Very sad news, she wrote

And you know what she was talking about b/c you knew the story. On Facebook, I wrote this poem

MORE GOOD FOLKS BITE THE DUST

While my philodendron and jade plant
and the leaping Madagascar Dragon Tree
thrive on my window sill

A good man is dead. Thirty-one. The
cops found him. His picture and that
of his family hang in my upstairs
office, along with my deceased friend
Stephen.

Are they alive on some distant star?
Or have their substances dissolved,
sprinkled like the summer sands
about us.

Our young man was bewitched.
A budding Tristan whose Isolde
fed him an elixir that killed
him slowly over a year.

Rest easy, young man. Your suffering
is over, as your mother's is
just beginning. God, in his mercy,
will hold her tight, as she relives
his entire life that led up to this
sorry end. 

Sound the trumpet! cries Henry Purcell.
Victory shall abound one day.

***

She and her boyfriend will drive to Framingham MA to attend the funeral. Imagine, your son dies and you have to drive to anudder state at attend the funeral. And then go through his things.

***

Life gallops on. Compartmentalization.

The Superbowl is tomorrow, Sunday.

My daughter/law is freaking out b/c their TV doesn't have good reception for the Superbowl.  NBC, they tell me. Hmm, what would I do if I wanted to watch it. Go to Scott's as he had great reception on his upstairs TV.

***
Lemme peak out the front door and see if the sun is coming out. It's as dark as a witch's hat dans le living.

***
Teeny tiny amount of light. Not much. Lemme scurry back in bed.

Live life, learn as much as you can, and be a good person.

R Z D

Hello February! Poem: Best Time of Day (au matin) - Jiving with Nas

BEST TIME OF DAY

Am sitting in my office
reading this morning's Times.
The sky is awake, barely,
a soft blue found
in certain bird's eggs
in the jungles of Costa Rica.

And the sea of branches
waving in the backyard.
Like huge Tinker Toys
or pick-up sticks.
Sad that Castro's
first-born son
killed himself, too
distraught to even
think. I'll tune out
the world by returning
to bed and staring at
the brightening world
until I have the gall
to wake up.



***

Eleven minutes before the hip hop star Nas appears on Great Performances on Channel 12. Hold on while I run upstairs to turn on the TV.

Okay, we've got three minutes left.

***
 Very bad news: 16 children dead from the flu and the peak isn't here yet. View here.

A friend of mine who lives around the corner has a bad case of the flu.

It was too late for me to send her a card. This was around 3pm.

So I used a stamped postcard from the post office, of which I have about a dozen left.

     This, with the tree, is not the "fanciful flowers" I sent. But I put a chipper message on it that'll make her feel good. Was gonna stick a can of soup in her mailbox but thought, What if she doesn't like this kind of soup?

***
The Nas concert is over. Okay, I'm in the audience, craning my head to see The Man. I've got red hair and am wearing my beret over it, as I am now.

Such energy in the JFK Performing Center. I particularly enjoy Nas telling us about the 20 years it took to get him here.

He was raised in the projects of New York City. How blessed he was to be in the city of the poor, with the rats and the drugs and the killings and seeing his friend with his face shot off and all the blood and he said it was like being in Vietnam. All the horrors and the trauma.

  He dug playing with the National Symphony Orchestra. So, I'm in the audience, right, and I'm noshing on some anise-flavored pizzells they sold at the food counter.

So good, so crisp, so light-weight.

Check out this lumination about tonight's concert. Click here. 



Okay, good night y'all. And get all warm under those covers as the temperature right now is
twenty-one.

Moon out yet?

A nice full one, round as an apple.

The Walmart Blues

Daybreak from around the world from the NY Times.

Click here and turn up your speakers.

Absolutely beautiful.

New York City, Los Angeles (goodbye Jerry Brown, I agree with your bullet train, must move forward, Mumbai, Beijing, Mexico City. Look at the huge palace. Dunno what they do there.

Today after my stint at Adult Daycare, Ellen and I drove to Walmart on Jacksonville Road to buy me a printer.

We got lots of other stuff, too.

When I went to pay with my credit card, Susan, who looked like the late Cel Savino, who lived next to Mom, said, that'll be something like $19.

Gee, that was cheap I said.

Then I realized.....the new printer was in the cart.

At this moment I cannot find the receipt, but I know it will turn up.

