[Critique Group 2] Pieces for June 27th Meeting

[Abbie Taylor]

###Valerie Moreno’s Poem

Father



I remember

sitting on your lap

at five and six years old

as you sang songs to me--

Let Me Call You Sweetheart,

A Tree In A Hole



I remember

walking to the park

as the sun began to set, happy until

you threw a softball, telling me to find it...



Desperate, I ran through grass,

tripping on rocks, wondering why

you expected so much from me

and my very limited vision.

"She's lazy!" You yelled later to my mother. "She has to exercize that
eye to see better."

In bed, not asleep, I hid under

my blanket, wishing I would disappear, then, you wouldn't

be mad.



Sickness, pressure and calamity

drove you to the bottle, beligerence

and the belt--it never hurt as much

as the raging words

that cut my spirit--ragged declarations

pouring in to my soul...



When you died, I had no tears,

numbing, coarse sadness for a dad

I lost years before.



Now, I see your illness,

alcoholism and feeling lost.

Twenty years on, grief came in

looming, unyielding waves,

crashing through rocks of fury,

heartbreak and sorrow, leaving a clean

place for you in my heart.



Rest there comfortably,

shadows move away

as I now sing to you.

###Prose from Leonard Tuchyner

Generation Cyborg

At age seventy-plus, she struggles into her hospital bed. Her nurses 
bear most of the burden as she tries to move her body closer to the 
headboard. Her relatively good leg feels only minor discomfort as it 
strains to shove her backwards.  Her right leg, stiff as a board, is a 
useless burden in her efforts.

Dorothy was expecting to be recovering from her knee replacement surgery 
by this time. Her expectations for renewed mobility were high. It would 
not have been the first body part which would have been replaced. In 
fact, her artificial shoulder accepted the effort of pushing her body 
backward, experiencing only a low-grade pain.   It was the kind of 
discomfort she had learned a long time ago to ignore. She wondered, with 
dismay, why her knee operation had turned out to be so disastrous.

Shortly after she settled into her new nursing home room, the nurses set 
her up for a ninety minute i.v. drip, one of a myriad of such i.v.’s she 
would have to endure. Alone in her bed, she recalled hearing the 
horrible news that a latent infection had invaded her new knee, almost 
immediately after its installation. She felt over and over again her 
disbelief that her new knee was being removed and replaced with a 
spacer, that would leave her leg unbendable. Denial, rage, and 
acceptance all warred for prominence, leaving her with clenched fists 
and teary eyes.

Stiff-legged or not, she would soon be able to take some small steps 
with the help of others. She also realized that she would be getting 
another new knee as soon as the extreme antibiotic regimen completely 
wiped out the infection. That would take weeks, but she had been assured 
that she would be able to get around her own home, with the help of her 
husband and visiting nurses, until the new surgery could be performed.

A stage of utter despair had been short-lived, because she had faith in 
the ultimate outcome.  Soon, she would be walking better than she had 
for years, and she would be returning to her old life.  With luck, she’d 
make it for another twenty or more years before the ravages of old age 
would overcome her. Other parts would wear out, but she could keep going 
with new and improved replacements until that time.

This scenario is playing out all over the United States as well as in 
most of the rest of the developed world. As our population grows older, 
our body parts wear out. But not to worry, they can be replaced. In many 
ways, this is a rosy picture. Ideally, after a period of physical 
therapy and healing, we can return to a full and productive life that is 
not much different than it was before the part failure.

But the ideal future is not always materialized. Another friend of mine 
had her knees replaced, and she did get a few years of being able to 
walk at a leisurely pace for several blocks. But then she began to fall. 
Now she is almost as incapacitated as she would have been if she were in 
a wheelchair.  These replacement parts have a limited life span.
These new parts are never as good as the factory new equipment we came 
into this world with. There are notable exceptions. For example, I knew 
of a professional martial artist who had to replace his hip several 
times. Finally, he convinced the insurance company to pay for a new hip 
joint made with exotic, indestructible material. He was back kicking in 
a remarkably short period. But he dared not kick too high, for fear of 
creating a dislocation. He also could no longer fight, because he would 
always be vulnerable to a joint-destroying blow.

