First Day of Spring - Robert Osborne Tribute on TCM - Poems: Patches and Panattone

Last night I spent hours and hours submitting.

Megan A whose website deals with very odd things had rejected my story Gibberish. I was shocked as I thought it was so good.

Thought of sending it to Twisted Sister and very quickly they got back to me. Angela said she loved it and loved the idea of the ant colony.

***



This morning's poem:

PANA-WHAT?
It's Pannatone, said
Beatrice, Dante's guide
in Paradiso

Unknown to us in the
Writers Group and even
Beatrice herself.
She reigns on the long sofa
and paradise is ours
when she points to the
Panatone in the kitchen.
Hungry always as the
tiny birds that trill
about the feeder,
I pad, socks off, into
the fragrant kitchen
my nose up like a
bloodhound
What's that strange
creation, looking
like a foot-high
cupcake, wrapped
in paper?
Raisins, golden,
and dark, and citron strips,
finally see the light of day
I nibble right away
like a mouse, then
bring in ragged
slices for Linda,
Rem, Ken and myself.
Panatone! Panatone!
Wher'ere I go
over land or sea
I shall never meet
the likes of you
until I land in
Paradiso.

***

Earlier this evening, strode over to the K's house to give them a check for $25 for shoveling me out a few days ago. Then I just kept on going, walking as fast as I could around the block. Noticed these different patterns of snow in the front yards. "Oh no!" I said to myself. "Now I've got to write a poem about them."

PATCHES

Walking quickly round the block
as the darkness spread a
blanket across the land
I was suddenly aware
of the way the snow
was melting and
continues to melt

My foot ached to slice
a tower from its base
but like an Amtrek
floating into the station
I could stop for nothing

Set me free cried the grass
to the heavens and the
green and white rancher
on the corner got its
wish: a misshapen patch
shone free

The house I like, the
wedding cake house, in
various shades of white
and cream, had zigs and
zags across the lawn

Patterns unknown to us
mortals swept over the
neighborhood as I stepped
lively, avoiding the
mud, and hollered to
the barking white dog
as I cross the street
Hello Kalie Barker,
opened my door and turned
on the film Westworld
with its creepy
characters and pulled
out my rice cakes
spread with pear sauce
to nosh on as I
watched in total darkness.

***
Started eating those sticky rice cakes spread with warm pear sauce and when I finished, I knew I was low.

Gosh darn it!!!

         Thin mints. Whoa, am I full!

Called my sister Donna and asked if she'd read my newest story - The Saint of the Poconos - great title, huh! - she is not a great fan of my work, but I wanted her to read a part about drinking coffee. She did and said she didn't know the meaning of the Rubicon and dalliance, which I defined for her.

Well, sir, I just biked for 20 minutes and read the brilliant writer Alice Hoffman who, instead of using the word "boyfriends" uses "Romeos."

***

Sent an email to my group and included these words:

Two giants in entertainment died recently. The first is Robert Osbourne of Turner Classic Films. My sister Donna and I watched a tribute to Osbourne all night long, sleeping and watching, sleeping and watching.

- Saw wonderful intervws by Bob: Eva Marie Saint, Kim Novak - she's happily settled in Portland, married to an equine vet, and paints. Her dad was mentally ill and she has bipolar d/o.

He interviewed the great filmmaker Norman Jewison, born in 1926. Read about him here.  Thanks, Ruthie! I'll do it later.

Osbourn's alltime fave actor is William Holden.

The second was Chuck Berry. Read his obit here from the Times.

10 years ago I had a monthly "gig" at the Horsham Clinic. On Monday nights I'd cheer up the patients by bringing in my stereo and playing various songs, including those by Chuck Berry. I'd get them up and dancing.

And I'd do a modified "duck walk" like he did.

Hold on and lemme try it now.

Well, I did it in slo-mo.

Today, with snow still on the ground and 43 degrees, according to WDVR, it's THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING.

