Love Poem to my Cat

 

Write a love poem to a cat

Oh, feline of grace and charm,

With fur as soft as a summer's calm,

Your eyes, like emeralds bright,

Glimmer in the morning light.

Your purring brings me peace,

And with you, all worries cease.

Your playful antics bring me joy,

And your love, I'll never destroy.

I bask in your affectionate purrs,

And with you, I feel no fears.

Your gentle touch, your warm embrace,

Fill me with a love I cannot replace.

You are more than just a pet,

You are a blessing, I'll not forget.

I am grateful for every day,

That I get to spend with you this way,

So, here's to you, my furry friend,

My love for you will never end.

I am yours, till the end of time,

My dear cat, you are simply divine.

Georgia

On Being Born

 

I gasped, suffocating from internal bile, coughing it up and then finally screaming. It was not a scream of horror but rather one of unrestrained joy, as life overcame death struggling under the worst scenario imaginable, clinging, scraping, and struggling for life, tethered to my mother as she moaned with the last breath of her life pursing her lips and imperceptibly telling me that she loved me, but that she would not be around to care for me and love me as I deserved. She poured a lifetime of love, comforting advice, inspiration and guidance telepathically into those few impassioned words, as the last breath of life drained from her body and she was gone.

            My mother was an unfortunate victim of this hellish earthquake with a huge block of cement crushing her and cheating her of motherhood, the result of a corrupt government looking the other way as construction companies bribed officials of that government cynically producing substandard buildings in this Syrian-Turkish border town, along a fault line.

I seemed to lie there in the blackness and smoke and dust entombed with the lifeless body of my mother unable to nurture or care for me. After a very long time there was a blinding light and movement. I could hear voices and I cried out in frustration and fear of not being discovered.

“The mother is dead, but the child lives!” explained the dirty grey bearded face furrowed with many lines.

“Carefully, carefully cut the cord and tie it before she is poisoned!” said a much younger, 

black bearded face.

I was carefully pulled from the rubble and wrapped in a blanket. I sit before you today twenty years later in this comfortable home of my adapted parents, clean, well dressed, healthy and educated, and very grateful that my mother’s wishes for me came true.

                                                                                                                        A Syrian Orphan

Jim / 2.2023

Remembering My Birth

 

The two month summer vacation in our cottage on the farm was almost over. My momma’s  large pickling jar sat on the warm porch. One last pickle remained in the warm brine. I looked at the floating pickle and thought back to momma’s pregnancy many years ago. That’s how I must have floated in the amniotic fluid in my mother’s belly. That fluid was my brine, my cushion. When Momma’s water broke, she knew her labor was beginning since I was her third pregnancy. “Hey momma, let’s get moving to Montefiore Hospital. PRONTO!!. It’s time to get the action going; I want out.  I’m feeling those persistent contractions. Poppa got momma, my sister Bea  and my brother Irving into his old car and we were off. Momma is moaning and groaning. She has begun trying some relaxing techniques, pant and blow, pant and blow.

She was readily settled into a room. Hey momma, start pushing to get me into the world of humans. I’m your third child, so it should be “a piece of cake.” Such carrying on; so much screaming!  Hold on momma, here comes my head, and now my body. Don’t worry momma, they know all about umbilical cords, placenta,  and such. Sure, they’ll let you hold me. I’m real cute! I’m so glad you will be breast feeding me. 

They want to know what name to write down. Ettle, that’s Yiddish for Ethel. Tell them Ethel. The person in charge of recording the name has been studying about Ethyl alcohol and spells my name ETHYL. I’ve been Ethyl with a ‘y’ ever since.

Ethyl Haber

Tabby Boy - Chapter Four

 

My Valentine

I wake up each night three times to go to the bathroom. At my age, this may not  be considered so unusual. This body need invariably spoils my sleep. But what a pleasant trip to the bathroom this evening. This time, with the outside temperature at 7 degrees, I was accompanied by the new love of my life (not my husband) Tabby Boy, my outdoor stray cat. Can you imagine, I was accompanied each time by my outdoor stray cat Tabby Boy? He proudly marched alongside me from my bedside to the shiny black and white tiled bathroom. Faithfully accompanying me three times. My soft, sweet, cuddly Valentine was there for me. 

You have to be wondering how this outdoor stray cat is indoors in my bedroom. Well, it’s a long story but I’ll tell you. Tabby Boy is writing this up as Chapter four in his book The Life and Opinions of Stray Cat Tabby Boy. You have a chance to preview a version of it here. This is his story.