THE WALMART BLUES

If it's true that 'everyone hates Walmart,'
why do we shop there?

Walmart has everything. Scotch tape,
warm socks, rows of rows of
sneakers, boots, and hats
for the winter. Inventory
I think it's called.

I bought frozen fruit, strawberries
and bananas, I'd eat for
dessert, while wondering
how the new printer would work.

Robert helped me find it and
laid it down gently on its
side as if it were a newborn babe.

The cart was heavy and wobbled
like an old lady at Castor and
Cottman coming home from
the corner store.

My legs killed me when I got home.
These legs are not young, but
they're all I have and they've
gotta last a long long time.

How many days in January? 31

I have the awesome responsibility of thinking of titles for my blogspot posts. Am sure I mentioned that when I worked for the Intell/Record I did the headlines for the Help Columns, Polly's Pointers, Dear Abby, Dr Gott, and Ruth's poems.

Medicare mandated I go to CVS to fill my prescriptions. Huge waiting lines at the Fitzwatertown Moreland CVS. Shall I bring a book?

Decided to keep Roald Dahl's Omnibus, perfect bedtime stories for sleepless nights. Brought it to the library to read there and decide if I should continue reading.

Yes!

Also checked out an Ursula Andress, oops, I mean Ursula K Leguin book that contains Left Hand of Darkness. I will begin it tonight.

So, the first time I go to the CVS, I have six items to mail in my car.

No mailman in sight but you never know....and there he is!

Have I told you this story before? Bear with me, as my old friend Felicia Kelly used to say at the Record.

After I huffed out of the store, they wanted to charge me about $600 - true - for my first payment - a deductible - AND they were correct - I saw the mailman across the street. I blinked my eyes to make sure he was a mailman and not a long distance walker.

Grabbed me mail and stood at the four-lane highway waiting to make a dash for it.

Done!

You know, those bastards actually tried to run me over.

We do like photos, don't we, so hold on, and I'll give you photos.

I've been submitting short stories to Bella Mused Online. One fantastic story called Summoned would not load onto her site.

Was at Mom's today and even Ellen liked the idea of the story.

Guess what! I just succeeded in loading Summoned. Whew! 

Mom was sitting in bed going through her papers! Ellen went out for Starbucks. I had a small one that Mom and I shared. At first it was too bitter, but it grows on you.

Ellen, a master with the Internet, said that certain kinds of coffee had the best antioxidants in them.

Mom said she read you're not supposed to drink coffee.

"You say potato, I say pototoe" all day long. 

This is what it's like being at Mom's.

Crazy-making by Virginia Satir, I believe. Look it up! We studied this in grad school at Hahnemann.

I just looked her up. Click here.

In the above video, a little boy is being physically hurt by his mother.

How can I stop this with someone in my own family?

Finally, I left and went to the library before it closed. I love to pack in a lotta stuff in one day.

The founder of Ikea just died. Read his obit in the NY Times. Eccentricity incarnate.

IKEA

Would anyone want it
after I pass?
Get one of those
green Dumpsters
and pop it inside.

It's as sturdy as
an old war horse.
A remnant of the
Tooheys. Sean,
then Nicole and Dan.

What about my white shelf?
Bought it new at the
Conshohocken enclave.
A prison devoid of
light. And look at me
trying out all the sofas.

Yes, ma'am, we'll take
the white shelves, as I
handed her my card.

Not Ace Spade or Joker,
just a simple piece of
plastic that now rules
our world.

ONLY 37 minutes before pizza, not that I'm counting. Scott made a cauliflower crust. Fab!

THE MOON AND I

You must always look up
when you disappear into
the dark night as I
did just now

The moon was straight overhead
with a piece bitten off
like a child being caught
in the cookie jar

The tea kettle just
whistled. A universal
sound from Norway to
Ukraine to Willow Grove.

Hotness is what's
needed now. I warm
my hands and prepare
to take a sip.

Just plain water
like I drank today
at our writer's group.
All seats filled
Bonnie Raitt
intoning about her
biological clock.

Another whistle
goes off. Scott's
train. The man's
gotta work tonight.
Tomorrow he gives
a seminar to two
friends on
how to eat right.

"Would I lie to
my Ruthie," he
says after
kissing me goodbye.


***

So many writers have come and gone. Betty MacDonald was one of them. She wrote a memoir called The Egg and I, which I thought of when I wrote The Moon and I.

