The Weeping Willow Wipes Her Tears

Chasing, chasing, hunters, gatherers, 

our hearts desiring, ravaging.
   
"Somehow, I will welcome what comes," 
I listen for the songbird humming.

The weeping willow wipes her tears,
and wondrous waters flow on their way.

As If From Central Casting

Chemo, surgery, radiation, my hair
glazed with silver,
I'm once more on the open road,
traveling home from Boston.

Harvard Square, South Station,
up twenty concrete steps,

no escalator this time.

I'm clumping up the steps,
hoisting my copper suitcase,
struggling with each few steps when,
right on cue, as if from Central Casting,
a Sikh man, in lavender turban, gently
wafts my luggage to the landing.

At the landing, I thank him with "Sat Nam."
At this, his eyes brighten.
As I move on, I feel his gaze.

Our angels, where do they come from, and
how do they know when exactly to appear?

Visit From A Peacock

Dear Mummy lay dying in the jungle
amidst fronds, primordials,
birds of paradise in robes
of orange and red, flowering
jasmine, hibiscus, tuberose,
the waving leaves of banana trees.

Dear Mummy lay dying not far
from my brother, but in her own space.
On the morn of her death, I tried
to feed her, but she swallowed
only a spoon of applesauce.

A peacock slept outside her room,
always on the same branch
of the same tree. That morn,
he strode across her threshold spreading 

feathers of indigo and turquoise.
Circling, he screeched his song
and was gone.

When the hospice nurse arrived,
she bathed Mummy; then sweeping
her back and forth in the sheets,
alerted me that her last breaths
were drawing near.

I perched on the bed, holding Mummy.
At that indelible moment,
my brother appeared, grief wrinkled
onto his face.

For all the fury of her life,
Mummy left with radiance.
"Goodbye my sweetheart, my friend,"
I said. The peacock had also
managed to say his goodbye.

Many Morrows

I think I have many tomorrows,
to play the cards I've been dealt,
morrows to ride the waves,
to give love I've deeply felt.

But morrows may not be many,
and cards may be hoarded or spent,
and waves may break me asunder,
and love may be borrowed or lent.

I think I have many tomorrows,
but the morrows may not have me,
so I'll find joy in each flower,
and dance with the sun and the sea.

After

My breasts were two, but now just one,
I thought I might despair, but no,
Lopsided and lovely like a pun,
I look upon myself and glow.

I will not wake and be the same,
but am thrilled to be and thrive,
my hair is short, God made her claim,
most essential, I am alive.

Tiger at a Tea Party

"You can't take a tiger to a tea party."
"Swear that you won't tell anyone, not even God."  

I swore.

It was a tale of rescue, murder, escape,
too outlandish to be true.

Somehow, my son had come unhinged.
Time has passed; weeks, months -
It's now seven years since that day

when the moon somersaulted into the light of day,
and the sun climbed into bed with night.
And I have not been the same either.

The Kiwi Green of Spring

I am the kiwi green of spring,
I am the smile of hope lingering
with the wind in treetops mingling.

I am the cherry pink of spring,
I am deep delight dancing
beneath her bridal veil glancing.

I am the dogwood rose of spring,
I am uncanny kindness careening
against a rosy sky preening.

Forsythia

Yellow, yellow, yellow, so like the sun,
Forsythia, dazzling and ablaze,
I open to beauty as yet unsung,
Forsythia, you leave my heart a daze.

A Voice

A voice with which to sing,
to prick away the sting,
a voice with which to cry,
cry out against the sky.

A voice to defy harsh passerby,
A voice to redeem, to beam
across a wavering dream.

A voice once lost, now saved
A voice not again betrayed.

Burning

I saw a bush that was burning
but not consumed by flames,
I saw a bush that was yearning
but not entrapped by names.

A burning bush it had become
and God spoke from within its midst,
and though I stuttered in reply,
I felt I had been kissed.

Lullaby

I will sing my sorrow a lullaby,
I will sing my pain a tune,
I will soothe my sorrow with a cry,
I will kiss away my wound.

And in the deepest dark of sorrow,
I feel the drops come pouring down,
There is nothing to beg or borrow,
It feels like I will not rebound.

I will sing my sorrow a lullaby,
I will sing my pain a tune,
I will soothe my sorrow with a cry,
I will kiss away my wound.

The Return of Milkshake

When Andy lived in Hollywood,
he had a psychotic break,
he became unhinged, it seems,
it made my poor heart ache.

One day, he saw a beggar with a dog,
a cur so cute and sweet,
being suckled by her pups,
a dog with little feet.

My lad pulled out his wad of cash,
sixty bucks he did pay,
the dog he lifted to his arms,
and carried her away.

He gave her name that very morn,
and Milkshake she was named,
he loved her to the moon and back,
for this, he couldn't be blamed.

