Monday, July 27, 2015

Eggplant Salad - Two poems: The Pope Comes to Visit and Wendy of the Green Hills of Vermont

That lively jazz you hear in the background is The Dan Nimmer Trio Live. Listen here.

My assignment today was to write three poems. Just finished the Wendy poem. Thanks to Martha and Marcy for reading them.

 Needed a few doses of my Thinking Elixir. Placebo or not, it helps you believe you can do anything after drinking coffee.

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.


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.

Summer Harvest and Water Lillies.

You may wonder why I just left my Red Couch Office. Here's why.

Scott prepared a delicious dinner. He roasted the eggplant given to me by Kim Ruby and made an eggplant, roasted red pepper salad. He added hard boiled eggs and cheddar cheese.

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

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.

This is actually a video that Dan took.

See if it works. It doesn't work but look at Max's face. It changed since last I saw him.

Grace decided to swing on a tree limb. Max copies everything she does.

Grace is a riot. She has tiny warts on her hand like her dad used to get. He had one huge one on his knee. Grace told me they're removed with freezing cold liquid.

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.

The place was mobbed! I brought a big towel and sat down on it under a tree. After a while I wanted to lie down and view the layers and layers of leaves on the tree. I did. And kept thinking of Wendy.

At the man-made pond where people fish there was a blue heron standing perfectly still. Then he flapped his wings and flew away, a huge bird. A father and son were looking on.

Didn't realize I published this already. 


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
art studio.

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. 


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.

Monday, July 20, 2015

This is one hot Monday - New poem: Coffee: The Eighth Wonder of the World

Scott and I had a delicious Scallop dinner. Scallops were on sale - $4 off per pound - at the Giant, so I bought extras so I could have another meal for lunch the morrow.

Then we went for a walk around our hilly neighborhood, sweating profusely. But you know what? It feels great to sweat. When I was on lithium, I know, I know, I've probly told you this a million times, I barely sweated atall, probly indicating kidney ruination.

Told Scott, who's off tonite, we'd eat at 6 pm. But, no, I was in my upstairs office, with the fan blasting on my hot body, working on a poem about coffee I promised myself I'd write.

Watched a film on Netflix today called An Amish Murder. Full of nice surprises and gory female bodies that weren't too sickening. It starred Neve Campbell, a famous actress, who I've never heard of.

I posted the Coffee Poem on FB and haven't gotten a single comment. Hold on! Lemme go check. My life is held in the balance.

Ah, thank you Patrick Cox!

You know what? I'm too scared to read my coffee poem.

YOU read it and tell me what you think. Okay, Ezra.... Sapphos.... and Emily?

COFFEE:  The Eighth Wonder of the World

Time buries all good things
The Great Pyramid of Giza
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
The Colossus of Rhodes
The Seven Wonders of
The Western World

Once we celebrated these
marvels, saddling ourselves
on the camel or sailing in
colorful ships to stand
faces aloft before the
Colossus of Rhodes, the
Sun God, who saved our
fair city from the pillage
of the barbarian.

I have beseeched the
gods, and I am only here
for a little while, to add an
Eighth Wonder, an elixir
called by various names.

The vehicle of my epoch is
called “car.” Those who
drive them are often seen
drinking plastic bottles
filled with water or
paper cups of coffee
held in the hand, sipping
from a tiny blow hole,
the earthen-brown liquid
shimmering inside.

I drive through town
sipping from a tall
blue china mug with
a fleur-de-lis
pattern, it is warm
in my hand, as I take
tiny hot sips and
then it begins.

The red light glows
like fresh cherries
swaying on the tree,
the man smoking in the car next
to me is a film noir idol,
escaping the Nazis. I
wish him godspeed.

And I, the girl in the
mirror with the Hungarian
eyes, have fallen in love
with the world, one sweet
bite at a time.