THE OLD HOUSE

          The old house stands alone

       away from the other houses on the block.

     It's as though it knows its broken shingles and

                              faded paint aren't welcome among them.

  For years I have hurried past it on my way to town.

 Even knowing I could take another route, somehow I couldn't.      

 Tonight it draws me closer. I walk the broken stone path,

 up the three steps onto the narrow porch. I approach the door.

Hands around my face, I lean forward

trying to see through the dirty window.

The door creaks open as I am leaning against it.

   The old house draws me in.

 The full moon sneaks its light through the dusty windows.

To the left, the large staircase makes its way upward.

The old wooden floorboards speak out to me with each step.

The rooms are empty now, but the walls whisper to me

 about the past when I was younger.

Memories flood over me. Now I'm no longer alone.

The spirits of those I knew surround me.

They gather me into their midst, pull me close.

   I become one with them.                                            

                                                                     gerry strong

Why I Write.

By Kathy Low

I am an introvert. Growing up, I was always told, in order to get ahead, I had to be more assertive and to speak up. Our society rewards extroverts but views introversion as a personality flaw. All the successful and beautiful people on TV and social media are outgoing and boisterous. All the popular kids in school are extroverted social butterflies. In the workplace, it is all about networking and getting in front of the right people. I envy the eloquent public speakers who can capture the hearts of their audiences. From time to time, I would summon up enough courage to speak my mind or mingle in a party full of strangers. All these endeavors, however, would leave me emotionally drained. Eventually, I accepted my introversion just as I accepted my myopia.

A few years ago, a friend recommended the book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. It turned my life around. The author argued that Western culture wrongly undervalued the personality traits of introverted people with sound research and examples. This gave me validation that I am not flawed. God just created me with a special quiet power. Since then, I have embraced my introverted personality and let it chart the course of my life. Looking back, I would have chosen a much different career path if I had appreciated my quiet personality.

Months before my son went off to college, I started looking for a new hobby to fill my time when he leaves. I have loved reading murder mysteries sine I was a young girl. I credit my Mom for instilling in me the love of books. I used to daydream that I could write murder mysteries like Agatha Christie. With my introvert self now free to lead the way, I decided boldly to try my hands at writing.

Writing is a solitary activity. I find I can express myself without stressful person to person interaction. Moreover, writing my thoughts is less intimidating than speaking them. It is no surprise that I have always preferred email and text over phone and face to face conversations. Researching and planning a novel is stimulating. Creating imaginary characters and to see them come alive is fun. Although I know it will take me a lifetime to master the craft of writing, I am excited for the challenge.

During this crazy coronavirus pandemic time, I find poetic justice when I see my extroverted husband climbing the walls because Governor Newsom would not let him play golf, while I am at my happy place, in isolation, re-reading all the Miss Marple books and writing my first murder mystery.

 

Coral’s Gift

By Judith L. Levine

Coral felt the pull of one nursing baby, then another. Despite her efforts to wean them, they still came to her, especially when she lay in the warm sun that brightened a patch of rug. Their two tiny bodies had her own white and muted orange coloring and the distinctive black spots on her head and back.

Her lady was talking to that thing she called a phone. Usually Coral didn’t listen, but her ears perked up when heard her own name.

“Coral’s been weaning her babies for a few weeks. With Brian over in Iraq, I can’t afford to keep them. You know anyone who wants gorgeous kittens?” Coral’s lady, whose name was Liza, waited for an answer.

Coral did, too. She dreaded losing her babies. She’d been hoping it wouldn’t happen this time. Not these two who were sucking now, and not the other two, romping between the living room and the sun porch. She licked the one Liza called Piggy because he was always eating. But Coral knew he often wanted sanctuary, not milk. He would hate to leave her.  

