Poems I found just now while waiting for the Mailman

On my new MONARCH BUTTERFLY cards, I wrote my friend Helene Ryesky. Thanks to Scott for bringing the cards over. 

I made delicious bean soup this morning made with Goya pinto beans from the Willow Grove Giant.

Submitted "Where is Robbie Whalen" to Literary Yard. 

Am chomping Snyder's Dipping Sticks now. 

Could I survive living on a desert island with just pretzels? I believe I could.

Just glimpsed the Xena-look alike cat of my son Dan's. She blithely entered the driveway next to the Kiernan's corner house. 

Am trying to finish Rectify - is that the name? - before I write the first chapter of my new novel.

VOLUNTEERING WITH THE ELDERLY

Parkinson's Disease

Alzheimer's

Dementia

They arrive early in the morning

Dropped off by their loved ones

Sam, my favorite, comes over to our table

his blonde wife Libby

lets him through the door. He finds

a way to our table, but a sense of

direction he does not have, as once

I saved him from wandering into the

ping-pong room.

Every 20 minutes he asks me where

I live. "Willow Grove," I say,

"just down the road."

Two weeks ago we learned Wally,

the silent man, who would come

alive when we sang Sinatra, had

died. Sam had not forgotten and

kept asking, "Is everyone here

who's supposed to be here?"

I looked around. Elena with the

little beard was there. Anna, with

Parkinson's and hallucinations

was there, her arm stiff as a

block of wood, and Lily, who

thought people were stealing

from, her but could go to the

bathroom herself.

"They're all accounted for Sam,"

I said, deciding to skip

Wally's death.

Sam, a doctor in a former life,

dresses in spiffy clothes,

a warm brown sweater, round eyeglasses

like John Lennon's and saddle shoes,

neatly tied.

We smell the food getting ready

in the kitchen. Sam and I swivel

our heads just so and await the arrival

of meatballs and pasta.

Am I working here in a silent pact

with Fate to make sure my mind

remains free of all the terrible

conditions that await us?

Silence.

<> 

KING OSCAR WILD CAUGHT SARDINES

IN EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL

Starving, I wolf down many layered sardines

bathed in olive oil.

The King’s picture is on the papery cover

That rattles invitingly to my touch.

King Oscar would protect you from every threat

Imaginable. Hordes of barbarians, with

Spears aloft. Floods on mountain-sides

That seek to squoosh us alive.

Thunderbolts of Zeus that

Would sizzle our skin.

Such a hero is the King.

Broad shoulders with

Epaulets like ship

Masts.

Moustaches that sweep downward

A full beard like a roaring furnace.

He is our man.

The Good King Oscar.