Am awaiting Scott's phone call saying, "Ms. Deming, Giuseppi's Pizza. Come and get it!"
His poem "The White Death" was a little short story with a surprise ending.
"The Furies" was written all with the letter "D" as in delightful.
Martha suggested he bring us a poem next time using all the letters of the alphabet.
I told the group I watched a Ted Talk this morning by the poet Sarah Kay. Here's the link.
Donna of the totally gorgeous nails read a poem "Brad."
I just emailed Donna my true story "Codebreaker" to get her opinion. I keep revising it. Of course.
Donna's poem was called "Brad."
Who dat, I wondered. It was a beautiful narrative poem - tells a story - about her brother's son, Brad. Even though he had Asperger syndrome, he made out well in life. These special people have a difficult struggle in life, but he triumphed over the limitations of the illness.
Her wonderful poem was "Telling Myself the Truth" with great lines like "riding the couch." She, Donna and I agree that once you're diagnosed with bipolar d/o you can never live it down.
She's writing a book about state flowers and pollination. "Many flowers are not very selective and they welcome all kinds of visitors. They are wide open."
There are also "ambush bugs" whose only concern is to snare hapless pollinators to make a meal out of them.
I'm like that, too. When I go over Mom's, I ambush her refrigerator.
More than 80 species of pollinators, she wrote, have been seen on the much-maligned goldenrod. We've learned it's actually the ragwood that makes us sneeze.
At this point, I sneezed twice.
Why? There's always a reason. A woman had just walked by. I'm guessing it was her Chanel No. Five.
Most wasps, she wrote, are less hairy than bees and have narrow waists.
Sexy! I can just hear the males whistling.
My teapot just whistled. Am getting ready for the company.
Send em to me for the Compass, I said.
She also commented on everyone's work.
Last night I hadn't a single idea what to write about. I really wanna start a new short story, but I'm overloaded with editing the Compass and that Codebreaker story.
This morning, after my delicious egg breakfast, I paced around the room and came up with two ideas.
Dutifully I went upstairs to my desktop computer, which is where I write, and wrote two poems.
The upstairs computer is totally screwed up. I had Scott put everything on a flash drive in case it conks out.
It's so slow you feel days are passing until a document comes up.
THE WOMAN ON THE COVER
In July of 1943
a pigtailed girl
posed for the cover
of Life magazine
hands in lap
demure as a
sitting in her parents’
parlor, while Tommy
from across the street
was down on one knee
asking for her hand.
She smiled. We’ll name
her Patsy. “Wait till I’m
home from the war,”
she said. Then in a
whisper, “I don’t wanna
get knocked up while
I’m flying a plane.”
She wore a pilot’s
jumpsuit in the B&W photo
Behind her the
engine of a B-52
with an Army star on it
swelled with might
its steel energy
held it aloft
over Paris London
she, a twenty-year-old
girl, fighting to save the
Jews from Hitler, to puzzle
back the world from its
and then go home
to birth her babes
and fall into oblivion
dying with a contented smile
on her lips
her family beside her.
I had the honor of
closing her eyes for
the last time.
Someone in the group, probly Marf, asked me if I felt like I was Patsy. I suppose so, I said, just like I feel I'm all the characters I've ever written about.
Last week, Donna had wrin a poem called "The Mirror Doesn't Lie." I think we're using it in the Compass. I happened to go in the baffroom and looked at myself in the meer to see if I needed to brush my hair.
I took a long look at my face.
I took a long look at my face.
LOVING THE FACE IN THE MIRROR
The gum-chewing woman
I see in the bathroom mirror
has evolved from a freckle-faced
kid with thick brown hair who
could ride backwards on her
bicycle and win at broad jump
and baseball in elementary school
into the unsmiling woman she
she views in the mirror.
Her eyes have tiny creases over
the eyelid, she touches them
gently and blessing their fealty
over the past sixty-nine years.
Where have the freckles gone?
Faded with the loss of a loveless
marriage, cheered by the birth
of two children.
Thin lips, like her father’s, can
cackle loudly when her sister
tells her something awful about
Mommy, or purse in silence
when reading about the latest
treatments for depression.
Shall we talk about the dewlaps?
Not as bad as Mommy’s of course
And that crinkly neck.
“Wear a scarf,” Freda told her.
She tried it, it choked her.
She loves stroking it
a neck for all time
she will go to the grave
with this crinkly neck
whose many folds are
like the deep furrows
of her vegetable garden.
Has anyone noticed?
I’m still the girl in the photo who
once wore pigtails and
ate ice cream and pretzels
on the front porch.