My assignment today was to write three poems. Just finished the Wendy poem. Thanks to Martha and Marcy for reading them.
Black coffee should not be bitter. This was a Starbucks that had an excellent taste.
The first poem is called FREDA SAMUELS WROTE A BOOK.
The next is BLUE NAIL POLISH.
Donna Krause from our Writers' Group painted my nails, so I thanked her with a poem. After these two women give me permission, I'll print the poems.
I mailed off les deux at the Hatboro Post Office, where I bought b'ful new stamps.
You may wonder why I just left my Red Couch Office. Here's why.
Recipe idea from Burt Plaster over at Willow Grove Bible Church.
I couldn't finish since I pigged out writing the poems on a new kind of popcorn that was excellent.
Nearly Naked Popcorn is popped in canola and olive oil, with added salt. Quite good.
Yesterday, our family was sposed to go see relatives at a rented house in Mantoloking, NJ. We hired a livery cab who would've driven us for around $325 including tips. Not bad at all.
Mom, however, was feeling terrible. And she felt awful about disappointing everyone. I went over to visit her to see how she's doing. Much better. She was in bed, sorting her papers.
Afterward, I drove over to see "the kids" and here's a few pix I took.
See if it works. It doesn't work but look at Max's face. It changed since last I saw him.
She also said that she was gonna test herself to see if she's allergic to poison ivy. Her mom is one of the lucky ones who is not.
Told Grace I had a little patch of PI from when I walked Scott through our back yard to the train station.
I'm gonna mail Wendy a few photos of me and the kids.
I asked her if she wanted me to visit her in Burlington, but she said no.
After seeing the kids, I drove to Masons Mill Park to see the featured Sunday Night Band, a women's trio called "Full Circle." They were really good.
Didn't realize I published this already.
THE POPE COMES TO VISIT
I have the honor of hosting the Pope from the
Argentine in the spare bedroom of my house.
He is testing the waters before his official visit
to Philadelphia come September.
His white helicopter landed in the
back yard, its frightful noise scaring the cardinals and even the
bluejays, as it swept up dry leaves from the grass, blowing
them everywhere. They stick to the screen of my back porch
The Pope dresses in street clothes so he won’t be recognized
by curious neighbors. I lent him the purple shirt worn by my ex-
husband when he visited, and told him the reason why I
left him. The Pope sighed and nodded his head.
We took our coffees out in the front yard and sat on
lawn chairs. We kept the conversation light, no talk
about gays and lesbians or the importance of abortion.
“You haff such a variety of flowers and birds and keep
your bird bath filled for them.”
I stood up and twirled around in my blue-sequined
dress. Luckily I remembered to wear panties.
“I so love them,” I said, as a long-beaked chickadee
flew into his painted bird house.
“After I retire,” said the Pope, “if I do, no vun can predict
the future,” he took a sip of his coffee, “I will spend
quiet mornings quite like this.”
I wondered where that would be, but he answered my
“The Lord God above will show me the way, as He always
I looked at this man seated in the green lawn chair
with his thin white hair and merry brown eyes
and asked if we could pray together.
He took my hand in his and began to sing softly
“Rejoice in the Lord alway and again I say rejoice.”
The red-tailed hummingbird alighted on his shoulder
small, pulsing, long beak pecking at his cheek
All I could do was stare.
WENDY OF THE GREEN HILLS OF VERMONT
Flowers by wire on their way
A selection of violets
which will live long after you
my dying friend from Goddard
College in Vermont
The trickle of blood
your own Winooski River
went unnoticed until
too late. The cancer
has spread through your
insides like blue plum jam.
Who knew your third floor
pad in Burlington would be
your final home. “I should have
stayed in Maryland,” you sighed
over the phone, as memories
of your parents fill you with
longing, longing now that the world
grows small as a mattress
with a morphine pump
on the side.
You beat me to age seventy
We were risk-taking teenagers
when we met, sun-bathing nude
in the cow pasture, wishing our
great unrequited loves could
ride over the hill to caress us, Lenny for
you, Frank for me.
I will ride the wild stallion when
you’re gone, galloping to the
high hill on Terwood Road
to tell you who came after Obama
and if they’re advancing in
Alzheimer’ and dementia
Your shoulder-length hair
is gray. Like me, you stopped
coloring it. A slow concession
to time. I still remember your
articulate sentences you spoke
at Kilpatrick Dorm, while people
were screwing in their rooms.
What must that be like, I wondered.
Sip on that licorice tea I sent you
it might have healing properties
Who decided to kill you off
Who planted that curare flask
in your womb that never bore
As we speak on the phone
you from your bed
me on the red couch
a cardinal appears at your
window. “He is there on
account of me,” I say.
“For sure,” you say in that
voice I can summon at will.
The two of us lying beneath
the stars awaiting the blackness
that will come when it will.