[Critique Group 2] 3-30-23 pieces for critique.docx BC

[jamesstarfire at gmail.com]

3-30-23 pieces for critique 

 

1. Alice's piece:

 

 

 

Once Upon a St. Patrick's Night

 

poem by Alice Jane-Marie Massa

 

On a frigid St. Patrick's night,

my Leader Dog Willow and I walk into the dry air of the waning days of
winter

to hear the howling high winds and

to feel the descent of the single-digit temperature.

so very close to the first day of spring,

the wind chill will dip awkwardly to five below-

a temperature and a torment that makes me wonder

about the homeless people trying to survive such a heralded night.

 

I imagine 

an officer-

man or woman of whatever color-

wearing a badge

that some people hate

without cause,

holstering a gun

which some despise

despite respect for laws.

 

On this frigid, fragile St. Patrick's night,

I hear the officer plead with the homeless man

to minimize misery,

to choose survival at a shelter.

 

However, for a variety of unwise reasons,

the homeless man does not want to step a nearly frozen foot

into any shelter

because for him,

time does not change with the seasons:

time is frozen, and

his heart is frozen.

He is numb to the cold,

numb to the helping hand,

numb to life.

He coughs a long, prolonged cough

that seems unending.

 

The action of the officer 

will not make the late news tonight.

The pleading kindness

will be heard only by the angels.

Words that echo ,

bouncing back and forth

between cold brick buildings

cannot penetrate the lost, frozen soul.

 

The two individuals do not speak the same language:

one speaks the language of the living;

the other speaks the language of

the lost, the freezing, 

the hopeless, the dying.

 

Still the officer tries to communicate,

respectfully waits for a response.

 

With no thought to a badge or gun,

the officer reaches out a gloved hand,

takes off one glove,

then the other,

and gently puts the gloves

onto the freezing hands

of the homeless man.

 

Willow and I return inside

to the pleasant warmth of our home

to wonder about the homeless people

on this unusually cold St. Patrick's night

when I will pray

to St. Patrick and all who will listen 

for the homeless

and for the officers.

Total number of poetic lines: 6s 

***

 

2. Dawn's piece:

 

 

 

Saturday, July 22, 2017

New York 6:53 AM

 

Sometime in 1966, when my brother Stephan was about 2 and I was 4, we moved
in with my mother's mother, my Nanny, and her brother, Uncle Stefie. The
house was small but comfortable, located at 80 Manning Avenue in North
Plainfield, NJ. It was a temporary arrangement as my parents were then
looking to buy a house in one of the many agreeable towns situated in
Somerset County, NJ.   

 

Of primary import to my mom was the quality of the school system. My dad,
for his part, was also concerned about property taxes. Together, they made a
good couple. well, at that time, anyway. Why they did not choose to settle
in North Plainfield is a mystery to me except that I think my mother, in her
way, was a bit of a social climber. Put differently, I think she wanted to
build a better life for her kids by moving to a somewhat more affluent town.
They eventually found a beautiful ranch house on a corner lot in Watchung,
NJ. This town was just up the road from North Plainfield but it was slightly
tonier and, in the late sixties, very much on the rise. The schools were
very progressive and the property taxes low thanks to some commercial
properties located at the far end of town. We lived there from 1968 until
1975, when my parents were divorced. So, the irony is that we ended-up back
in North Plainfield at Uncle Stefie's house on Manning Avenue. The even
bigger irony is that I liked living in North Plainfield more than Watchung,
despite the logistical hardships of our having to cram into the tiny house
on Manning Ave. It hadn't been so difficult when we were little kids but, as
teenagers, the challenges were significant.

 

I'm pretty sure the schools in North Plainfield were better than those in
Watchung - well, the high school certainly was. I am proud of the education
I received at NPHS. I'm grateful, too, all these years later, to have
reconnected with so many high school friends here on Facebook.

 

Yesterday, when some of us were talking about the moonwalk, I started
remembering those early days in North Plainfield, when Nanny and I shared a
bedroom - shared a single bed actually. I loved my Nanny and it felt special
to be so close with her. Every morning, she would get up around 6 AM,
wash-up and then toddle into the kitchen to make breakfast. As small as that
house was, the kitchen was huge - the biggest room in the house. This still
seems entirely appropriate to me.   

 

I would sit with Nanny at the kitchen table while she read the paper, drank
her tea and ate a bagel. Usually I ate cereal. Later, I might have scrambled
eggs when my mom came downstairs to fix Daddy's breakfast. My dad worked in
an office but Nanny had to be up and out early to get to the factory where
she worked. Luckily, it was just down the block, so she could walk there in
a matter of minutes. This also meant that I could stop by after school and
give her a hug and a kiss before going home. This was back in the day when
children were permitted to walk freely and independently around their
neighborhoods. 

 

I should clarify that the "factory" where Nanny worked was a small business
where she and two or three other women spent the day making confections that
would be mounted atop special cakes: roses, a bride and groom, Easter bunny,
congratulatory message for an anniversary or graduation. While the workplace
is best described as a "factory", it was really a family-owned, friendly
manufacturing business overtop a storefront on Watchung Avenue. 

 

Sitting at the kitchen table before Nanny left for work, we'd play games,
sing songs and practice reading. Yep, she taught me to read the newspaper
when I was just four years old. One of my favorite games was the "matching
game", which was a kind of predecessor to Sesame streets "one of these
things is not like the other". Our potholders were embroidered with images
of kitchen items like cast iron pans, ladles, serving spoons, etc. Nanny
would select one of the items and then ask me to identify the matching
images. Simple, I know, but it surely stimulated my little brain in positive
ways.

 

After Nanny left for work, I'd watch cartoons in the living room until mom
came downstairs with the baby. I loved my mother and father and baby brother
very much, so the beginning of each new day with them was always something
like a special prize. Once I started kindergarten, the prize got even
"specialer". But no time was ever as special as those early morning hours I
spent with Nanny in the kitchen. 

  

 

		

 

3. Leonard's piece:

 

--------------

Walking With Nature  

 

The weather I walk in is bitterly chilly, 

falling in various forms of wetness. 

Sometimes it splatters with rain, sleet and snow. 

Then veers into clinging frigid fog 

that penetrates deep into my being. 

 

I slog along with hands dug deep in pockets, 

head bowed against the squally cold wind,

shoulders hunched to preserve the precious warmth. 

 

Shrouded in perfect isolation, 

I somehow feel protected contentment, 

as though those qualities swaddle me 

in a lover's passionate embrace, 

whispering, "You are one with Mother Earth."


*** 

 

4. Joan's piece:

 

 

Paper Cranes Don't Fold Themselves

by Joan Myles

 

you've heard plenty of her squawks and fluffles 

enough to wake you from good sound dreaming

 

but this morning right there in your kitchen

she's checking the eggs for counterfeits

 

and if you make the grade she'll move in

as for the colorful stuff

 

Boy he's been hanging around for a long time

right outside your door since childhood

 

he wonders where you are

 why you won't take his calls anymore

 

desperate he bangs all the louder

do something he yells through the keyhole 

 

the crane cocks her head around the fridge dorr 

nods and strikes a pose

 

the door flies open with a rush of fresh air

and you commence to fold

 

 

 

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