What can we do to celebrate? How about bundling up and going for a walk around the block?

- Scott and I did that. We took the long way with me huffing and puffing. He don't. We watched Hell or High Water, which I had watched on the cruise ship. Wasn't that great the second time around. Still enjoyable as it got toward the end and the useless killings.

Or how about a lovely spring poem by Robert Louis Stevenson, Scottish author of the famous...uh...Treasure Island and ... it's about the guy who has two faces...email me if you know.

- No one wrote. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Don't you hate that? You do your best and no one responds. Oh, stop complaining.

Summer Sun by Stevenson.

My son/law Ethan Iverson and his band The Bad Plus were commissioned to write their version of The Rite of Spring or Le Sacre de Printemps.

Listen to a few bars here.

Feel free to donate to New Directions to help offset the cost of our Compass. Total, for 650 copies, including printing and graphic design, is $2835.90.

Send donation to New Directions, Box 181, Hatboro PA 19040 or go on website below and press the YELLOW PayPal donation button on the Right.

- Thanks Ellen R for your $20 donation. Every bit helps. I found a penny on the floor of the Giant Supermarket.

***



He had to shave his hairy chest as it was considered too sexy. And this isn't sexy? 

William Motter Inge (/ˈɪndʒ/;^[1] May 3, 1913 – June 10, 1973) was an American playwright and novelist, whose works typically feature solitary protagonists encumbered with strained sexual relations. In the early 1950s, he had a string of memorable Broadway productions, including Picnic, which earned him a Pulitzer Prize. With his portraits of small-town life and settings rooted in the American heartland, Inge became known as the "Playwright of the Midwest."

***

A Pocketful of Poetry and more

Heart pounding, I drove to the Hatboro P O yesterday afternoon to mail the Compass to the head of NIMH and to Charlotte Bernstein who photographed the gorgeous cover at Lake Galena.

I thought something was up as she didn't answer my several phone calls asking for her address. Finally got it thru the Abington Libe.

Sent a get-well card this morning.

A nature center sent some beautiful photographs which I turned into a card. Dante said he thought the P O would be able to read it, crammed, as it was with well wishes.

I also sent a card to Grace and Max who don't know the beauty of wolves. I told them to ask Mommy and Daddy about wolves.

View my day trip to Wolf Sanctuary. 

Am typing with cold fingers upstairs in my Writing Room. Drinking Snickerdoodle Coffee from Iris, who is very active on Facebook.


I write a poem a day on Facebook. Here's one from thother morning.

MARCH SNOWS

I was as ready as could be
parked in the drive of the
yellow house. First came
the winds, followed by
the toy piano tinkles
of the white stuff
from above.

I'm under siege
and still am at
7 in the morning.

Seven inches:
the heavens
white as a seven-layer
cake, with icing
in between.

Inanimate, I'm not
supposed to have
feelings! But I do!
I do! Will my beauty be tainted,
the beauty of the kimonoed
women whose country
I come from? Let us pray.

***

Wrote this one today after I bought two boxes from neighbor Bella, of the shining blue eyes. As I wrote her a check for $8, I realized I should write WHYY-TV a check as well, which I did before Mailman Dante arrived with yellow chains on his back wheels. I suppose his forebears also wore chains, if you know what I mean.

The American Veterans' Assn send me a calculator and a check for $2.50. I deposited the money into my bank account, along with a check my friend CC mailed me for Compass postage.

Thank goodness Dante wanted the calculator. Wanted to give it to someone who'd appreciate it. I thought of giving it someone at Symphony Manor, where I work on Monday mornings, but thought they might fire me for giving too many things away....pens and calendars and even The Compass.

HOW TO EAT THIN MINTS

In the annals of desserts
I eschew the 5-layer dobose torte
chocolate Bundt cake or any pies
David Lynch served up for us
in Twin Peaks, and even
Purim's Hamantashen.

Nothing can compare with
Thin Mints. Have you
tasted them? If so,
addiction is yours.

