[Critique Group 2] Pieces for October 25th Pasted and Attached

[Abbie Taylor]

###1. Poetry from Valerie Moreno

Poor Little Pumpkin

Seventh grade afternoon Art--

using tracing paper against windows,

I was happy to participate like

the other kids with my

low vision.

Slowly, a pumpkin took shape--

at my desk, I colored it orange,

deciding to use black for

the evenly spaced

creases I'd felt on the soft skin.

A week later, I got it back

marked "F, poor work, pumpkins don't

look like this."

Yes, they did!

Using fingers, the sections were

perfect, beautiful!

I chose "Fine" for the

meaning of that "F" grade,

tucking my pumpkin drawing in my

heart for safe keeping.

###2. Poetry from Brad Corallo

The Pace Of Freedom

© By Brad Corallo

Word count 233

It is easy to get caught up in the repeating loop of living.

As we move faster multitasking to get more things done,

distinct points begin to blur.

Oh right, today is Thursday.

One can continue the cycle for a long time

before even becoming consciously aware.

For some, this is the signal to temporarily exit the merry go round whorl

and consciously choose to slow down.

For a brief time.

But all to soon,

we again tightly ratchet up the accomplishment machinery

and spin back into the roller coaster loop of living.

Sleeping, eating, working, eating again, relaxing briefly and sleeping 
once again!

To do it all over, until

the blessed weekend!

Thank God, it’s the weekend!

Sleep late, errands and chores to do

supplemented with fun and socialization.

Maybe even relaxation, because

all too soon it is back on the wheel

dashing like crazed rodents once again!

Working, earning, paying taxes!

The ruling elite watch and smile.

For such is not their lot in life.

Just keep them running in their never ending spirals

and their lot in life will never become ours!

We are the pinnacle of Social Darwinism!

As they sit in their mirrored counting houses,

puffing on huge cigars,

they declaim:

“They are so fortunate,

out of the kindness and wisdom of our enlightened leadership,

we have given them freedom!”

***

###3. Poetry from Abbie Taylor

I DREAM of FLORIDA

When the world caves in around me,

I retreat in my mind

to my happy place on a beach in Jupiter,

feel the sand between my toes,

as I walk alongside the water,

delight in the cool spray of waves that wash over my feet,

enjoy a picnic lunch

while a refreshing ocean breeze

caresses me amid cries of seagulls,

watch the tide carry my troubles away.

Then my heart will blossom once more.


###4. A Poessay from Alice Massa

NOTE:  Although I used to tell the following story as part of a lecture 
example when I was teaching personal narrative, I had never written on 
the following topic until October 7, 2018, as a result of a prompt for 
Nan's poetry "workshop."  For this month's submission, the somewhat 
revised poem is sandwiched between two segments of personal narrative; 
thus, I use the created term "poessay," which contains 854 words.

A Poessay:  May 28, 1968

by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

Prologue

1968 was the first "sea change" year in the history of my lifetime--for 
the entire country and for my high school.  Due to the assassinations of 
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and presidential candidate Robert F. 
Kennedy in 1968, many people do not recall that Helen Keller also died 
in 1968--June 1 of that memorable year.  Most people never knew that 
Susan also passed away in 1968; but everyone in our high school, with an 
enrollment of about four hundred, knew.

During our senior year of 1967-68, Susan returned to school after her 
surgery for malignant cancer.  In Mrs. Baldwin's senior English class, 
Susan sat in one of the wooden row desks which was two seats in front of 
mine and one row to the left.  Although Susan's hair was gone, her 
ever-present smile and twinkling eyes persisted.  The wig she wore, like 
the cancer, seemed too large for her thin face and body.  Her slender 
hand rested on a small, decorative, gold pillow--gold because our school 
colors were old gold and black.  With great hesitation, I glanced at 
what remained of her hand--part of her hand, her thumb, and her index 
finger.  After a while, I tried to turn my attention to the English class.