Take a look at the adorable cover. I'm not permitted to.

More poems from FB

BLESSINGS

in honor of Coach Iris

Once there was nothing like
these cold winter months,
when I'd walk up the street,
stew pot in my gloved hands
and ring his bell.

He lived alone with his
drunkard son, as nice as a
guy can be, who drinks from
morning til night. Waiting
just waiting for Jesus.

Luther and I became friends.
He of the big pot belly
checkered shirt and collection
of Hummels, his late wife
so loved.

We'd eat together in the
kitchen. "Sure is good," he'd say
in his southern drawl. "One bowl's
enough for me."

And then came the coffee.
Folger's from the red can.
He made it strong and I'd
have two heavenly cups.

He'd walk me to the door
where I'd feel like the
missus of the house
and walk back home.

THE JOY OF READING
A PAPERBACK

Pere Goriot, The Waves,
Mrs Dalloway, The Catcher
in the Rye, Nine Short
Stories including
The Bananafish.

And now this new one
Conclave about choosing
a new pope.

The morning sun
shines on each
fresh page with the
perfectly readable
fonts, the strong
binding, and the
words we always look for:
Made in America.

Much of my life,
is bound in
paperbacks. Once
walking around the block
a woman with a "For Sale"
sign in front of her house
handed me a Clive Cussler.

It's on a pile as high as
The Seven Storey Mountain
awaiting its turn.

***

Am reading a new Dean Koontz book, scary as hell. Lots of nightmares. It's damn good, though. Lotta surprises, which we love.

  Read about him here in Wiki and then I'm off!

He's born in 1945, same year as me. Maybe I still have time to get a novel published.

Wish me luck, Pope Francis!!!

Poem: Hazardous Driving Conditions - Worst Talk from the UMHA - Poem: Driving to the Library in the Dark

HAZARDOUS CONDITIONS ROARS
THE FORECAST TELLING US
A LIGHT RAIN WILL FALL

Good. My car will get
a much-needed bath. I'll sip
my Tortuga Rum Coffee
to the tintinabulations
of the rain drops, and
remember the good dinners -
was that you, Medori,
I dined with - on the
Caribbean not long ago?

Shhh! Caribbean is a
secret question on a
"favorite vacation place."

I note the bar code on
the bottom of the now-
spent coffee bag, which
will make its way to
my Coffee Bag Pavilion
on my Wall.

I must make my mailbox
ready for a birthday
card for my friend Judy.
Old age has treated her
badly. So many things
I learned from my
Arundel Road pal.

In the light rain
I've placed two
indoor plants which suffer
from Failure to Thrive condition.

The rain feels good on my
bonny red hair, so I let it
wash over me. Not a soul's
about and I chance to see
Judy of Arundal's ceramic
pot, awaiting the coming
of faire April.

This is where I listened to the final chapter of The River by Richard Peck. Superb!

At the library tonight I tried to find the next book in this five-part series, to no avail. I did check out two more audio books, one for the car and one for the kitchen.

Then I stepped briskly across the street for the Historical Association's talk on The Johnsville Airport. Click here.

Our presenter J im  Rubillo did a great job in describing the corruption of the Brewster airplane company.

His research was based on newspaper accounts by Time magazine, the Today's Spirit, a daily back then, and The Inquirer.

The audience loved the talk and assailed him with questions afterward.

I could not wait to get the hell out of there. It was the most boring presentation I'd ever heard.

Before I left, Scott told me to brush my hair. It always looks terrible!

Shall I wear my beret for the rest of my life?

Morning photos.

Barry Bush gave me the jade plant and the fig plant, the most pathetic houseplants you've ever seen.

I thought an outdoor rain might shake them up.

Now, I wanna go back on Facebook but I need to write a poem first.

Let's see. Any ideas?

DRIVING TO THE LIBRARY IN THE DARK

As a young pup, I was fearless. No more.
I buckle myself in with the harness. Some folks
in the buckle factory said in Japanese, let's
play a trick on the driver. The buckle will
take the strength of a Yukio Mishima as
he disemboweled himself with a sword.

Finally I backed out the drive noting a
moon of some sort, will look you up
later, I thought, as I trotted down
the street.

I wore my oatmeal-colored socks
poking out of my clogs, trend-setter
that I am, and turned up my
audio book, never knowing what's
real or fantasy or who I am now.