Carefully open the green box.
Remove one sealed bag.
Tame yourself from greed.
Pour the thin and crunchy
wafers into your favorite
plate. Study their beauty.

Eat one half at a time,
placing the more flavorful
side on your tongue.

Thank God for your taste buds.
A health show has said, Watch out
if you can't taste peanut butter,
early sign of you-know-what.

I simply sat in bed, PJ-clad,
where it was nice and warm,
and munched away. Munched away.
Smacked my lips to get more
flavor, until I'd finished
every last one.

And then, as is my wont,
I mounted my pony, my
stationery bike, and
peddled away till kingdom come.

IN MEMORIUM LARRY CORYELL, 73

"I think there's a basic human need
to express to other people," said
the once famous guitarist, known
as "The Godfather of Fusion."

He died the other day in a hotel in
New York City. Did the concierge
know who the white-haired man was?
Had he heard him play?

Before his final sleep, we imagine
him looking out his third-story
window, strains of a new song
knitting in his restless mind.

Guitar case in the corner next
to the desk, he blew it a kiss
as he shut off the air-conditioner
and climbed under the cool sheets.

Watching the white ceiling
he looked forward to having
an English muffin with
orange marmalade for
breakfast the next day.

***
You may think all I do is sit around writing poetry. Here's something Martha from our Writing Group read at our last poetry group.

THE COMPASS KEEPER

My dear friend,
You've walked this path before me,
Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death,
Fighting your demons and
Emerging wiser, stronger and determined

My dead friend,
You now accompany others
Who walk that same path,
Guiding them through
Their own Shadows,
Bringing them through their
Own hells.

And now, you provide us a
Compass. Pointing the way,
Easing the burden,
Bringing sunshine to darkness,
Peace to uncertainty.

Thank you dear friend.
You've made all the difference.


Marf is on the left. Arlene on the right.

A virus has attacked my upstairs computer. Will have to take it to the doctor's.

I'm unable to post photos, which is quite terrible!

Now I'm gonna enter my work on some online lit mags.

I do not like using the word "stuff." Turns me off. A woman was writing a grant for us and used the word "stuff." I refused to pay her and told her I could write a better grant.

That's why we're so poor, truth be told.

There was a great show thother night on PBS about American Nuns. The Vatican under Ratzinger, I believe, was trying to stop their great work.

Luckily, Pope Francis sanctioned their wonderful works.

Watched a PBS show about it. Very moving, tears-in the-eyes moving. Scott thought it was unfocused.

Enjoy the day! Read my poem above about the late Larry Coryell. Here's his music.



From this website. Thanks Isabel!

Shopping at the Giant

   I'm not gonna fight the urge to order coffee at the Giant.

Kathy with the beautiful nails gave me a medium-size which I sipped as I shopped. It was actually free as I used my Coffee Club card.

Speaking of clubs, I visited the Upper Moreland Library last night, filled out a Yellow Idea Card, and requested that the library host a monthly Sunday Film Noir Club.

Rem from our Writing Group thought it was a great idea.

Scott will be over in an hour for a salmon (rushdie) dinner. Debbie told me to buy a pound. Comes from Chile. I made it early but will heat it up when he comes. While cooking, I listen to the audio book



Crime fiction, my favorite genre.

I am so starving now you can practically see my ribs.

Yesterday wrote The Bus Trip for our writing group. As usual I started it late, 10 am, with the group starting at 1:30 pm.

A PBS documentary appeared about Flannery O'Connor and I wanted to write about someone making a pilgrimage to her final home Andalusia Farms.

Huge turnout at the writers group, maybe 11.

Am too hungry now to write about the great work each person did. Linda Barrett, mon dieu, can that girl write poetry.

Watched three outstanding film noirs the other night, commercial free, on YouTube.

A Blast of Silence, Jigsaw, and the young Wm Shatner in the 1962 film by Roger Corman called The Intruder.



