Park in Chester PA.
Rem Murphy, whose poem is published below, Marie Higgins the Lovable and Emotional.
A problem confronted by therapists is people don't express their emotions. Marie does. One of her poems is SHE COLLECTS POETS. It's fastened to my kitchen cupboard in glorious technicolor.
She's published several books including a famous book on spirituality. I have a copy in my bedroom. She showed us a hardback from the point of view of her dog Tucker.
White-haired Ken Ivins who wrote a fantasy poem about making love on a train.
This morning I woke up to the smell of coffee.
Sarah and Ethan had brewed coffee in my Chemex coffee pot. They made Dunkin Donuts Coffee.
Years ago, I had given up coffee for about ten days.
You can't imagine how depressed I was.
Suddenly I had an idea!
ARTS FEST A HUGE SUCCESS
I had no idea what New Directions meant to so many people.
that Shane didn't show up.
Shane, come back, Shane, come back. One of the greatest westerns ever made. Bad Day at Black Rock. Yrs ago, my dad and I saw it at the Cedar-Lee Theatre in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.
Dad, come back, come back. Oops, I forgot you were dead.
Below is Marie Higgins, who lives on the next street, Ball Road. She and Tucker, her pup, would run together. She showed us a hardback book she made from Tucker's point of view.
This morning we ate at Mom's and then they left in my car to go to Cousin Niki's where Steve is celebrating his first year of sobriety!!!!
THE POET IN THE UNDER WORLD
by Rem Murphy
Dearest Aimee,
I’m writing these lines to you
From the famous down under.
My sixpence thievery
Paid for my one-way ticket,
Of which you are well aware.
I arrived several weeks ago
On March the 12th,
And no, I can’t honestly tell you
That I’ve arrived safely, and all in one piece.
The best I can say is
I’m still alive,
Though honestly, dear,
The one thing I’ve learned
Over the last six months--
That’s not saying much.
We sailed on the Charon,
Appropriately enough.
Chained to the wall, two-by-two.
Braceleted with leg-irons.
Entombed in a sunless,
Cramped, and lice-infested
Sewage sluice,
Otherwise known as the hold,
Which pitched like a drunken Welshman
While the timbers groaned
For two solid months
After we left Rio de Janeiro,
Making everybody sick.
Towards the end we ran out of rations,
But never mind,
By that point none of us could eat.
I’m writing to let you know
Not to expect me back.
Honestly, when summer comes
In another eight months,
There’s no guarantee I’ll make it.
The sun is beastly hot.
In the fields we go around naked,
Just like the natives.
If you drop from exhaustion,
They beat you, and fling you in a cage,
Like you were some kind of wild animal.
If you complain that you’re tired,
That’s even worse,
They give you forty lashes.
I also want you to know
I’m taking another wife.
I realize, in the eyes of the Church,
This is a mortal sin.
But truthfully, dear,
I have no option.
A willing enough wife
Knows how to steal
Into the bush, that is,
With the regimental sergeant,
And thereby acquire
Some much needed provisions,
Such as, a loaf of bead
Or a quart of rum.
This is the sort of thing that can’t be helped.
This is the way it’s done down here.
By the time you read this
In another six months
Our dear sweet Emily
Ought to be turning six.
If she asks about me,
Please, tell her that her papa loved her,
And that she was the joy of his life,
But now he’s lost to the world.
*
Robin, head of the community center, and Joan, gave us loads of healthy snacks including grapes, cheese and Ritz crackers, tiny bags of Snyder's Pretzels, iced tea and coffee. How did the ice come in?
A bucket of ice, just like at home when you throw a party for your friends.
*
Later that night, we ate on Scott's huge deck: fresh corn, lobster, salmon, and Ginger Ale, flavored with stevia.
Asparagus.
They're all in the Uriah Heap compost now, in Scott's back yard, except for me.
He used two harmonicas as they come in different keys.
All of us felt the same way.
I brought a bunch of poems in a green folder and read a few.
UNCLE JOE DAUTCHER'S FARM MARKET
On my upstairs bulletin board
their business card. Ellen and I
stopped by one hot summer morning.
Hiring? I asked.
Sure, said a portly woman.
Can you cook?