Squeaky was sleeping now. Coral’s tongue cleaned him, paying special attention to his beautiful face, then licked Piggy and herself. When she finished, she heaved herself to her feet and went to supervise the other two. Liza had people-names for them,  but Coral like to think of them as her explorers, Christopher and Amerigo, names she’d learned when Liza told them to a girl in this very room.

All right, Coral. Stop ruminating and get down to business. If you don’t want to lose your babies, you’re going to have to find a hiding place. She padded around on silent feet, peering behind chairs and the sofa. Were the kittens small enough to fit under the furniture? No, not in this room.

Keeping her claws retracted so they wouldn’t click on the bare floor, she crept silently . Bathroom, kitchen, mud room. No safe place anywhere. No point in investigating her lady’s bedroom. Liza’s bed and dresser and Brian’s chest were solid right down to the floor. Shoeboxes covered the closet floor.

For days, Coral kept her eyes wide and her ears alert. As long as the kitties continued to nurse Liza wouldn’t take them away, so she often flopped down near where they were tumbling, or she licked one awake. Piggy, at least, would always come to her and suck.

But one day, Liza had a visitor, a harsh-voiced, gray-haired woman with clacking heels and abrupt hands. When Liza asked which kitten she wanted, Coral held her breath. No. Please don’t. The woman looked as horrified as Coral felt and left soon after.

But the next time, a younger woman visited. One of her kids smelled worse than the cat box when Liza forgot to empty it, which didn’t happen very often, thank goodness. He wrapped fat little fingers around Amerigo’s tail and yanked.  Coral’s poor baby howled, whipped around, and scratched the little boy. Coral hissed and growled and screamed. The boy’s mother snatched both children and rushed out, while Liza lifted Coral with gentle hands, brought Coral’s face close to hers, and whispered, “It’s okay, honey. They’re gone.”

That night, in the moonlight, Coral prowled again, more anxious than ever. She herself  had been taken from her mother to a place called a pound. She’d lived in a stinky cage in a big noisy room with lots of crying animals until Liza came, looked at all the cats and then handed the man behind the counter some pieces of greenish paper. Liza’s house, with its food smells and the breeze coming in the window—and Liza herself—was so much nicer than the pound.

Oh, how she didn’t want her babies in a cage! And what if a cruel person bought them? All night she searched for a way out. Far away, a cat yowled, and she thought of Gus. Christopher looked just like him. Gus had wandering privileges, and he knew things She wished she could see him again., but Liza kept the cat door locked since the babies came.

Suddenly, Coral froze, remembering something Gus had told her. On a  summer day he had wandered down to the creek. He’d been sunning himself on a big flat rock when some big boys came along carrying a cloth sack. The sides of the sack were moving, and mewing sounds came out. “It was kittens,” he told her. “And those murderers threw them in the water, and then the moving stopped.”

Thinking of it made Coral’s stomach hurt. She would scratch and bite anyone who tried to put her babies into a sack. Anyone. Even Liza. Yes, she would. She couldn’t sleep all night. She wished she could talk to Gus again, but she hadn’t seen him since that last night he visited.

Over the next several weeks, Liza talked to the phone again and again, but nobody came. The kittens hardly ever nursed anymore, even Piggy. Coral watched the sun set and rise, wondering each morning if this would be the dreaded day. She couldn’t eat. Her milk dried up. Then, one day, Liza’s friend Maggie sat on the sofa with both Christopher and Amerigo in her lap. Loud purring came from both of them, and they licked her, That nice lady patted Coral’s head and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll bring your babies back to visit you, Mommy,” and held them near. Oh, no. She’s taking them away. Sadly, Coral licked them goodbye. She would miss them so much, but Maggie would be a good lady for them. If they had to leave, Maggie was a lucky choice.

But one day, a man came carrying a cage like the one in which she rode to the vet, and Coral’s heart stopped. She hovered anxiously, rubbing against Liza’s legs as the man talked. She heard him say, “wife” and “wheelchair” and “lonely” and  “cheer up.” Coral knew cheer up. And lonely, too. Liza always said Coral cheered her up when she was lonely for Brian who was fighting in a war. She didn’t know war, but cheering up made Liza smile.

