Coffeeshop Writers Group - Hi again Barb Abramek !!! - Let's start our own Blog/ My poems: Mercy and the Bear - Trash Symphony on Cowbell Road - The Girl in the Striped Sweater

Our Coffeeshop Writers' Group at the Willow Grove Giant Supermarket should establish our own blog. They're free on the Google Blogspot.

Let's do it!

Thanks, Barb, for taking the photo. She used to be part of our group when we met at Weinrich's Bakery Coffeeshop, which they closed on weekends. Barb is a teaching nurse at AMH. Our poet Martha Hunter's daughter Emily just graduated from nursing school and Barb, of course, knew her.

Thanks, Beatriz, for taking this with your iPad. Beatriz wrote one of her informative nature stories, this time about "National Pollinator Week," June 17 - June 23.

Who knew? Certainly not the pollinators, which include, from B's article: 4,000 species of native bees and the lesser known flies, wasps, moths, butterflies and a sprinkling of beetles.

The honey bee is not a native of America! They were introduced from Europe in the 1600s.

Her piece was so interesting, I suggested Beatriz email Alan Kerr, editorial page editor of the Intelligencer, and ask if she could do a Guest Column about it. Just emailed her the contact info.

When I write a Guest Column, as a mental health advocate, I'm allowed 700 words max. But you can get lots of great info into those 700 words.

Arlene Walsh is an amazing writer whose characters are very strange individuals. Suddenly, I realized who they reminded me of: the people in Flannery O'Connor's work.

Shockingly, no one had heard of O'Connor. I discovered her when I lived in San Francisco and read all of her work, which included two novels and 32 short stories.

Flannery (1925-64) died of lupus, as did her father. She was 39 years old. She was a devout Catholic. The home and farm where she and her family lived in Georgia is now a shrine, of sorts.

I sent Arlene a transcript of A Good Man is Hard to Find. It takes all of 20 minutes to read and will shock the heck out of you.

We all enjoyed the start of Arlene's "Appearances." I learned her son Peter is an RN in the ER at AMH.

Martha, on the left with the flag on her chest, wrote a great poem "The Waiting Room," which begins

The news comes
like a pail of cold water
thrown in my face
by a dispassionate passerby
- a drive-by soaking -
A simple test,
taken and forgotten
showing the need for attention.

The imagination revs
and takes me at racehorse speed
to all the darkest places.
This is how it began for my mother.

... The smiling doctor blinks out...
Death held off for another day.

One of the great things about our group is that people make friends with one another. Carly and Donna have formed a friendship.

Carly wrote a wonderful mouth-watering poem called "Mother's Day Brunch" that begins

Breakfast potatoes, onions & peppers
Sunny side eggs displayed
Sausage gravy decadent with cream
Achieving a grandstand parade

"It gives you such a warm feeling," said Arlene. "You have a really caring family" ...

Finding a toy for grandson
Cooper
Is all we can think of now

Donna, whose beloved 15-yo daughter Mariel died of meningitis many years ago, met Carly for lunch on May 24, which would have been Mariel's 26th b'day (I think).

At the restaurant, both of them felt Mariel's presence.

Afterward, Donna wrote a poem to her dear friend Carly!

The prolific Linda Barrett totally rewrote a poem from 2007 about The Sandman Comforting You and will give it to her grand-nephew after he's born.

She specializes in writing about people and places in her life.

Which reminds me that Martha gave us all gifts. Here's mine

Counted cross-stitch, next to a bag of pistachios I'm bringing to yet another foodfest tomro. Later today Scott n I are going to Rich and Ada's for a swim in their 83-degree pool. Yes, I have wrin two poems about swimming.

Here are three poems I wrote for today's group.

THE GIRL IN THE STRIPED SWEATER

See her swinging down the street

short shorts

over legs that have wrapped themselves

around horses and

bicycles and

men who caught her

fancy

Can you see by her

dancing steps

she’s a woman who

cheated death

and wears the crescent-

moon-shaped scar

on her belly

and the full-moon scar

on her brain   

She’s not like you

She breathes with

music of pulsars

God rides on her shoulder

as she walks toward

her yellow house

mezuzah a’tilt on the door frame 

Can you see her

in her striped shirt

and short shorts

as she thanks the

trees and seashells and

bird houses three

for her sixty-seven years of life?

We’ll allow her to believe

she is still that long-haired

captivating girl she once

was on the tennis courts

at seventeen.

She swats away

time like a dead fly.

TRASH SYMPHONY ON COWBELL ROAD 

It’s hot as we lug our various cans

wheeled or otherwise

to the curb

ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump

like women in a dorm whose

menses align

we find ourselves outdoors at dusk

precisely at seven when

the birds come home from a

rough day at the office

a final bedtime snack for

the baby robins living in my

rosebush nest

and then sleep

blissful sleep

for all denizens of

Cowbell Road

sparrow swallow bluejay cardinal

the warm spring wind rocks

the birdhouses in my front yard

birds sleeping among men

I believe the birds

preeminent in the diurnal cycle

hear the garbage trucks rolling

from their stables near the high school

chuffing green machines

who make house calls

every Thursday morn

trucks heralded not by

legions of monarch butterflies

or rose petals strewn in the street

but the distinctive lurch and groan

all the way up the hill

listen and ye shall hear!

