Emerald Forest

At dawn, I slip into the emerald forest.

Giant fronds sway, ferns prickle,

Moss hovers.  I step gently into the

blue lagoon, cranes bathing, 

dragonflies undulating

upon the face of the deep.

In the emerald forest,

I lay down my sword and shield. I

notice what appears, what surfaces.

How tiny flowers pirouette in the breeze,

I lay down my heavy burden

and let the heart dance.

Be the Bee

Be the bee, 

fly to the flower within and

drink, drink, drink of her nectar.

Be grateful

for even a teeny tiny flower,

even a teeny tiny flower
has much nectar.

The flower offers her gift

especially for you,

her nectar of peace, of joy, 

Everything is easy

once you understand.

Remember this existence,

not the things that you do,

but this breath,

for it is your blessing.

Madrid Metro

A slice of the old world before Isabella,
before three ships, before the Inquisition,
downcast eyes, stoic faces, haunted El Grecos.

Three men from Tangiers, a woman in silk,
a guitarist who knew Segovia,
a flamenco dancer, a chubby girl,
with her grandfather, men in jeans, wide belts.

A slice of the old world before Isabella,
before three ships, before the Inquisition,
downcast eyes, stoic faces, haunted El Grecos.

Amaroo

Refuges seeking asylum, we came
to the light of her southern hemisphere
seeking what all seekers seek, a sliver
of joy in an oft desolate orb, and

She welcomed us graciously, spaciously,
how the cuckabera laughed at dawn, how
magpies hip hopped o're the natty grass,
how wallabies stared at us, then leapt to
thickets where frogs croaked a steady tune.

She accepted us graciously, spaciously,
with breeze, fragrance, warmth, with
her southern light, with her promise of
stillness, with her unbridled beauty.

Like A Running Stream

God gives and God takes away,
and dust returns to dust, but
the words of my Guru linger

like a running stream.
surging and resurging,
turning and returning,

like a running stream
bounding and rebounding
tuning the taut strings of my heart,

murmuring, whispering,
singing to me, as my
days, hours, moments flow by.

Inspired by Primo Levy

Why is this night different from all other nights?
because on this night, we’re kids out past dusk, 

stars zigzag across the sky like marbles,
jugglers toss tangerines, eggplants dance in the streets.

Giant sequoias uproot themselves,

trudge across the tundra to Vladivostock.

those murdered in mass graves assemble themselves.

The sun cries tears of gold, the moon tears of diamonds,

all who mourn are gladdened, all who hunger come to feast,

Elijah descends from his chariot and sips of our wine.

Pharaoh’s heart is softened, and for moments,

all is possible, nothing impossible, we rejoice.

Until The Kiss

Always three princes,

and he, the jolliest prince in the world,
not the handsomest, nor most valiant,
but the jolliest, and she, Sleeping Beauty.

I hadn’t the heart to awaken her,
she looked so peaceful lying there, 

After our massage, we primped - two sisters, with combs,

oils, lavender mist, standing before a mirror.
“I could have slept for a hundred years,” she'd said.

She had a knack for plunging into cold water.
We’d lunched in the enchanted forest on
a bed of pine needles, where she’d yawned
lazily, almost falling asleep once more.

She'd taken the bumpy road to love, the
sand in your eyes, Lawrence of Arabia,
bumpy road to love. But one fine day, he appeared

exactly on cue, the jolliest prince.

He hadn’t the heart to awaken her,
she looked so peaceful lying there. But then,
without further ado, he leaned over 

and kissed her lips. She smiled, stretched out her long arms
and awakened. In truth, he was jolly,

not the handsomest, nor most valiant.
And thus it was, that she awakened.

Swept Out To Sea

Waves rage about me in an impetuous sea,
tormenting tides, swirling currents,
In despair, I call out, but no one hears.

I am swept out to sea, I scan the vista
for even a piece of drift wood, then
remember this breath. This breath, 

my anchor in an impetuous sea.

Under the Banyan

Magic, flow, flow, flow
gratitude, gratitude
grace and ease
beauty and light
bangles and curry
gardenias, roses, trust
stillness, peace.

Last Days of Summer

These, the last days of summer, deliriously mournful,
cool breeze of September making herself known,
clouds puffing to dusty rose, cicadas in the eve,
Ishmael from off the watery seas, returning to port.

Whales wending their way back, wanderers,
travelers, Osysseus himself, the rootless,

the homeless, these, the last days of summer, 

over-ripe, when earth tilts and signals a return.

Clouds of Compassion

Nomadic clouds, 

a caravan advancing 

stealthily, 

white coarse sails,

mother's milk,

clouds of compassion

Clouds of Compassion

Fleeing, Jonah boards a ship in Jaffa,

Saying nothing to the mariners, he peers
up at huge clouds, clouds of compassion,
whiter than milk, advancing like a caravan.