Listen to conversation between the late Roger Corman and Bill Shatner.

Poem of the Day

MIRACLE ON YORK ROAD

Pushing my small cart
around the store, I go
early before the crowd.

Is it true we're having a
hurricane, Jack? He shrugs
and asks if I want a box
to put my groceries in.

Got one already, I say.

Wheeling around the corner
where pretzels and salty chips
are displayed, someone has
plopped a sketch pad in the middle.

A sketch pad! I was moved by the
paintings of Britisher Howard Hodgkin,
who died at 84, the other day.

How kind of him or God
or Fate to tantalize me
with the thought of
painting throughout
the night.

***

I lugged into the car about 15 Compass to deliver after my morning job at Symphony Manor. The two songs we'll sing are SUMMERTIME and DANNY BOY.

Last night I was listening to WDVR, Delaware Valley Radio, where they were playing the oldies...doo wop.

Fantastic show.

I heard the BEST RENDITION of Summertime I've ever heard. Wrote the DJ but he never answered to tell me the singers.

Listen here. Great, n'est-ce pas?

Could it be the Marcels from Pittsburgh PA?

Their signature song, of course, is the Rogers and Hart tune, Blue Moon.

BTW, Scott loved the salmon.

***

Guess what I'm gonna watch tonight at 7 pm?

Catholicism: The Pivotal Players on PBS.

***
There's a website I wanna submit to where you write about a war story. I did get a couple of em published on anudder website, but wanna try this one.

Since watching the film Rust and Bone last night, I decided to make it from the point of view of a little boy. I have it all planned out now.

RING RING RING

Who could that be on the phone?

Oh, someone I sent a postcard to!



 

Compass 2017 - Caption for Back Cover - Delivering the Compass

 Iris and husband Art.

The front and back cover of The Compass 2017 are in glorious color. But there is no caption on the back cover, so here is an explanation.

Iris Arenson-Fuller is my friend from Goddard College in Plainfield VT, where she met her first husband Kim, who passed away. They had started an adoption agency, which she closed several years ago, after placing thousands of children in new homes.

Iris and her second husband, Art, a retired cardiac nurse, visited two years ago. View blog.

The photo on the back cover is a family portrait. It shows Iris and Art on the bottom left. Her tall child Jesse, who looks much like his father, Kim, is shown surrounded by his wife Yvonne and their daughter Tasya.

Son Ben is in the military, the Air Force, and is holding his dog Inu. His sister Crispin Abbot is the last one on the right.

Sitting next to Iris in the front row is little Gabriella - Gabby for short - and her mom Helena.

That's diversity for ya!!! Proud and unafraid.

Iris has been a poet her entire life. Four of her poems appear in the Compass. 

And now my friend from Goddard is Coach Iris! 

***
Picked up a few boxes of the Compass from Mark at Buxmont Stationers in Hatboro. I'd never use anyone else. He's still printing them out.



He and Rene at Boggs Printing are a great team.

Hold on, while I take a sip of my tea, Cinnamon Spice. Today is a no-coffee day for me.

Took the boxes home and spent a couple of hours addressing envelopes to send to contributors. Put em in a huge garbage bag to take to the Hatboro post office and left Jim, the father of 12-yo twins, and Jackie each a copy, as I know they like to read the Compass.

BTW, lemme know if you'd like a Compass and I'll tell you how to purchase one.

Total mailing cost was something like $40 for today.

The Compass itself was the same price as last year. About $2,300. In case Warren or Bill and/or Melinda are reading this, we'd love to have your tax-deductible donation. I think you'd learn a lot about mental illness.

But that doesn't leave you out, Dear Reader. Send in your donation too.

***

My barista sister Donna slept over the night before. She sleeps in my crumb-filled bed, which I brushed off first, while she removed all the books and hankies and pens n paper from the husband's side of the bed.

Let's go out for b'fast, I said. She only wanted to go to Starbucks. Not me. We went to my fave local place - TNT.