Next morning, like a spent climax, I lug the can

back to its home

beside the peonies on the side of the house

I sit on the porch steps

with my manicured red nails

and watch the water in the

bird bath shimmering

in anticipation of the coming day.

MERCY AND THE BEAR    

(Inspired in the summer when several brown bears were sighted far from their forest homes in Pennsylvania and New Jersey)   

Zing! The first missile came

from the tree

her tree where she feasted

that day on

sweet clover honey as bees

swarmed over her thick

black pelt

she leaned back

and with her long blue tongue

squashed and ate them

feeling the tickle in her throat

then rearing, on hind legs,

she howled for joy at the sweetness

of the taste and the air and a

brief memory that life was fine

her suckling cubs went deep into the forest

on their own

her mammaries no longer pained

But what was this?
Not those men again

quiet, hidden under green brush

and dead leaves

she’d been searching for breakfast

a spotted fawn

as it trotted tail up

after mother

when

Zing! that sound

that sound that meant

run, hide, strike

claws out

claws that a while ago

yesterday, really, had

found a nest of young

badgers unprotected

their fur tickled her throat

their blood hotter than

the sun as it ran down her

throat and underbelly

Zing! As she runs

through the pine trees

faster and faster

she trips

falls on front legs

rolls over

sees blood

her blood

roars with

something worse

than bees

that sound – the missiles –

brings pain excruciating

she limps away

faster and faster

More zings fly past her

she sees them

faster than winged flies she

has licked from her fur,

blind with fury

and agony

she lays down and

unfurls her tongue

to assuage the burning

the endless sting

of the flying missile

now part of her shoulder

Next morning

the pain lessens

Flee the forest

her ancient memory

tells her

she crosses a highway

hot to the touch of her

naked claws

that make her lope

across this hardened

river

so different from

her forest floor.

Dwellings she sees,

a building with balconies

women with white hair

and hunched-over bodies

sit together in white chairs

on the green grass

she moseys up to the one

whose hair is in a bun atop

her thin pained face

the bear gives a soft moan

and quicker than an evaporating

rainbow licks a sandwich

of white bread

mayonnaise and ham

from her lap

and from another

a honeysweet

cupcake with delicate

white paper

then stands with her blue tongue

outstretched

streaked with saliva

and icing

as the ladies gape

then rears back on her

rear legs and roars

with contentment

The ladies sit still,

paralyzed,

she smells their fear

like rotting flesh before the

vultures come  

she will stay a moment

feeling the pleasure of

the smell she instilled

arching her head

in the air

to sniff and roar

then ambles away

toward home.

 

Pointers to Keep Your Job when You're on the Firing Line

"Randi," an RN who loves her job as a nurse at a facility has a meeting tomro morning at 10 am with the higher-ups who want to "observe" her performance.

Why? They weren't happy with how she responded to one particular patient, though the patient is doing fine.

Here are some pointers I gave her, while taking my new clothes outa the washing machine and hanging them up to dry

- Talk to supportive friends to give you courage to face tomro's proceedings

- Have a plan & write down the pointers.

- Tell them how much you love your job and want to remain there.

- Do not bring up any of the charges they made against you.

- Respond to their charges by saying, "I love my job and am hoping you will help me if I encounter any problems."

- Bring in some quotes by some of your patients who think you're great.

- Go in with confidence. Say to yourself, "I'm going to charm and persuade these people so they want me to stay."

- Wear a 'power outfit' - subdued but comfy

I told Randi that I was a psychotherapist at Family Services of Bucks County. I was interviewed on WHYY-FM after receiving an award from the Montgomery County Office of Behavioral Health.

At Family Service, they heard the interview and the secret was out - I had bipolar d/o!

The most unforgiving places to work are mental health agencies, even tho both Randi and I know how compassionate and understanding we are for folks w/ a mental illness.

Family Service now observed me closely.

They treated me differently.

They had always disliked me - I was really creative with my clients and got many of them to make changes in their lives - but now they disliked me even more.

They saw to it that they never gave me any new cases.

The day I left was one of the happiest days in my life.

I'm still in touch with one of my clients - JP - who I sent a postcard to this morning. Another woman - WS - is a Facebook Friend.

Call me a Clothes Horse - Nothing better than a cup of decaf - My Green Bean Salad - My dad immortalized in prison - Poem "Why I Like Flowers"

Am sitting on my red living room couch finishing my Wawa decaf, the last of the $25 gift card from my friend Teresa Forstater.