It was early morning, already 7 degrees, very, very cold. The old man Ben opened the glass door to get the New York Times wrapped in blue plastic. I quickly slipped in to get out of the cold. MEOW? Where am I? MEOW? What did I do? I’ve never been here before!!! MEOW!! I raced up the blue carpeted staircase. MEOW? FRANTIC MEOW!!!! I raced on to a shiny, slippery black and white tiled floor. Where am I ?? MEOW! I raced to the left, tan carpet HELP!! I raced to the right, smooth wooden floor with large bed. MEOW!!! I want my soft green outdoor grass world. I want my crispy piles of decaying leaves.  I am so scared; I want to rest in the small space alongside a warm iron radiator (the vanity). I rested and dozed off there for a very long time until I saw the old lady Ethyl (with a “y”) getting up. I was calm and rested and trotted alongside her three times to the shiny, slippery black and white tiles.

I can assure you, this was a one-time indoor visit, a pleasant surprise in the middle of the  night . I think Tabby Boy considers me his Valentine too. 

Ethyl Haber

My Life Story - Page 1

 

I was born on a warm summer day in July, the youngest of three children. My mother was lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by my father and her closest friends. The room was filled with the sounds of beeping machines and hushed whispers, but through it all, my mother's voice stood out, clear and strong.

"It's a girl," the doctor announced, as he held me up for all to see.

"A girl?" my father repeated, a look of surprise on his face. "We were sure it was going to be a boy."

My mother chuckled, "Well, it looks like we were wrong."

As I was placed in her arms, my mother gazed down at me with a mix of love and awe. "Hello, little one," she whispered, stroking my cheek with a gentle finger. "Welcome to the world."

My father leaned in and kissed my mother on the forehead. "She's beautiful, just like her mother."

"We'll call her Amelia," my mother said, smiling. "Amelia Rose."

And with those words, I was given a name and a place in the world. I was the newest member of a family filled with love, laughter, and the occasional shouting match. And as I grew, I would come to learn that the world was a big and complicated place, but with the love of my family, I could face anything.

Georgia

"How Old...?"

 

Assignment: This week, try your hand at writing the first page of an autobiographical novel.  As you describe the circumstances of your narrator's birth, be sure to include some dialogue.

“How old were you when you were born?”

What a great conversation starter.

Bob, a close college pal used to ask that question of both friends and strangers.

What a simple question!

Think about it.

So many did.

It wasn’t a hard question, just a tricky one when you actually do take the time to really think about it, and I have often done just that. I knew when I was born that I would never be a math scholar. How did I know that? I can’t answer that.

Can anyone?

I was too busy being a super mature, premature writer.

Born in a small Long Island hamlet just a scant few miles east of the bustling metropolis of Manhattan came little Tommy M. From the dawn of his existence, little Tommy hated the term, Tommy. It would not be until his foray into finer education that the moniker, Morty would be bestowed upon this Long Island lad. He hated that at its onset, but later grew to accept this accolade borne upon him some 18 years after being born…

How old were you when you born?

The immediate reply that would often come to mind would be, zero. We start fresh with nothing more than a slate that is not so clean where the blood and umbilical and unmentionables are concerned.

Wow, now I feel woozy.

How old was I when I was born? At least nine months, I think. I’ve never heard anything otherwise. I guess falling into that safe nine-month zone category meant that I would never be remembered as anything more than a typical tot. Months would have confused me, anyway, some with thirty days and some with thirty-one. Don’t get me started on Leap Year. What is that about anyhow?

“How old were you when you were born?”

I still hear that question today as I had heard it so many yesterday’s ago, always delivered with Bob’s surreptitious smile.

“How old were you when you were born?”

What a great conversation starter!

 Tom

Feb 2023

My Favorite Literary Ghost Story

 

Yes, I have a favorite ghost story and it's "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James. I love this story for its haunting atmosphere and the psychological suspense that keeps me on the edge. The story revolves around a young governess who is tasked with taking care of two young children in a secluded estate. But she soon begins to see ghostly apparitions that seem to be haunting the children. The governess is tormented by the ghosts and their cryptic messages, and she is determined to uncover the truth behind their haunting presence. 

What makes "The Turn of the Screw" so captivating is its ambiguity. The reader is never quite sure if the ghosts are real or if they are simply a manifestation of the governess's own fragile mind. The story's alliterative writing style adds to the eerie atmosphere and makes it even more haunting. For example, "The ghosts' ghostly glee giggled and gleamed in the governess's green eyes." 

I also admire the character development in this story, as the governess becomes more and more unstable as the story progresses. The slow build-up of tension and the eerie atmosphere make this story a true masterpiece of the ghost genre. 

Overall, "The Turn of the Screw" is one of my favorite ghost stories because of its haunting atmosphere, psychological suspense, and alliterative writing style. It is a timeless classic that will continue to terrify and captivate readers for generations to come. 

Georgia