I injected 14 after ordering:  corned beef hash with 2 eggs on top, hashed browns, no toast.

Donna had a scrambled egg burrito.

She was SHOCKED at how good the food was. Leo was our waiter. A Mexican, he reminded us of Daddy who like Leo, used to say, "My pleasure."

We talked Leo's ear off as he was a great listener. And me, I'm thinking, What can I use in a story someday.

Generous to a fault, I said to Donna, who has more money, you or me. She really does but I paid cash for both of ours and left a nice tip.

     When I finish this blog, gonna cut out this bill, and see if I can buy a new pair of shoes with it over at Impact Thrift, new renamed Heavens Treasures, which Donna thinks is a terrible name.

Then I insist we walk over to Willow Grove Therapy on the corner. It'll only take three minutes, I say.

Says Donna, one-one-thousand, two-one thousand.

I open up the door - and btw, my right shoulder is aching, I dunno why - and there's Margaret Fitzpatrick herself, the owner.

  Photo from the Internet.

This is from her Regency Tower office.

I see a man I know who is doing shoulder exercises!

Then Donna and I drive to her old condo - Woodwinds - which was bought out b/c it flooded - by FEMA and another thing.

Can you believe it Ruth? she said.

I used to live here and there's nothing there. Just a big green park.

We walked back n forth.

    Oh look! I said. Lesser celandines.

How on earth I ever remembered the name of these early-blooming wildflowers is a miracle equivalent to The Holy Virgin appearing to Bernadette Sousirus. Now, I'm not gonna look up her last name, but it was something like what I just typed up.

We chatted with a woman who was walking her cocker spaniel Cody in the park. The dog was old but quite lovely. The woman hated Woodwinds Condo. They shoulda bought her condo too as it's flooded about four times since then and the condo fee is now $700.

***
Now it was time to delivery the Compass.

I parked in the Abington post office but had already sent my Compass out of the Hatboro office.

Was gonna do my deliveries to AMH, which used to be the abbreviation for Abington Memorial Hospital before Jefferson Hospital horned in and joined with it.

Gorgeous day. Into a carton, I put many Compass. Judging by the weight, I stick in the amount I can carry in the 20 mins it'll take me to get to the hospital.

IS IT EVER HEAVY!!!

But you know what my mom said when I visited her later?

You were strengthening your arms, Ruth.

               First I come to the Wunderly Lobby, but they've changed the name to The Buerger Bldg. There are wheel chairs in there, so I borrow one, and plop the carton on there.

WHEW, what a relief.

I take the elevator to the fourth floor psych ward and hand the carton to Nurse Staci, who's eating a slice of pizza.

She thanked me. What? She's gonna put me in four-point restraints?

I take three out as I'm gonna take em to my former psychiatrist Larry Schwartz.

I walk confidently to Suite 401A on the fourth floor, remembering as I do so, a piece I wrote for the Compass, Walking down this hall with its blue carpet and blue wall paper, gives me hope.

His office is dark. Locked. The receptionist when I walked in Wunderly Lobby said he had retired. Later, tho, when I sent out an email, a fellow said, He hasn't retired but is in Plymouth Meeting, near a Whole Foods.

Larry told me he would never retire. His wife did die, so maybe he moved. Who knows?

    He used to go to conferences and I'd always ask him what he learned.

Then I passed Eldermed so I walked in and handed them the remaining Compasses.

Here's my poem of the day on Facebook.

THE FIRST VOICE I HEAR IN THE MORNING

Never knew his name
nor cared, but when
I tiptoed to the
window to see if
it was snowing - yes,
lovely slanting flakes
like arrows - I realized
his voice had a name.

Gregg Whiteside. He goes
on about the piccolo in
a Vivaldi piece and as a
true friend should, talks
about the weather.
All cares vanish as he
speaks. The outside world
does not exist. Only the
sound of his voice, dear
Gregg Whiteside, and the
smell of the newly falling snow.