Old photo of Donna's nails. She does em herself.
Am gonna put the text in here and then run downstairs to put in the new photos.
Hold on! Found this short video by writer Ian McEwan
on love in writing fiction.
Linda and I are always late as we complete our selection for the week.
Linda wrote a terrific poem for her nephew Graham called MY REASON FOR RUNNING. Good lines include "freshly washed sunlight... unrelenting grey rain... blinding light shock of rain."
He'll love it, we assured her. His mom does not appreciate Linda's poetry prowess. She also wrote two autumn poems, one about a Bonfire.
We're a little coterie of writers. We stay in our own world. My family is not interested in my work, with the exception of my sister Lynn, who is one of my "readers."
I also took a sultry photo of Donna
Beatriz wrote one of her essays on a pollinator we'd never heard of.
The crab spider. She showed us many pix of this crafty fellow who camouflages himself like any good soldier would and then springs for his prey. His appetite is rapacious - what mean dat? - and he likes worms, which he divides up in segments, saving them for his little ones.
Donna's new poem BLACK MOON was brutally honest about her family members. Bc she has bipolar disorder, she will not be allowed to hold the new baby.
Cruel and misinformed.
She was just published in Twisted Sister. Look,
you can read all her poems here, including Black Moon.
BRUSH WITH HEAVEN was Martha's piece about a close call with death. Dyou believe she had heart failure? Based on a kidney infection that affected her heart.
The Abington hospital docs and nurses were wonderful. And of course her late parents made an appearance. Dad told her Don't give these good people a hard time, while Mom said, It's not your time.
She also brought in a poem.
All booted up, I was the first to arrive. Brought Triscuits and Gouda cheese as a snack. B provided banana chips. The word chip referring to the possibility of it chipping your tooth OR continuing with a chip on your shoulder.
The idea for my new short story came while I was in the kitchen preparing my omelet and listening to TIS by the late Frank McCourt.
I would write about life in a nursing home, do it in several parts, before our hero Sean McNally goes to an assisted living home.
The words poured out of me nonstop. So far, it's only two pages. Part One and Part Two. People liked it, tho I haven't reviewed their comments which is important to do.
I'm reading the columns of one Colson Whitehead, author of the new book Underground Railroad. The writing in his columns is divine, but basically a waste of time. You don't learn anything, but he'll give you a good laff and upon occasion you'll learning, such as Get to the point, don't use five words, when one word will do.
Read him here.
Colson, I'm listening to Call the Midwife in the car. When I'm finished, your book is next. It's resting comfortably in a little pouch.
The night before our meeting, I was watching the Japanese News called NHK. Some news item showed a man bounding down the stairs. How gracefully he danced down.
Gotta write a poem about dat, I thinks. So for the writers group I wrote six movement poems, but then on the radio last night I heard something about swimming naked in the a lake in Breton. Wow, what a good topic I thought, so this morning I wrote my seventh movement poem.
Lemme know what you think. Now, I'll run downstairs, boot on but feeling better bc I put long pants over it, so it feels more normalized.
SEVEN POEMS ON MOVEMENT
ADAM
Adam, oh,
we all like Adam
sits
a’chair staring at computer screen
waiting
to be interrupted
straightbacked
and stiff,
as if
there’s back trouble,
it’s only
from being in the orchestra pit
of the
librarian’s chair.
“Whazzup?”
he asks, a quick
smile
lighting up his cheeks
like an
apple best eaten slowly.
***
MAN IN SOUTHERN
CALIFORNIA
A far-off
lens portrays a man
running
down the stairs, outdoor
stairs in
southern California,
arms
swinging
at his sides, as if he has
practiced
for years, each leg bending
at the
knee and thigh and ankle,
going
faster, faster, faster, and
I shout
Instant Replay but the
screen has
turned black.
***
THE CREPE MYRTLE IS LATE FOR THE
BALL
A
southern belle, forced by her owner
to bloom
up here, she caught a cold,
and stood
lifeless in the front yard.
She
twisted her infected branches and
looked up
at the sky. Are ya done with
me? she
asked. I've lived here five years
dancing
in place to the Nutcracker Suite.
Cold
showers from the hose bathed her
withered
limbs, like Whitman did
the
dying. More cold showers up
and down
her once famously beautiful
body, the
ballerina.
She was
tough, she was resilient, she
refused
to die. Her beauty's returned
the Belle
of Cowbell Road.
***
THE MAN AT THE STARBUCKS
How can
anyone stand so straight?
How can
anyone have hair like that?
White,
all white, with a tiny ponytail
peacock-proud
to ornament
the man
in line.
Tall, he
bent toward the aproned
barista.
I’ll have Decaf, he
said.
Here was a man who would
sleep
well at night.
I’ll make
a fresh cup, said she.
And I
heard all, my head turning
as I
waited for my pumpkin spice
latte,
which I could barely pronounce.
Later, at
table, I sat at a distance
my
curiosity aroused like a calico
cat
sniffing round the cake plate
Whatever
was he reading, as his
white
head dipped deep into the
paperback
book. A man who
would
rouse the stars to dream about.
***
WAITING IN LINE
The line
wasn’t long.
I forgot
that I don’t have
to be
busy every minute
so I stopped
reading
the book
I would buy.
Real life
is more important
than any
history book you’ll
buy for
your son’s fortieth.
A woman
with gleaming white
hair, the
color of the noonday
sun, was
leaning over, laughing.
Good
thing I have insomnia,
she said.
There’s a million
cable
channels and nothing is….
Yeah
yeah. As I read in bed
last
night, All the Light You Cannot
See, the
Gloaming White was
somewhere
in the area, reading
herself
to sleep, as Dr Amen, Patrick
Stoner,
and Patti Paige sang me
to sleep.
***
UNBEARABLY BREAKABLE
Spider
skittered around the
slippery
porcelain sink with
its bits
of spinach and peanuts
the
journey of his life, trying
to get
free before more cold
water
came pouring down
the
spout.
A shroud
covered his head,
with
quivering posterior
he
injected his venom to
no avail,
and was thrown
down a
high place, tumbling
tumbling,
eight legs
a-tremble,
no web to
carry him
down.
Suddenly.
Nothing.
***
MIDNIGHT SWIM
She and
he were seen from
the
window swimming. The still
moon lit
up each naked body.
Look at
that slim white arm
curling
from the water, up,
then
splash, slender as a
ribbon.
He was nearby, the
hair on
his arms flattened down
like
fleece, bubbles spitting
from his
mouth. The watcher
goes back
to bed, listening
to their
splashes – they sound
like
celebratory ducks – as
He and
She embrace like
majesties,
then head for the
locker
room on shore.
's
Quest-ce-cest?
