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.