At a later point in the semester, I was walking down the north stairway 
of the Junior High Building.  I entered the seemingly empty corridor and 
realized that Susan was making up a test.  She was sitting at an 
arm-chair desk and was trying to complete the test.  Another student was 
standing beside her and called me over to where they were in the 
stairwell.  During the brief conversation, the other student said that I 
would know the answers to a couple of questions.  I did.  Susan never 
asked for my help; the other student did.  I had never cheated nor 
facilitated someone else's cheating; however, on that day, I thought I 
was doing what was right by helping Susan with a couple of answers.  I 
never regretted doing so.  I knew that my helping her in this way was a 
very small gesture.  Cancer was really the one doing the cheating.

After our senior trip to Chicago was cancelled due to the unrest there 
after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., we seniors were 
told that there was not enough time to plan another trip.  Of course, 
these events happened in April of 1968; by May, although Susan had not 
returned to school for some time, we heard that she wanted to graduate 
with her class at the ceremony in the Clinton High School Gymnasium.  
Also, we heard that one teacher was preventing Susan's wish:  Mrs. 
Baldwin, the senior English teacher, did not want to give Susan a "pass" 
without work being appropriately and satisfactorily completed.

As the events and parties of the last month of our four years at Clinton 
High School continued, we finally heard that someone convinced Mrs. 
Baldwin to change her mind so that Susan could be one of the 104 
graduates at our Commencement.  Nevertheless, up to the last minute, we 
were not certain that Susan would be able to attend the graduation of 
the CHS Class of '68.

Malignant Commencement:  A Poem

Fifty years ago,

holding a lace-trimmed, white handkerchief,

I heard Donnie Miller say,

"Are you going to cry?"

Wearing a white, tasseled mortar board

and a white graduation gown with white low heels,

I saw, in brown-tones and a blur,

the gurney being wheeled across the auditorium stage.

Susan did come for our graduation.

With a white hospital gown

and under a white blanket,

Susan reached out her hand for a diploma.

A wish was granted.

At that second,

I learned that a gymnasium filled with people

could be absolutely silent--

in awe, in respect, in prayer.

I did use my lace-trimmed handkerchief.

Donnie Miller shed a few tears.

The entire gymnasium was filled with tears.

Susan left the stage as she had come--

like an angel.

Commencement, May 28, 1968--

then and forever on the yearbook of our memories.

Post-Script

Exactly one month after our graduation, during that "Limbo" period 
between high school graduation and college, my cousin Carole and I were 
outside my Aunt Zita's restaurant, at the north side of the parking lot, 
near the summer's green grass, and at the edge of Highway 71.  On that 
late June day when the evening was still light from the setting sun, a 
car unexpectedly stopped near my cousin and me.  A friend told us the 
unsurprising, but startling and heartbreaking news:  Susan had died.

The word "Commencement," sometimes used for graduation ceremonies, 
should mean a beginning.  Most of us from the CHS Class of 1968 
experienced this new beginning, went on to five decades of living, 
celebrated our 50th class reunion, and still go on.  Although we have 
taken so many different paths in our lives, we hold in common certain 
times, events, happenings of long ago.  We hold in common this 
everlasting memory of a much too young Susan--our graduation angel.

October 16, 2018, Tuesday

number of words:  854


###5. Poetry from Leonard Tuchyner

Note: Leonard needs help with the title.

Thou Shalt Not Write

Want to squash a taboo topic,

put on the kibosh before it starts?

Forbid it as a writing plot?

Just label it political,

a word that stands for writing death,

with lethal thou shalt not bullets,

aimed at open-minded discourse,

we ought to be having, of course,

of those things that really matter --

such as good-old-boy sex abuse,

the fractious tale of global warming,

and peevish pleas for environment.

In a stroke of bloody genius,

a weaponized word was fashioned

That sucked all legitimacy

from needed worthwhile debates --

two evil Orwellian words.

When “Political Correctness”

is flung like a witch’s wicked curse,

all hopes of dialogue are lost.

The cry goes out with a sinful smear,

“Politically correct me, will you?

Shame, shame, and triple shame on you!”

Manuscripts melt like melting flowers,

inhaling these accusations.

When did this charge gain such power?

-- 
Abbie Johnson Taylor, Author https://abbiescorner.wordpress.com 
http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com abbietaylor945 at gmail.com Order my new 
memoir at http://www.abbiejohnsontaylor.com/memoir.htm
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