I corresponded with Doris and loved her memoirs. She sent me signed books. This is the post I wrote about her a couple of years ago: https://danielwpolk.org/2020/06/30/letter-from-doris-grumbach/
A link to her books: https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/authorpage/doris-grumbach.html
when enough times passes
we begin to think they
are all dead
those jazz musicians
who cradled gold
instruments, lung life air
pulsating into
penetrating through everything
with their reverberating
notes of truth
it all ends
but his saxophone sound
is still here
and perhaps
will be
forever
i suppose everyone
had a goldfish
from the pet
store or school
fair, glistening orange
in plastic bag
captured bit of
rippling nature, and
we tried to
keep it alive
with flakes and
water changes, but
after a few
months it died
and what did
we learn? how
to understand loss
that toilet flush
goodbye, what is
life? what is
death? it meant
nothing, and everything
glistening grass with morning
dew, like a spider web
pulsating, wind whipping, sticky
threads catch life, then
death, how nature works
constant miracles, colors, petals
insects submerged in nectar
pollen dust travels, floating
on bees feet, sun
greets this day with
warmth for all, moon
at night, bright dreams
silent stars, flickering light
fuji, granny smith
red delicious, original
ornaments before christmas
was christmas, stems
like umbilical cords
dangling juice bulbs
filled with tree
strength inside
each one sways
growing seeds
bark, trunk
roots, sacred
dirt, water, all of
life between teeth
while chewing
this earth
No one sees the
gray-haired lady in
a wheelchair, hands shaking
Parkinson’s pulsating through her
whole body. But when
Sinatra sings, eyes aglow
grandma is someone again.
She belts out the
best part, you have
a head start, if
you are among the
very young at heart.
Daniel W. Polk 