Then there is the reality that many body parts are irreplaceable. No 
one, to my knowledge, has ever received a brain replacement or any other 
central nervous system parts. You can’t get new eyes or sense organs. I 
know they are working on these limitations and, I suspect, will achieve 
a measure of success eventually, but when is enough? All the parts in an 
automobile can be replaced and everything restored. However, for most 
people of average financial means, there comes a point where it just 
doesn’t make sense to keep going with the time-worn, beloved, and 
unreliable family member.

The pun here is intended. Sooner or later, we have to say goodbye to 
everyone, even our own corporeal existence. At least, this goodbye is to 
our present bodies. Maybe we buy a new one in another incarnation or in 
some other realm of existence.

The point here is, at least in part, replacing and restoring our bodies 
does not lead to immortality, at least not with today’s technology. We 
cannot escape the laws of entropy. The rule of dust unto dust still 
reigns supreme. Not even the universe is immortal. The quality of life 
will diminish no matter what they can do for us or to us.  When should 
we cash in our chips? I suppose that is an individual question that all 
of us will have to answer for ourselves, if they allow us to decide that 
for ourselves.

This moves us into the embattled issue of death with dignity. I think 
free choice is winning the day, but how does this refurbishing capacity 
affect the choice of the time-of-death problem? I have no idea. I only 
point out that the question is not one we can avoid.

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my relatively new knees.  I’ve got to get 
out into the garden and do some heavy maintenance. Not sure I have the 
energy, though. I spent the entire day yesterday at a workshop about the 
martial applications of T’ai Chi. I’m a little tired and sore. My knees 
are fine, but my shoulders are pretty bad. Arthritis, you know.

###Prose from Brad Corallo

The Long Awaited Quest
© By Brad Corallo
Word count 600

After traversing the be fowled swamp and bog land; where they 
encountered dangerous, sucking entrapping muck. Where constant swarms of 
loathsome buzzing, flying biting insectsdrove them nearly to 
distraction. And they moved among putrid smelling expanses of stagnant 
water which emitted a fog like effluence that made eyes run and stomachs 
heave: they arrived at a grey, stony waist land with mounds of old bones 
scattered about. Though a cold damp wind swirled dust about their steps, 
the God forsaken place was almost a relief after the bogs. They pulled 
scarves over their noses and mouths and went on doggedly.

They were an unlikely band of four. At the rear of the party trudged an 
old woman. Though her hair hung in wisps and she bore many wrinkles her 
features were set in an expression of determination and resolution.

  Before her strode a beautiful young woman with long flowing auburn 
tresses. Though she was attired in only a robe of many colors and 
sandals she seemed unaffected by the wind and dust which swirled about 
constantly. Her expression of immeasurable kindness never wavered.

Their apparent leader was a thin, dark skinned boy dressed in beggars’ 
rags. Though he possessed only one arm, a sword and an ornate copper 
hunting horn hung on a sturdy leather belt about his waste. At his side 
a young wolf with startlingly intelligent blue eyes paced. He seemed to 
be finding their path forward and the young man would lean upon him when 
the terrain became difficult.

And so, our rather unusual band of pilgrims came to the final desert. 
Though each carried two large water skins on cords across their 
shoulders, there were many leagues of burning sands before them. During 
the day the relentless sun burned their bodies so that the icy cold 
nights were almost a relief. They would huddle together in a tight group 
for warmth until the sun rose and they had to go on.
  The times when they made their best progress were just before sunrise 
and just after sunset.

  It took five days to cross the desert and they arrived at the mouth of 
a lush green valley with crystal streams and small water falls flowing 
into cool, clear, sparkling pools. When they beheld this vista of almost 
inexpressible beauty, they stood as if turned to stone. Time seemed to 
stand still!