It's a muggy 80 degrees and the sweat is pouring off my head.

Just remembered to turn on the fan which is right next to me.

Nancy and I drove to Princeton, NJ, yesterday, and poked our heads into the spectacular Princeton Public Library. They have all sorts of ways of making money including a cafe within the building and sale of used books temptingly displayed at the entrance.

When I talked to my mom this morning I told her Nancy and I ate at the same restaurant  - Mediterra - as when we had our Family Reunion there a few years ago.

RIP OFF  RIP OFF!

For $18, we had a Greek salad the size of the palm of your hand.

We left hungry. But found another restaurant where we split an order of Sweet potato fries.

One of Nancy's jobs is selling products at a health food store in Princeton, so she never gets to see the city and all its cute shops and restaurants.

This morning made a batch of Potato Salad sans Potatoes.

Mom said she now makes this, which made me feel good.

Steamed green beans
chopped fresh veggies - peppers, green scallions, garlic
juice of half lemon
2 chopped Vlasic dill pickles 
fresh mint from the garden
mayo, spicy mustard

Scrumptious!

Michael Pollan would love this. "Eat food. Mostly plants."

Then it was off to Impact Thrift in Hatboro to complete my spring wardrobe.

Goal:  Shorts.

When I walked in, I asked the lady behind the counter: "Do you have any sales today for old people?"

"It was yesterday," she said.

I like wild riots of color. Everything is in the washing machine now. I don't wanna smell like other people.

Brewed myself another cup of decaf. It's in my favorite cup - on top - a gift from Sue Abernethy many years ago when we lived in the apartments. Husband Lloyd is a college prof.

The things we remember about people!

Sent out postcards - 34 cent stamps please! - to the following: SLD, Freda, Bill Hess, Mom n Ellen, Ingrid, Ada, Lillian Moss, John Patrick, and will send out more the morrow.

Man, this coffee is delicious. Even on a hot day I like drinking hot coffee. Watch! They'll find health benefits in this.

Mom went to Judi Adler's dentist who essentially told her the same thing as Schneider. She probly needs root canal as she's got a bump on the roof of her mouf. For pain she takes Advil and is also taking ampcillin, I believe, Dr Saul Miller.

She's in good hands and will spend the rest of the day in bed.

I'm working on a poem about Garbage Night. Got outa bed last nite with lo blood sugar - 48 - gobbled up

dipped in peanut butter

I'd been reading 

and said to myself, "Porous Vision." In other words, it seemed as if there were holes in the pages, so I reluctantly got out of bed and went downstairs to eat.

Then I went into my Writing Room - the coolest room on the second floor - and wrote a surprisingly good first draft of my poem, to be presented on Saturday.

Vickey Justus (what's in a name!) was kind enough to email me photos of correspondence from my late father - Harold J Greenwold, dead at 59 of a brain tumor that meta'd from his lungs - which now resides in the Historical Room at London, OH, Correctional Institution.

Wait till my mom sees this! My dad was an amazing man, one of the first in Cleveland to hire blacks for his distribution warehouse of Majestic Specialties, Inc. Beryl Pinckney, Page Sumpter, Jr, and Sam Jones when he moved to the NY office.

Click to enlarge photos.

Don't you luv these wooden file cabinets?

I told Vickey that many people with bipolar d/o end up in correctional facilities. We have a new member in our group. "Joe" is a retired Upper Moreland cop.

He sent me an email and said my name sounds familiar, he hopes he didn't arrest me.

I said, "No, Lt Robinson did," for my first mania. They drove me in the back of a cop car - with grates in the backseat and doors that couldn't open (like serial killer Ted Bundy) - for the worst experience of my life - locked up for 3 days at MCES, my only hospitalization.

Many of our members have gone to correctional facilities in Bucks and Montgomery counties. Why? Being psychotic and arguing with police officers - entering other people's homes - shoplifting (this was our wonderful "Sophia," a nurse, who finally got her license back)

My great poem "Why I Like Flowers" was just rejected from Poetic Diversity. For your reading pleasure, here it is:

WHY I LIKE FLOWERS

In a small room with
white walls
I sat bare-bottomed
sandaled feet removed from
the stirrups
and she told me my uterus
has grown smaller with age
‘shrunk’ was the word she used
invisible behind the summer shorts
I would put on

Sometimes they remove it when it gets old
like a tree taken down
Stay with me, I say,
Who else has been so patient
so steadfast
made just for me
swelling just so
when the babies bulged inside
the perfect incubator
so, it bled a drop of blood
or two
a protest, I suppose, a cry,
a tear of sorrow
for what once was.

Driving home with a Beethoven
Quartet making the spring air
even more beautiful
I wonder why people like flowers.
Are we a kind of flower?
To cup a flower in your hand
is to see a world without
perfidy, malignancy, cruelty
we see ourselves as once we were
the innocence and yearning
of the newborn.