You tell me what to do,
and I'll do it, said I,
mopping my brow.
I wasn't fast enough
and Dautcher's went under
the wrecking ball.
Not another condo
on smothered farm land.
The pumpkins were large
as tiny planets,
the tomatoes cuddly
as baby does,
and the cinnamon buns
were weighed on the scale
and packaged in boxes
white as the winter sky.
Sure, they made a fortune,
and now they have time
for themselves. Sitting now
on the rocking chairs
on the porch, with Uncle Joe
calling, "Babe, how bout
some of them cinnamon buns?"
Just a sec, she says, going
into the house. "Always wanted
to hire this woman."
Is that them calling now?
*
PURPLE
Let your mind travel back to the 15th century BC.
Christ was not yet born nor was the prophet Muhammed.
The Jews were traveling in sandals across the deserts
preparing their inquisitve minds for the one and only one
Deity.
Royal robes were needed in the time of The Iliad
and The Odyssey. Most precious was purple, from
the shells of a sea snail. Thousands of the tiny
soft creatures must be found. Obedience was a necessity.
The snails soaked, a tiny gland removed, and a
color transformation took place. A color so bold
so brassy so infinitely beautiful that all who
looked were spellbound, in love with a color.
I wear my Purple like a proud head-dress.
For I, born on Christmas Day, allow the stars
and constellations to twinkle through my
hair, once dark brown, then dyed red, blonde
and now the color of royalty, Purple.
ARUNDAL WAY
On Sundays you invited your friends
over to play. Oldsters all of us.
You'd show us your
backyard garden complete with
reflecting pool. Your cat Missy
would try to catch birds mid-air.
Missing by a mile.
Your pot-growing son Michael
was making a fortune in Colorado
and bid you move out west in your
golden years.
Tearfully, you drove your white Nissan
Maxima with sun roof, while he pulled one of those
orange U-Hauls, a man who was afraid
of nothing. He and his girl were
mountain climbers and ATV bikers.
You tried to like Colorado. Gave it
your all. The mountains seemed to
imprison you. Your girlfriends
were all back home, your beloved
Donna you guided into a second
marriage, Sandy a born-again
prophet, and Evelyn who lost
her marbles and was put out to pasture.
Oh, you had your cat and the two
of you roamed your new condo
together, a talking cat
as those Siamese are. I always heard her
babbling in your lap, so much
to talk about.
You did not go to Colorado to die.
Who does? You still had your movies,
your New Yorker magazines, and your
cat Missy, until she was called to
kitty-kat heaven.
You had no choice but to join her.
Two pals ascending toward the
moons of Jupiter, as if it were
scripted by a Spielberg or Frank Capra,
goodbye Judy goodbye.
*
MUSHROOMS
In tiny writing
"B. Moisset"
appears at the bottom
of the painting.
If this were the PBS News
a sign would come on and say
75 percent of Americans
do not like mushrooms.
I tasted my first mushroom
when I lived in San Francisco,
a salad my friend Iris made us.
I stood up from my chair.
Walked around the room with
its floor to ceiling windows
that gave onto Golden Gate Park
below.
Chewy like licorice
Tasty like Kikkomon Sauce
Lovely like parasols or silver
airplanes flying in the sky.
Mushrooms, forever.
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT YOU’RE GONE
At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in.
It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back
in house slippers and morphine.
On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container
I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.
Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry.
Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn.
I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head
Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.
Ruth, Arts Fest 2019 was a smashing success. Thank you so much for hosting this wonderful event. Everyone's arts contributions were compelling. It was good too reading your blog on the Arts Fest.
I
thoroughly enjoyed meeting your daughter, Sarah, & also Ethan!
Sarah is a sweetheart - indeed charming, plus a great conversationalist.
She truly is a pleasure to be with. Ethan too was wonderful to meet,
& I know we all very much enjoyed his keyboard playing. I regretted
missing Larry Kirchner's input, plus that of others between 1oo &
2oo.
It was nice also to finally meet your boyfriend, Scott.
Best,
Margie
*
Great show today at the Giant! A little bit of everything.
- Remington Murphy
*
Great show today at the Giant! A little bit of everything.
- Remington Murphy
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