Sunday night - I watch my shows and munch pretzels - Poem: Judy and I Visit Staples After our Writing Group

JUDY AND I VISIT STAPLES
AFTER OUR WRITING GROUP

She wrote a lovely poem
about her mother, as
beautiful as the sculpture
Pieta in the Vatican

I wrote Red High Heels
a fanciful story about
Goddard, my college
in the foothills of Vermont

Every month, it seems, my
printer runs out of ink
so I paid $60 to get black
and color cartridges

Is there no fairness in the world?
No justice? Robbed blind every time
I write a letter, a poem, a story.

In the writers' group, Ken gave us
gifts. To every writer, two pens.
Justice is served.

They're the fun kind, like the old
Papermate Jotter. Remember? If they
need you for the rhythm section and
you're no Elvin Jones on drums - cigarette
dangling from his now-dead mouth - merely
click the top, off and on, on and off.

The first thing I wrote with my new pen
were all my passwords. Variations of
"creatinine level." But I jest.

And now, picking up my pen again, I see
it is no better than my $60 cartridge.
Dead, spent, wore out, crappily made.
Justice! I scream. Justice, where on
earth is justice?

***

My 'new' printer cost $45 and the cartridges $60.

***

Scott made us homemade pizza. I helped myself to my pizzelles which I keep away from temptation on his kitchen counter.

We were surprised to find the Sunday night TCM film was The Titanic, 1953, with Clifton Webb and Barbara Stanwyck, Robert Wagner and his new love,

  Audrey Dalton, born in 1934. How lovely she was in the film. Still kicking at age 83.

Iris liked my short story Red High Heels, esp b/c I put in details of real life in it.

  The main character Meredith had plans to stay in Kilpatrick Dorm, but things didn't work out that way.

I wanted an unusual first name. Meredith is my dental hygienist. 

THE TITANIC

The moment I rolled into bed to watch
the 1953 version of The Titantic,
I began to panic. I knew what would
happen, they did not.

What could I do to comfort myself?
Scott was dead to the world with
exhaustion. I thought of going
downstairs and eating three
more pizzelles, but then I'd
have to move.

Instead I groaned inside,
finger-combed my new "do"
of red hair - was I reminiscent
of Norma Desmond in last night's
Sunset Boulevard?

"It's not so terrible," said Wm Holden,
being age fifty!"

Now they are getting into the boats.
Clifton Webb, a dreadful cad, will
have a change of personality and
become "useful," his lovely
cad-wife Stanwyck whose
ermine stole will glow nicely
as they row her lifeboat away

Oh, it's not half so good or
nervewracking as the "epic"
1996 film - take it away
Leonardo DiCaprio and
Kate Winslet - both films
possess the lovely touch of
playing music as the ship
goes down. Sinks. Lights off.
Every room flooded and dark.
The ship gone, a goner, as if
she never existed.

And 22 years later, we wonder
how the Eagles are doing.

****

Poems: If Only I Could Stay Awhile - A Good Death - For Tree: Let it Snow, Let it Snow - My New Reading Chair - Short story Japanese Doll

IF I COULD ONLY STAY AWHILE

Let me perfect the art of
relaxation, as I sit on
my red couch with tiny
crumbs from pretzels
and peanuts.

I look around and see
all the things I love
my Christnas cards on
the wall

My blue shovel, two mobiles
hanging from the rafters,
a fancy chandelier a la
Liberace that needs a
good dusting and a
colorful wall-hanging
from Ecuador.

And there's Denis, not
dead yet from kidney failure,
and a long turkey feather
I could use as a quill if
my pens go dry.

Seen any good films lately?
Read any good books?
Tell me if you know.

***

The poem below was just published in Kaleidoscope. It's an online magazine by people with various disabilities, or caregivers of same.  Click here. Very fine writing.  Theme is Unpredictability.

A GOOD DEATH

The doctor told me my kidneys would fail
I wanted to know when
so I could start practicing being dead

Empty house
filled with things
my jar of feathers
the bird’s nest
pine cones and shells
on the windowsill

She loved nature so much
someone would mutter
The rosebush I clipped
so the mailman wouldn’t get bit

the maple I watched from the high
bathroom window
framed just so
a Van Gogh

From my bed with the cool
breeze caressing my hair
I sniff the smoke from
the furnace that dispenses
with the little girl that

loved her bike and
rode no-handed down the hilly streets
and back home to feed her fish

Summers, she would ride to
Uncle Marv's
read gloomy Dostoevsky
on the porch steps
and dream of
George Gordon, Lord Byron
in love with a dead man:
impossible.