When the sky darkens and hail pelts the ship,
Jonah admits his guilt. The mariners try
to save him, but in the end, they too must
cede to the inevitable. 

Only after tossing him overboard, 

does the storm abate.

The Fledgling

Like a newly hatched bird, I crane my neck,
open my beak to life. Quiveringly wet,
I await sun, breeze, and touch of love.

My first nest is a tangle of branches,
bits of fabric, silk, burlap, my mother
father, brothers, sister, all of us hidden
in the boughs of a linden tree.

Quiveringly I say, "Please love me."
Do they hearken? There are times
when I am rejected, unseen, but kernels
are provided. I do not go hungry.

Time passes. I quiver with awe, with
delight. Trees are awash in color. I
sing my warbled song to the night.
Will they hear me calling?

Ever, If At All

Can one return, ever, if at all to a corner,  

to a tree where he swore his love,
to the house of a scavenged photo?

to a beach where beauty danced with light,

to a corner in Jerusalem

where joy pierced a heart?

Rambling down Ramban, 

swishing along Ussishkin,

then to Bezalel, artist of the ark,

to King George, to Ben Yehuda.

A breezy April day before Pesach,

forty years have slipped by.

yellow and purple bougainvillea cascading

over Jerusalem stone.

Plaques announce streets in three tongues,

Hebrew, prancing Arabic, English clear as night,

all three heralding my wayward approach.

In the distance, I see my corner,
Steimatzky's, the falafal stand with its bent

old man stuffing falafal into pita, 

adding salad, pouring tahini.

Tilting my head, squinting, my heart 

dancing to a lost tune, 

I have returned.

Last Night in Tel Aviv

Last night in Tel Aviv, a seaside cafe
eating humus, Greek salad, burning red
peppers, drinking Gamla chardonnay,
crescent moon, shiny black olive sky,

and you, lone star, you sink into waves,
you, passion fruit moon, you vanish
as though by sleight of hand.

Last night in Tel Aviv, at water's edge,
a father trudges along, son slung over
shoulders like a sack of rice and later,
two horses pass before me and the sky.

Last night in Tel Aviv, could be
Casablanca of '44, no piano,
no song, yet sure wish I could play it again.
And when, if ever, will I return?

Sita

Rummaging through sweaters on a sale table
in Birmingham, England, that frothy cauldron
of Brits, Moslems, Jamaicans, Indians
I beheld her.

Rummaging through sweaters of lime, red, blue,
I beheld her - gorgeous, as you might imagine,
Gold hooped earrings, kohl lined eyes, there she was --
Sita -- holding a sweater at arm's length.

Even then, I held no doubt as to the whys
and wherefores of her abduction, nor doubted
I, the surety of her rescue by brave
Rama and Hanuman, his monkey friend.

Sita smiled, her eyes jumped out at me, her
golden earrings shimmered, we exchanged a
few words, small talk -- women in search of a
bargain in the right size and color.

Rainy day in Birmingham, mid July,
and I'm certain as breath coursing through me,
that she was Sita, abducted by Ravan,
rescued by Rama and Hanuman, his monkey friend.

Pink Prelude

As prelude to his visit, we
planted red and pink begonias,

poured Murphy’s Oil in water. 

On step stool, sponge in hand, we scrubbed 

lintel, door, and wood, rooting out

webs, dirt, grime. We windexed, swept
the path, hosed chairs, gathered debris.

Then he arrived and spoke. Some said,
“Sublime.” Some said, “Nectar.”
To myself, I said, “I shall never be the same.” 

Touched by his love, 
I never was.

Penny Candy

Many moons since penny candy, 
licorice sticks in red, black, brown,
eyeing and pointing, and old Eddie
filling the bag piece by piece with

jawbreakers, tootsie rolls, peanut
butter cups, dots on white paper,
licorice shaped like a record that
unwound in your mouth, kool-aid

inside a paper straw, you tore off
the top and poured the kool-aid
down your throat undiluted, many
moons, many undiluted moons ago.

Squirrel Hill

Grew up in Squirrel Hill, no joke, squirrels  

scrambling up oaks and maples, digging and 

hiding, scurrying, waving their glorious tails, 

flying from branch to branch.

As kids, we tried to capture them, but to no avail,
they eluded us; free agents, beyond our grasp. 

Once we saw a squirrel unearth an acorn. Swear 

it was a golden acorn.

I raced after my squirrel, watching his every swerve.

From the high branches, heard him singing,
only it was more than a song. Swear 

I heard him chanting God’s name.

Forget Me Nots

Forget me not
When I am old and brittle
When my back is humped
Like a whale's
When my teeth are broken.
Forget me not, for
I am genuine
I am authentic
I'm the Real McCoy
Forget me not.