Until, their leader took from his belt the copper, be jeweled horn and 
sent forth a resounding blast. After he did so three times; a dark 
prominence began to push upward out of the sward of green grass before 
them. With it came a dark whirlwind and an aura of paralyzing terror. 
The three joined hands and the young wolf pressed himself against the 
armless side of the boy. In unison they proclaimed in loud ringing 
voices: “We have come! Together we stand and deny the power of your evil 
forever. You are nothing! You cannot stand against us! Be gone, and 
trouble this world no more; until time itself comes to an end.”

There was a flash and an almost inaudible wail, followed by a deafening 
silence. Then softly at first, birdsong which seemed to come from 
everywhere, slowly waxing filled the silence with a joyful music of 
serenity and renewal!

###Alice Massa's Poem


The Gift of Summer?

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa


Oh, Summer, sweet Summer--
at last, you are here!
I have waited one long Wisconsin winter
for your short visit--
each day of you like a vacation
to be relished and revered.

(Second Stanza)

Through your lush, warm days,
I need not bedeck myself in
polar bear coats, doubled hats,
scarves, gloves, and fake-fur-lined boots
each time my guide dog and I venture outside.
Thank you!  Thank you!

(Third Stanza)

Through the tender days of Summer,
I need not shovel my Snow Garden:
I shovel soil
into my flower and herb garden
which soothes my soul
all summer long.

(Fourth Stanza)

Okay, okay, the soil is
a concoction
from a plastic bag;
and the containers are plastic,
painted to look like clay pots.
You see, I live in the heart of
a sidewalk city.
My precious garden may not be
organic;
but daily,
during this season of growth,
I am energized and enriched
by my pink and white geraniums,
Gerbera daisies, lavender,
rosemary, mint, and basil.
I have no purple sage yet this summer;
nevertheless, in my summer garden,
I feel wise and wonderful.

(Fifth Stanza)

On these beautifully bright days
or caressing velvet nights of Summer,
walks with Willow,
my fourth Leader Dog,
wipe away frozen thoughts
of salt-covered sidewalks and streets,
snow stacked at curbs, and surprising ice.
(I do prefer my ice
in other forms,
such as iced tea and ice cream.)
Carefree, Willow and I walk
as if we are at a state park
and enjoy the melodious sounds of songbirds,
occasional whiffs
of lavish lilacs and other fragrant flowers.

(Sixth Stanza)

Oh, Mother Nature,
you could take this season
of Summer--
this superb gift--
and tie it with a bow.
Oh, NO!  No, you can't!
Someone from the city--
please blame the mayor--
tied up the season
not with a bow,
but with
CONSTRUCTION!


word count:  303
(Please note the question mark at the end of the title of this poem; 
also, the final word of the poem is in all caps.)
June 19, 2017, Monday


###Abbbbie Taylor's Poem

STAY AWAY FROM My TREEHOUSE

Little one, it looks inviting, doesn't it, A house nestled in an old oak 
tree?
It's far from homey.

I don't know how long it's been there.
The wooden ladder is no doubt rickety, perhaps unstable.

If you manage to get to the top,
  who knows if the structure will bear weight?
Like the cradled baby in the treetop,
you and the house could tumble down, down, down,
land on the ground all broken.

The ambulance would come and take you away.
You'd spend weeks, months in the hospital,
wearing a body cast from head to toe.
All you'd be able to do
is lie there and watch television.
Dora the Explorer would get old after a while.
You'd long to be outside with your friends.

Your parents would sue me.
I'd have to sell my house
  in order to pay your hospital bill,
move to a senior apartment complex,
no longer enjoy my own back yard,

  so you'd better not climb into my treehouse
if you know what's good for both of us.

-- 
Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author http://abbiescorner.wordpress.com
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com
abbie at mysero.net
Order my new memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm