I'm drunk on the wine of glory

I'm red-nosed and wobbly and gay---

So what if I die tomorrow?

At least I have lived for today!

 

Dad drank milk and Mom drank tea

At least as far as I could see

Remember this poem? It's my mantra

 This is a poem your girl wrote about four years back. It has a Christmas tinge to it, but there's a lot more to it ponder on:

                      Flying High 

    I cannot write a merry poem this year

Too much has happened lately in my life--

Uprooted from a home that I held dear

And now a widow, not a wife

      Change is not my forte, my opinions few      

A clock cannot run backwards, nor can I,

Thus I must gird myself and start anew

To  see how high my warming kite can fly

     Too late, they say--your day is almost done

Pull down your kite and rest yourself a while--

Go take a break from shining in the sun

Enjoy yourself before your final mile

     And as they lecture, I slip quiet by

And launch my kite into the eager sky

 

 

CONFESSION!

 Fiorella doesn't feel good, even though she's taken all her pills. She's depressed, of course--it's hard to please everyone. Sometimes she thinks it would be easier to hide herself in a closet and close the door, which is why she hides away in her room so often.

Well, Fio's great plan to save all her used pill bottles and bestow them on  Walgreen fell through: the store wouldn't accept them, which surprised Fiorella. Sure, they would have had to the boil the bottles, but wouldn't it would have cost less to wash the bottles than buy knew ones?

Now is the time that your girl really needs a friend. Son and family are preparing for a week-long family getaway and Fiorella is not invited. Does she smell that bad? Ah, if only Husband hadn't died......

It's hard for Fio to believe that from when she was in the fourth grade, she used to do jigsaw puzzles for enjoyment. Your girl still has some puzzles that friends sent her when she was sick a while back, but those puzzles don't have the lure that older ones did....or maybe it's that with two cats and two dogs in the house, there's not enough room to spread puzzles out.

Fiorella has been trying to clean up her studio room, which is hard because it contains everything from paints to cut-outs to brushes to overflowing shelves to a closet over stuffed full of sewing materials. A desk/ shelf is bursting out all over with even more parafernalia. And then there is a long table in the middle of the room and sets of three big metal shelves on the side of the room across from the parafernalia area. Have you had enough? Yep, there's more. It's a wonder that your girl can even get through the door!

 

 

 

 There are so many things in my life that I hold secret about regarding my marriage, my my family, and myself.

THE BANANAMOBILE and a bit more

 Has Fiorella told you that she used to sing and write music? Yep, your girl was born multi-talented, but unfortunately, those talents have been lost through the years. Hmmm, maybe she can pick one out, and  rev herself up again. (Or maybe not. Her dancing wasn't that great anyway.)

By the way, there have about ten romance novels wants to finish off, but she only got two published, and she doesn't know if romance is popular any more....plus, there's the transportation problem.

The good news is that Son K, who lives up north, has asked Fiorella for Grandpa's cane. Fio really doesn't know how to transport it, but Son L has said he'll help Fio out. 

CHANGE OF SUBJECT: It looks like the wild cat that daughter-in-law-adopted may have to move on. He's already taken a swap at Fiorella and the dogs.

Confession: it worries Fio that the families' inherited land is so far away from where they actually live.

ALL ABOUT ME

 Once again, Fio is working on her salon/studio/study/ trying to get her paints and papers in order, and at the same, hang worthy paintings and post worthy poems, short stories, and whatever. She'll probably stick  in some photos too, if she can figure how put them on FaceBook.

It was nice to visit with the members of the local family tree today, but your girl hopes that sometime all of us will gather together again. 💕

Senior son has asked me to mail Austin Grandpa's cane to him for remembrance, which Fiorella will do, but she's symyd about how to wrap the dang thing....and to wrap it.

Yes, Fio is a clothes horse. She's wearing a gray and white shirt, gray slacks, gray shoes, silver earrings, and a silver watch. BEAT THAT!

Fiorella was looking through some of my papers from when she was a teacher and found Benjamin L, who, long ago, had complained to her boss for turning him out of her class because he had missed three days in a row, as per your girl's syllabus. Benjamin called Fio a "f...ing bitch and reported all to her superior. 

By that time, she felt a little sympathetic to B and tried to talk to hm, but he evaded Fio, and when Fiorella did finally get in touch with him, he became arrogant. Everything went deeper and deeper, with B even saying my superiors had reinstated him, but a quick call to my boss (who had been following the show), said this wasn't true. 

 Actually, if B had apologized, Fiorella probably would have given him another chance-- if he cleaned up  his act, but such was not to be. Poor kid--Fio wonders where he is now.

sa

 

 

 

 

SOUR GRAPES

😏 TAKING A DAY OFF!

More Poetry and a Warning

My nose--                                                       I must tidy up my garden

It blows and blows                                          And plant new flower beds

All the livelong day--                                     I must water all the roses

I sniffle and snort                                            And trim the privet hedge

At least a quart

And that is all I'll say                                       I must cover all the marks of

_______________________________            Intruders in the night

Lordy, Lordy, it's almost noon                          I must rake the footprints smooth in

So I'll be having lunchtime soon,                      My garden of delight

Then go out to the grocery store                       

To buy myself a basket more                              I must bury  all the old dreams

_________________________________           And hide them from my view

_________________________________           When I clear the time of trespass

(Ukraine will fall into Putin's bloody hands         Then I can plant anew

 if Trump is re-elected and we'll end up with 

World War Three)                                                                       

JUST KEEP CHUGGIN' ALONG......

 Fio doesn't feel too good today, and it's probably her own fault: she spilled the plastic basket that she keeps her throng of pills in and may have gotten some of the cuties mixed up with others, although the only really dangerous one, Warfarin,  has a red line on it and stayed safe. Never the less, your girl is gritting her teeth and praying.....

Fiorella got tired of Television's Murder, She Wrote some time ago, but she still can't find anything else to put herself to sleep with. Maybe she'll have to go back to some of her other oldies, like xxxxxxxxxxx. GOOD GRIEF! Aren't there any good left-over shows available any more!? 

Hold Fio back! She accidentally dug out her cache of jigsaw puzzles and started poking around in them, which is deadly for her! She couldn't resist them as a child and wasted way too much time on them as an adult so she's going to put them away again..........maybe 😁

 Another one of your girl's mystical poems...

                       

                        L' envoi to "Blind"

                 In the theater of the mind

                  The unremitting reels unwind,

                   Horrors ceaselessly replay,

                    Obscuring now for yesterday

                      In the theater of the mind,        

                      Eyes that see too much go blind

     

 

 

 Remember, the Ukraine will fall into Putin's hands if Trump wins the election--hello, WORLD WAR THREE!

 

 

 

 

TEACHING JOYS

 Fiorella came upon some ancient teacher evaluation papers as she was going through memories of her past life and she couldn't help dropping a few sweet tears as she went along. For instance:

What did you like most about the course, or find most worthwhile:

"The instructor's sense of humor. The course not only taught "me to critically analyze day to day situations, but it also taught me orienting skills. Before I began this class, I had never written a paper. I now have the confidence and the skills to write a paper. As I continue to write, I know my writing will improve thanks to the good foundation that I was taught."

"Instructor was entertaining and informative."

" I really enjoyed the way Dr. (FIORELLA) took time for whoever needed her help. She not only helped me, but she encouraged me to continue with my education. She probably didn't realize the encouragement she gave the whole class."

"Dr. Fiorella is a good teacher. Very enthusiastic every class meeting. She made class fun."

"Dr. Fiorella way of teaching made the class keep our attention. Was funny and not boring."

                                        ET CETERA, ET CETERA 

They warm my heart💔 💗💗

 ________________________________________________________________________

DREAMING AHEAD

 Fiorella is cleaning up her "salon" piece by piece so she can discover herself again. Maybe she'll even write another book or two or get all of her poetry published. Then there are the short stories and the drawings and paintings...... but you've heard all this before. Of course, her deepest desires are a friend she could talk walk and talk with--and a big, happy dog to cuddle with.

How strange: your girl was born toward the end of WW2, and now, those many years later, we may be facing another another World War if Trump/Putin gets elected again. Think about it. Remember that he  had several telephone sweet talks with Putin just after he (Trump)was elected.8

*************************************************************************************

Here's one of Fio's short stories you might enjoy. It's called "Endor."

     As they did every new moon, the three elderly sisters met at Starbucks, reserved a table by depositing their dear mother's cookbook on it, and walked up to the counter to place their orders. In the few seconds it took for the barista to turn to the back of the store and instruct her co-worker to ad extra whipped cream and Glinda's hot chocolate and Irene's latte, an athletically built young man pushed Nelda aside and put in his own order. 

"Gimme the biggest cup of Dark Roast that you have and make it snappy! I've got places to go and people to see!"

Irene gave him a darkling look. "Sir, perhaps you didn't realize it, but you cut in line. Our sister was next."

"Too bad." The athletic young man shrugged and checked out the room for a table.

The three women exchanged hard-eyed glances, but knew better than to make a scene in public. Picking up their drinks, they turned to walk back to their table, then saw that the athletically-built young man had claimed it for himself. Glinda bristled with anger. "Sir, you're sitting at our table! That is our dear mother's cookbook."

The athletic young man glared at her. 'Find another table, Granny, and take your crazy book with you! Damn thing tried to bite me!"

A table opened up and the three sisters sat down together, put their mother's book of recipes in the center of the table, then sipped their beverages, watching the athletic young man the whole time. When he left without cleaning up the table, Glinda swooped down like a night owl sighting its prey, slipped his cup into a plastic bag, and stowed it in her purse. 

Then, their faces grim, the three women drove over to Nelda's, consulted Mother's recipes, set the iron pot to boiling with the standard ingredients, smiled at each other, and tossed in the cup that the athletic young man had used.

Eye of newt and toe of frog work so much better with fresh DNA in the mix.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Long, Long, Ago

     Fio is wondering......are romance books still popular? You know the type she means--good-girl sex with a happy ending--two of which your girl got published before her roof fell down on her. 

     Of course, looking at her stories now, she would have done a lot of things differently, but she's just found a sackful of halfway finished romances and mayhap she could get into the game again. Of course, her membership has lapsed and she 's lost touch with every writer she has ever knew due to Covid and her lack of transportation, but we'll see, we'll see......

     Okay, Fiorella will admit it: maybe  jumping into  romance writing again would get her some friends with  generous transportation. In the meantime, your girl will try to gather together all of her half-written pages.

Wahoo! Fio just found a page from when she was teaching, which reads as follows:

     Call roll

     Pass out daily test

     Test today--class activity

     Read "Thanatopsis" 

                (a) foot

                (b) meter

                (c) rhyme scheme

                 (d) meaning

      Read bio of Emily aloud, read four poems aloud #241, #341, #712, 986.   

      Class activity--divide into four groups, explain to class

         I pt--foot

         I pt--meter

          I--rhyme scheme

          5  points--meaning

          2  points-- presentation

ANYONE RECOGNIZE THE STILE?

     

REACHING FOR THE STARS

 Once Fiorella gets settled in more, she'll get some nice plastic surgery for her aging face like she did a while back after Husband died.  Stupidly, she backed out half way back then, but this time, she'll take the whole trip. Maybe she can get her drooping upper arms and belly tightened up too. (Or maybe she won't do anything at but smile bigger.)

What has erupted all the above? Obviously your girl is tackling the multitudes of half-finished stories and tableware that she brought over to the "new house." WOW! Fio is certainly prolific, if nothing else--but her mother's tableware is as dear to her, as it was to her mother.

Her sewing and designs are also important to her, but they are still deep down in hinterland, as are her lovely colored rugs, a couple of which she used as the background of some of her full length paintings.

Fio cannot help but wonder if eyelid surgery is a gateway drug--in the distance, she hears the siren song  of a total face lift. Hmmmmm........in words, Fiorella is getting restless and wants to join the world again. She's tired of her major outings being (1) to get blood tests and (2) to walk the outgoing mail to the box up the street.

YOUR GIRL WANTS TO HAVE FRIENDS, TO GO OUT TO EAT FROM TIME TO TIME, TO BE ACTIVE IN THE COMMUNITY, TO BE ABLE TO USE HER ART, WRITING, AND MUSICAL TALENTS AGAIN! PLEASE HELP HER!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Remains

 What a wonderful visit we had with Fiorella's nephew A, his charming wife, and their two sweet children, who live a long way from us in Main, and your girl hopes there will be more visits in the future. It was amazing and wonderful how sweetly the locals (Son's first grade daughter, Daughter's baby son) welcomed their cousins (two and five) whom they were meeting for the first time.

It's surprisingly cold in Texas now, and there are rumors that the worst is yet to come, like maybe the kind of weather that tried to foze your girl to death about four years ago. Remember? When the only warmth she had was her Mastiff, Sonja, who has since entered dog heaven with a crown on her head?

 Fiorella has been having an itch to gather her brushes and start painting again. Watch out,  world!

 ___________________________________________________________________________________

I'd like to burn a building down

Or shoot someone from the tower

To make them know that I'm alive

For just one hour--oh, just an hour!

 _______________________________

"The tower" is a reference

  to a twisted family tragedy

___________________________________

 If I had eyes and you had eyes and I had eyes

And we could see ahead what lies

 I'd close my eyes

And kiss your lovely lips

__________________________________

I stirred my coffee with a peacock feather

And on the the washer lit five golden candles

And drained the flowing blood from my heart finger

To paint the kitchen ceiling scarlet red

 ______________________________________

REPEATS AGAIN

 Fiorella confesses: she's written at least twenty Christmas poems--probably more--and she doesn't remember which ones have gone to print and which ones are still waiting eagerly to see the light of day, so please be xxxxxxxxx

          Wild Plum

The wild plum branch on my door jamb

Guards my soul from the devil--

But one dark night when he's calling me

I'll to my window just to see

What he is and what I am

And what it's like at the witches' revel

_______________________________________

I don't drink beer

I don't drink wine

But ply me with chocolate

And I am thine

________________________________________

I stirred my coffee with a peacock feather

And on the washer lit five golden candles

And drained the flowing blood from my heart finger

To paint the kitchen ceiling red with scarlet

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

In golden shoes my feet are tiny

In golden net my hair my hair is long

In golden boot, my words are shiny

My poems become a golden song

__________________________________________

                     Alien

     I was born on Venus, maybe Mars

Where people see with different eyes

Where the stars are different stars

Where the skies are different skies

     My outside, yes, it is the same

 I've passed for years as human born

 And answered to a human name

And tried to live in form

    The difference is in my brain

In how I think and feel and see

In how my heart absorbs the pain

Of my peculiarity

     Alone, alone, all, all, alone

I scream aloud and no one hears

Because I use an alien voice

And you have only human ears

(1993)

    

MORE OF THE SAME....

 Poetry again, some of it repeated because Fiorella never did put her whimsy in order.....

______________________________________________________________________

The first poem she can find, probably written in Junior High:

     The Quest

                 The pond 's o'er froze, the corn is blight

              The fields frost over silver white

              The ice-bound branches of the trees

              Are breaking in the winter breeze

                  The ground is hard, the sky is bare

               The sobbing wind alone disturbs the air 

                And cries aloud its grief, unreconciled

                As Ceres searches for her missing child

_______________________________________________

    Marionette

                 Dress the corpse in red and bright

                 And paint her pretty face--

                 Tie lines onto her hands and feet

                And make her dance in place

                   If you  hold her jaw just so

                And pull it with a string,

                Supply a voice and words and tune,

                She will even sing

                   Then you can whistle and applaud

                 Her every sight and sound

                 Because she is the most alive 

                 Of any corpse around

___________________________________________________________________ 

I'm drunk on the wine of glory

Red-nosed and wobbly and gay!

So what if I day tomorrow

At least I have lived for today!

________________________________________________________________________________________

          Unfortunately, Fiorella has written loads of poetry, but hasn't labeled it in any way but titles.   Anyone want to come over and help her?

A BIT BATTERED........

 After almost an hour of searching, Fiorella finally found her computer hiding under the thickly carved knobs of her bedroom. Whew! Wouldn't like to have to sleep on the floor!

How  about some more of my sweeter poems, like "Song."

          In golden shoes, my feet are tiny

          In golden net, my hair is long

          In golden book, my words are shiny

          My poems become a golden song 

____________________________________

    Dear God, the night has passed, the day begun.

       I wake to face the horror of the dawn,

       The cold blue sky and brazing star

        Obscure my view, the guiding star is gone

     Last night the star was bright, the vision clear

        The pathway certain I had sought so long

         I knew my God and Bethlehem were near 

         So near at last, at last, dear God, my faith was strong

   Now hope is gone, I cannot find my way

        I fool a fool, as old men often are--

         The dreams of knight have been subsumed by day

         And I, bereft, alone, I doubt the star

   Oh God, dear God, I pray you yet again

   Please God, please let there be a God

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

Yes, Fio knows what you are thinking--that your girl should keep track of what poems or stories she's put into print before, but sometimes when other things are involved or she doesn't have anything clever to say, she falls back on her old goodies just so you know she's still alive😁

 

      

 

 A Couple More of Fiorella's Favorites

Warning--there will be repeats

 

         At the Beach

At dawn I walk the ocean's edge

To find my place along the shore,

The place where I will sit all day

And sculpt my kingdom mafe of dreams

Until the evening tide returns

And sinks my castle built on sand

 _________________________________

                                Dead Aim

Eyes that look beside you as you walk down the hall

Eyes that swivel by you when you meet on the stair

Ears that do not listen when they hear your frightened call

Arms that will not hold you, and hearts that do not care

 

So the helpless go unhelped and the hungry go unfed

And oftentimes I wonder as I lie awake in bed

What would they really do if I shot them in the head?

Would they still ignore me as they drop down dead?

______________________________________________

                                   Etiquette

Everything goes from dead to worse 

And I think that soon I'll die--

Not on the outside, just on the inside

Where people can't really see,

And when they give me the proper greet,

I'll give them the proper lie:

"How are are you doing," they'll say to me

"Just fine," with a smile I'll reply

____________________________________________

More Poems

 Some oldies but goodies............

I know that God is Spanish

And here's the reason why--

With sun warmth just departed

And night cool  drawing nigh

He playses a black mantilla

Of lace o'er the waiting sky

____________________

The sun leaves slowly, giving thanks

For such a long and lengthy stay

And, putting on her court of colors

Leaves again for another day

But I know she will come with haste

In dawn at coat of dye

For she has left her diamonds

Scattered in the sky

_______________________________

Fat women have big breasts

To nourish babies,

Fat women have soft laps

To comfort children,

Fat women have big hearts

To encompass the world    💗

________________________________

NEW AND OLD GEMS

 Surprise! Fiorella is back in business!

       In golden shoes my fee are tiny

       In golden net my hair is long

       In golden book my words are shiny

       My poems become a golden song 

  Quiet as the grave that holds me fast

When death has dumbed the drumbeat of my blood

Beneath the soundless soil, still at last

I'll sink in silence toward the muffling mud--

   But unto then I'll clatter through your walls

And shout hello to friends and wail goodby--

I'll laugh aloud within your stately walls 

And shriek my anger to the sombre sky-- 

  The dead are no notorious for their noise

And I will lie a longtime quietly

So unto then I"ll use my loudest voice

And make the whimpering world resound of me--

    So when at last I'm muted by the all absorbing  ground

    My unaccustomed silence then will deafen you with sound

 

____________________________________________________

Priorities

The screen door is still unmended

So I have shut the door

The laundry lies untended 

In piles upon the floor--

I'm busy learning how to sing

Or working on a play

Or teaching someone else something

That I learned yesterday 

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

                     Depression

I pull it round me like a cloak of null,

This numbing void, this fine despair of mine,

A somber blanket folded thrice to dull

The knife-sharp edges of my dark decline--

     I need a nothingness, a time of naught--

A comfort place, an anesthetic buffer

To suffocate my senses, my every thought

For if I do not feel, I cannot suffer,

      And if I cannot try, I cannot fail

 And if I do not care, I'll have no pain

 And if I do not trust, then no betrayal

   Can pierce my unprotected heart again

      And if I do not hope, then no defeat

      Can mortify me in my sweet retreat

 

    ......................................................................................

BONKERS!

    Wadda ya know! Fio is back again, WITH POEMS AS FOLLOWS!

 

      Search in the Silence 

Sometimes in the silence,

In the darkest dark of night, 

When the black has slipped around me,

Inking over all. my sight--

Then I'm drawn  to the starry sky 

And am lured by every light

 

Sometimes in the waiting

For a storm that's drawing near

When all the earth is pensive

I am seized with sudden fear

 For wild within my deepest soul

  A strange new voice I hear

Sometimes in the drizzle

Of a dingy shadowed day

Then the murkiness repels the sun    

And screens out every ray--

Then I know that I must find my soul

However odd the way

 

_________________________________________

In golden shoes my feet are tiny

In golden net, my hair is long

In golden book my words are shiny,

And my poems become a golden song

 

____________________________________________

I think that I must warn you

So heed to what I say

I'm a very vengeful person

So don't get in my way

'Cause otherwise I'll find you

And knuckle you one day !

(Not really--just mentally)_____________________________________________

MOVING ON

How wonderful it is to hear from good friends from distant shores or latitudes who keep in touch with you even when when you are far, far, away. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU 💘!

Fiorella would also like to have her poetry, art, and music, recognized, but one has to have them on display to do so, and Fio doesn't have connections any more.

Ah, well. Maybe something will come along......

(Please excuse me if you've read these poems before)

__________________________________________________________________________________

              Quiet as the Grave

Quiet as the grave that holds me fast

When death has dumbed the drumbeat of my blood,

Beneath the soundless soil, still at last

I'll sink in silence upward the muffling mud--

But until then, I'll clatter through the halls

And shout hallo to friends and wail goodbye

I'll laugh aloud within the staidest walls 

And shriek my anger to the somber sky--

The dead are not notorious for their noise

And I will lie a long time quietly

So unto then I'll use my loudest voice

To make the whimpering world resound of me--

    And when at last I'm muted by the all absorbing ground

   My unaccustomed silence then will deafen you with sound!

_______________________________________________________________________________

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER!

 Fiorella has run out of things to do. Sure, she walks the neighborhood cul-de-sac almost every day, but no one else does. She smiles and waves at everyone in the neighborhood too,  but only a few wave back. Inside the house, she watches TV every day, inside and out, and she's getting pretty darn tired out of watching Jessica Fletcher solve murder after murder with her hairdo remaining still as a cement statue.

In other words, your girl is bored, bored, bored, as she has often announced, and while Fio has no friends,  ol' Jessica is rounding up bad guys by the dozen. Sure, they're bad guys, but your girl could reform them. 

__________________________________________________________________________________

                                                                     

                                                                  Quiet as the Grave

  Quiet as the grave that holds me fast

  When death has dumbed the drumbeat of my blood

  Beneath the soundless soil, still at last,

  I'll sink in silence toward the muffling mud--

    But unto then I'll clatter through the hall 

And shout hallo to friends and wail goodbye--

I'll laugh aloud  within the staidest walls

And shriek my anger to the somber sky--

  The dead  are not notorious for their noise

  And I will lie a long time quietly

  So unto then, I'll use my loudest voice

  To make the whispering world resound of me

       And when at last I'm muted by the all-absorbing ground

       Mt unaccustomed silence then with deafen you with sound

MEMORIES OF LONG AGO

When Fio was a little girl in Ohio, then Waco, Texas, she usually walked to school, sometimes with a friend, but more likely alone. There were few women who could drive back then, and any cars in the family were reserved for the man of the family (the breadwinner). Your girl was lucky enough to have a neighbor down the street who was just a grade younger  than than she was and whose mother was kind enough to offer her a morning ride. (God bless Eve Paule.)

Junior High was easier because her school was only about five blocks (Fly-Taff) from school--close enough that your girl could run home during lunch and finish off forgotten assignments And avoid the clicks that were forming in preparation for high school.

Finally the war was over and the clicks were forming. A fair number of boys and a few of the girls had been presented with cars. Fiorella was not one of them, but she did take the the school sponsored driving course offered during the summer by one of the teachers.  

Now was the time to get ready for college, but her family had one just one car, so she was back at the beginning again. Luckily, her college roommate, Marianne, introduced Fio to a friend of her boyfriend and he and Fiorella clicked. In fact, they married two years into college and, after finishing their classes, they had three sweet children.

Fiorella wonder what their memories will be like.......

 

Hello! Where did everything else go?

 Your girl has been all over the house trying to find a certain poem she wanted to run again, but she CAN'T FIND IT AND IS AFRAID IT'S HIDING SOMEWHERE IN HER SQUEAKY CLEAN LAUNDRY, SO PLEASE HAVE MERCY ON FIO. (On the other hand, her bank is going to be handing over some nice greenbacks for a bank mistake, so everything is even.)

A-N-N-N -N-D, Fiorella is going to be mounting several of her poems again for you to enjoy or yawn at.

I know that God is Spanish

And here's the reason why--

With sun warmth  just departed

And night cool drawing nigh,

He places a black mantilla

Of lace o'er the waiting sky

The sun leaves slowly, giving thanks,

For such a long and lengthy stay

And, putting on her coat of colors

Leaves again for another day--

But I know that she will come again with haste

At dawn in coat of dye

For she has left her diamonds

Scattered in the sky

Fat women have big breasts

To nourish babies,

Fat women have soft laps

To comfort children,

Fat women have big hearts

To encompass the world

NEVER FORGET

Four good words reveal the self

And these are they: "I want to help." 💕💕

MORE POETRY, POETRY, POETRY! (Mostly from junior high, when she was really getting started, plus high school)

 WAHOO! Your girl just found a couple more tattered pages that she'll forces upon you:

                         

                                The Quest

          The pond's o'er froze, the corn is is blight,

          The fields frost over silver-white,

           The ice-bound branches of the trees

            Are breaking in the winter breeze

 

            The ground is hard, the sky is bare,  

             The sobbing wind alone disturbs the air

            And cries aloud its grief, unreconciled,

            As Ceres searches for her missing child

                                __________

 

                               Wild Plum 

             A wild plum branch on my door jamb

             Guards my soul from the devil

              But one night when he's calling me

              I'll to my window just to see

              What is is and what I am

               And what it's like at the witches revel

                               _________

               I know that God is Spanish

                And here's the reason why

                With sun warmth just departed

                And night cool drawing nigh,

                 He places a black mantilla 

                 Of lace o'er the waiting sky

                              ________

                 The sun leaves slowly, giving thanks

                  For such a long and lengthy stay,

                  And, putting on her coat of colors,

                  Leaves again for another day,

                  But I know she will come with haste

                  At dawn in coat of dye

                  For she has left her diamonds

                  Scattered in the sky

                     ____________

                   Fat women have big breasts

                   To nourish babies,

                   Fat women have soft laps

                   To comfort children

                    Fat woman have big hearts

                    To encompass the world

                              ___________

                                Four good words 

                                Reveal the self

                                And these are they:

                               "I want to help"

THE LAST OF THE NEVER ENDING STORY OF BETSY BIGMOUTH, which doesn't seem as funny as when Fio wrote it long ago.....

 The romance writers, dressed appropriately in delicious little black dresses, showed up for the graveside service in force, each one with a small  notebook or digital recorder in hand because the details of Betsy Bigmouth's interment would come in handy if they ever needed to write about a burial. 

Besides, they wanted to be sure that Betsy was, once and for all, totally and completely, dead.

The medical examiner said it had been a brain hemorrhage this time around. Betsy had blown her stack when someone had passed her a copy of the short story Fiorella Plum had written about Betsy' antics. Indeed, Betsy's brain had exploded all over the floor, wall, and ceiling  of Chuck E. Cheese, the romance writers latest venue. Eyes had rolled, elbows had nudged, snickers had been suppressed, and a nearby table of children yelled for more.

But Betsy's showboat antics were finally at an end. The ladies closed their notebooks and turned off their recorders, then walked to their cars, their hushed voices rechecking details of the burial with each other along the way.

As darkness fell on the cemetery, a hand reached up through the loosely-packed dirt of the new grave and everyone for miles around heard the trademark bellow--

  "And furthermore........"

A MORNING AT THE ROMANCE WRITERS' CRITIQUE SESSION

 With a jack-o'-lantern grin on her face, Betsy Bigmouth clomped into the house where the critique session was to be held, deposited several big bakery bags of goodies on the dining room table and a twelve-pack of twelve-pack of soft drinks on the floor beside it.

"I told you  I'd supply everything," she bellowed, beaming at the women seated around the room. They stared at her in shocked surprise. Not again. It was a familiar pattern: first, Betsy exploded with anger, then dripped sweetness like wounded sugar cane.

Betsy pulled one of the boxes out of a bag and opened it to a dozen chocolate-iced to reveal a dozen-iced doughnuts. Suddenly, she wailed in pain, grabbed at her stomach, and fell to the floor, the doughnuts tumbling around her in a hail of pastry. One of the critique attendees, who wrote romantic suspense knew what to do in desperate circumstances, knelt down and held the mirror of her compact under Betsy's nose.

    "I think she's dead. We'd better call the authorities." 

     The police arrived within minutes, the studly one still in charge. Every woman in the room took mental notes for future novels as the medical examiner checked out the corpse.

Finall, he stood to announce his findings.

"Massive sugar rush on top of acidic vitriol." He looked down at Betsy and shook her head. "It's a deadly combination."

THE FIRST OF THREE DEATHS OF BESTSY BIG MOUTH . . .

 Yes, Fiorella has written a fair number of short shorts, and you're going to be subjected to three of them in a row, so put your reading glasses on and settle down in your favorite chair.

 

     Betsy's eye's bulged like ping-pong balls as she lifted her hand to her throat, but only a few choking sounds emerged. Before anyone around her could react, she fell off her chair sideways, her large body hitting the floor like a sack of potatoes.

    The speaker for the evening, an emergency room nurse, raced over and checked for pulse, then announced, "She's dead. Call the police."

     There was a smattering of applause, then guilty silence as the women looked around at each other.

     Who killed Betsy Bigmouth? Was it. Meagan, whose first critique session had been her last because of Betsy's ruthless application of red ink? Was it popular Jenny, whom Betsy had tried to drive out of office? Was it Gloria, the elder stateswoman, who saw Betsy as a continuing threat to the cohesion of the chapter? Or was it someone else Betsy had bullied along the way?

     Three uniformed officers and a woman in a white lab coat came to the door of the Chinese restaurant, this this month's meeting place of the romance writers. 

    "Nobody leave the room!" commanded the tall, dark, and handsome sergeant with the wide shoulders and narrow hips. The romance writers' professionally salascious eyes sized him up  as the woman in the lab coat knelt down to examine the body. 

    "How did she die?" Officer Studmuffin asked. "Gunshot? Knife to the heart? Poison pen?"

The medical examiner shook her head and stood up. "It's an open and shut case.  Bile--she choked on her own bile. But I don't think we've seen the last of her......."