Coral rubbed against the man’s legs. His wife needed Corals’ babies. If they went with him, they would be helpers. She meowed, “You can bring both of my kitten to your wife.”

The man said “Thank you.”  He said the words to Liza, but Coral knew who really gave the present.                                                                                                        

A recent article By Barbara Linn Probst titled: Why Do We Write? Artistry, Identity, And Legacy has given our creative Writing Group Members an opportunity to think about why we write. Understanding our rationale is a big help in retaining motivation.

I'll attach two pieces one by Jeannette Shiel,  Titled Why Do I Write About Dead People, and another by me, Titled Why I Write. If you don't know the answer to this question, join us any Wednesday by ZOOM and we will help you find the answer.

 

 

Here's a new poem by Jean Abrahamson that we hope you will find helpful during the quarantine.

ZOOM Meeting Wednesday at 1PM. Call me for the details

Ron

619-991-8790

Here is a story by our members. Evelyn McNinch

Our Creative Writers group has had ZOOM Meeting for the past three weeks. These meetings are popular and productive with our group members and we will continue for the next few weeks. We meet at 1PM on Wednesday - contact me This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. for additional meeting details. (We are trying to maintain the highest level of security for our participants.)

I'm posting a short story and a poem by Jeanette Shiel today with more to come later in the week.

Consider joining us for our ZOOM Meeting on Wednesday.

Here's a prompt that fits our life right now:

“Caught in the rain today, I recall that couple kissing and holding each other infinitely close in the rain one dark evening under the nearly invisible trees,” wrote Paul Valéry in 1910, in a notebook included in The Idea of Perfection: The Poetry of Paul Valéry, translated from the French by Nathaniel Rudavsky-Brody and forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this month. Draw inspiration from rainy scenes in poetry such as William Carlos Williams’s “Spring Storm,” Sara Teasdale’s “There Will Come Soft Rains,” and Emily Dickinson’s “Like Rain it sounded till it curved” and write a poem that captures a moment in the rain, one that seems quiet or private but also carries emotional weight. Is there something poignant, parallel, or contradictory between the subject of the poem and the themes of rebirth and renewal that are conventionally associated with springtime? From Poets and Writers

Ron

Here are some poems and stories that some of our members have submitted. I'll try to add more in the next few days. One is from the granddaughter of one of our group members, she is 11.

You Persisted, I Resisted by Jean Abrahamson

I finally succumbed after resisting so long.

The idea of you tracking me at first seemed wrong.

Then I learned of your virtues and soon changed my mind.

Your many benefits I continue to find.

I set reason aside and put you on my wrist.

Then I took the first step and no longer resist.

You seem to care about me as I set each goal.

With your guidance and help, I now feel in control.

You encourage me to be more active each day.

Now you’ve got me intrigued and I can’t turn away.

The thought of you counting steps caught my attention.

You took me off into a new brand dimension.

You encourage me daily with each incentive.

When it comes to my health, you’re very attentive.

You have helped me improve my nightly sleep routine.

In multiple ways I would have never have foreseen.

Light sleep, REM sleep, and deep sleep all shown on a chart.

For quality rest, each stage of sleep plays a part.

Heart rate, calories burned – you have features galore.

You’re easily programmed to help me even more.

I feel I owe you a sincere apology.

Yet I don’t want to succumb to technology.

I avoided you so long, yet you persisted.

What other innovations have I resisted?

The question I struggle with is complex, you see.

How to use these new tools without them using me?

Last Wednesday, February 19, we had an enjoyable session with Richard Lederer renowned Verbavore, thanks to Pat and John Peckham's generosity.

Next meeting Wednesday March 4th 1PM - 3PM. Join us. (Note: If you would like to be added to our email list, please send me your address.)

A new and timely poem by Jean Abrahamson