The girl was finished
kidneys useless as if
raisins grew there
she was not old yet
still enjoyed snuggling with the
one she loved

he would get her ashes
as would her children

Toss the red berries on her windowsill
the feathers, the shells
the Christmas lights
into the landfill

Still she sees the moon
shining on the For Sale sign
of her yellow house
swaying in the breeze.

***
As my many readers know - how many are we now? speak up! - I stay in bed awhile and read. Oh shoot, just checked my chart. The Pope book was due yesterday. He's got some great parts in there. Women, he says, should play much more important roles in the church. He travels around the world giving talks.

He spoke about genital mutilation in countries that don't respect women. He's very psychologically insightful. Puts it to a false sense of power when it's really fear.
    Here's his photo, but my book is called Happiness in This World.

My friend Harriet wanted to buy me a new bowl bc the one I use has tiny cracks in it. It's from my late friend Elinor Schuler. She and hubby George moved to Ann's Choice and both conked out for good. Shhh! Don't tell anyone but that's gonna happen to us.

Oh! I almost forgot. Was listening to WRTI-FM, when a phenomenal piano piece came on. Then the guessing game began.

Brahms? Certainly as b'ful as, but not the tinge of melancholy. Schubert?

Greg Whiteside announced the name. It was by Beethoven but was never given an opus no. b/c it was not one of his favorite pieces.

Here's what it's called. 

Beethoven 8 Variations on a romance by Gretry 

Listen to it here.

Oh, so I told Harriet to send me a book instead of a bowl. Now the hunt for the right book. I did find it on Amazon. I goggled 'the best stories ever written about sports.'

What I'd really like are two little Golden Books, one about Jesus, and the other about Life on a Farm. When we moved from Village Green to my own home I left them on the high shelf where my kids couldn't get em.

Have the very best day you possibly can!

PS - My friend Tree sent me a wonderful gift. To thank her, I wrote her a poem.

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW

Mailman Dante wrapped up for
the cold like a babe in a snowsuit
drops the mail in my hand-painted
mailbox that says Hello when you
open that.

You did that for me? said former
mailman Ken, before he retired.
He couldn't stand happy people
but I paid no attention to him.

In my warm blue diabetic socks
from the Sox Lady in Furlong,
I padded into the kitchen to
dispense of the mail.

Into my carton go the huge
cartoon-like ads, the
envelope for my healthcare
payment - already? - and next
a fat pillow-puffy letter
from Bennington Court.

I'd know that address anywhere.
Trudging through the caves of
Altirmira, with bison on the walls,
dining in style with Sarah and Ethan
at The Reading Terminal - save room
for Bassett's Vanilla with Chocolate Sauce

Tree's gifts are always practical, usable,
surprising. They make me wanna do my best
with what I've got. Such smarts she's got.

She'll be happy to know I've made an appointment
with one Daniel Paul Deming, mon cher fils, to learn
how to use APPS.

The fear will fly away from me like sparrows
on wing and my head held as high as Madame
Bovary before she flung herself in front
of a train.

***

MY NEW READING CHAIR

What is purple
and swivels
and is as
comfortable
as if it were
fitted just for me.

Why have I never
thought of reading there?
Old habits are hard to
break. For years I
read in my messy
bed.

Lying down, so I always
fell asleep.

Now, sitting up I will
finish at last Happiness
in This Life by Pope
Francis. His faith
is unshakable, as is mine.

I will tell you this: While
I read his book, I'm a
Catholic. When I put it down
I'm a child of god,
a Jew living on borrowed time
under the roof of heaven. 

Click to enlarge the photo on the side of my fridge of Walter Straus. Once we were pals. Now I have no idea where the man is or if he's dead or alive.

Actually I did find the married couple he's living with - I think they live in Germantown or Mount Airy - to think he'd end up living with them. To me, it's tragic, but I ain't Walter Straus, born in 1918.

***

A friend of mine doesn't drive in the dark. Not surprising at our ages. 65-plus. I emailed her my short story The Japanese Doll, which evoked fear in her. That's good. She felt my own fear. Click here. It's from Bella Online.

Mommy? Are you home? Gonna stop over.