Herself: Looking forward to a morning with the Geezer and an afternoon quilting as the skies send sprinkles down around us. Dinner out with the Feasters this evening.
That’s a really good piece.
Another friend, Marion, also wrote finely wrought words. Her’s weren’t always gentle. Often she hit you upside the head. The first few times I heard this powerful voice calling out from the frame of a tiny, white haired lady, I was drawn in like a moth to a flame. Unexpected. Kapow. A kindred spirit.
Some poets, like George, write their words on the back of envelopes or statements from their brokerage firms. I always like to check the back of a sheet from George just to see what I am getting now. George doesn’t have a computer and has no desire to learn how to use one. She works on an old word processor that sometimes works and other times doesn’t but is always a trial to her.
In the years I knew Marion, she went through three computers learning not only the new programs but learning how to salvage all her writings saved on the old computers. Remember, early Microsoft wasn’t always compatible with other Microsoft’s. I cheered her on, and her son and the Geezer would keep her going. The last few years, as she crafted her book, computers and editors were of equal trials to her soul. It was always amusing to see what old poem was on the back of the new one….then save both.
There is another woman poet I know but not well, who was the best of us all. A brain injury left her able to edit but not compose new work. She doesn’t come out much anymore, and I don’t venture her way because of the cat hair that lurks in every corner of her home. I miss her crisp lyricism. I value her opinions still. I grew as a writer because of her presence in my life, because of all these women in my life.
I’m smaller because I’ve moved over here instead of over there.