He took a cab a hundred miles
to Santa Barbara town,
and walked into a bar that day
his troubles there to drown.

He walked into a bar, I say,
and left Milkshake outside,
He tied her to an iron pole,
then she cried and cried.

A cop found Andy in the bar
and gave to him a fine,
He carted Milkshake away,
Andy was left to pine.

Andy wandered the streets dismayed,
he phoned on borrowed cell,
"Please help," he begged, "my Milkshake
is gone; my heart - a shell."

We were enroute to LAX, but turned
to try to save the day,
we found him with swollen feet,
his broken heart, a sway.

Homeless, he'd been for many a day,
without a single penny,
wandering the streets in despair,
his choices weren't many.

We fed him bread and eggs and tea,
but could not assuage his hurt,
With Milkshake gone, he was adrift
with joy, he could not flirt.

We drove him home a hundred miles
He begged us to restore,
Milkshake his love, his sole desire
to bring her to his door.

We set out a hundred miles,
Milkshake was ensconced
in the pound at Santa Barbara,
we paid the fine and bounced

back one hundred miles, we drove,
I rubbed her little ear
I cradled Milkshake in my arms,
she was so very dear.

We waited down below the stairs,
till Andy bounded down,
Seeing Milkshake, he began to shake,
Tears dropped so very round.

"Milkshake, my love, " he cried in bliss,
kissing her in delight,
he kissed her from head to toe,
hugged her with all his might.

A grown man so enamored,
I was in awe to see,
She was his Cleopatra,
he, her Anthony.

 

Timbrels

No time to think of bread, how then timbrels?
We were women believing in wonder,

Crossing the waves, no longer slaves,
Crossing the deep, with joy did we weep,
Crossing the sea, craving ecstasy.

Gave timbrels to shaking, felt earth quaking,
Gave timbrels to ringing, we began singing,
a great and wondrous song.

His Voice

You never call, you never write.
Well yes, you text, but you never call.

He's scared his voice will reveal misery
Decades, it will take decades
to work through all this.

We've all been there, torn asunder
from our souls.

Grandma

We walked among the violet hills,
she'd point to gull, to rock, to stone,
or to a violet sun ablaze,
and then I'd feel not so alone.
And when the trees called out their song,
I'd feel their tender call of glee,
I walked with grandma, my dear pal,
and somewhere, a song sang in me.

Grandma Josie ii

At sunset, we walked, the two of us.
With cane in hand, she'd point to a stone,
I'd dust it and drop it in my bag.

Once, she swore she'd seen a hissing snake
at the mouth of a cave. So scared,
swore she'd run all the way down the hill.
.
It was hard to fathom her running.
I'd seen her mainly in slow motion,
at sink or stove stirring mushroom
barley soup or kasha with noodles.

For a tiny moment, I could
almost imagine her running,
in the next breath, it was
unimaginable again.

My heart ached, how I never
wanted anything to happen to her,
not from a hissing snake,
not God-forbid from anything.

That day, I spilled shiny pebbles,
smooth stones and craggy stones
upon the wooden floor.

With cane in hand,
she'd pointed to each stone,
just for me and for me alone.

Gifts from the Sea

I went down to a turquoise sea,
because I felt so very bleak,
and flapped and spread a turquoise cloth,
and rubbed some oil upon my cheek,
And when green waves were rolling in,
and monstrous waves were rushing loud,
I poured some oil upon my arms
and gazed up at a vagrant cloud.

When I had dipped into the sea,
I tried to shield myself from cold,
but now I felt a rapturous glee,
and now I felt I could be bold.
But jelly fish were hovering near,
they aimed their harsh harpoons at me,
and left me tingling like a bell,
then faded through the violent sea.

Though I was gifted by the sea
with prickly sting and reddened sting,
I will accept this raspy pain,
like gull accepts its ravished wing.
And I will walk along the shore,
and watch waves dance and dance away,
the violet passage of the clouds
the golden passage of the day.

Grandma Josie

I loved to walk with Grandma Josie,
her cheeks as red as any posy.

With cane in hand, she'd point to a stone
that was meant for me, and for me alone.

I'd drop it in my bag with glee,
a sacred treasure, just for me.

Once, swore she'd seen an ugly knave
rearing his head from mouth of cave.

She'd come upon a hissing snake,
Oh, how it made my small heart ache.

Swore she'd run so fast that day,
like a bear in heat, she'd hav'ta say.

Now grandma hobbled and wobbled, no lie -
could never picture her on the fly.

So I wiggled and giggled; then I swore,
infuriating grandma all the more.

Exasperated, she raised up her cane,
said of her existence, I was the bane.

For Ten Different Reasons

"Not something my parents would have done
for ten different reasons,"  he said.

Too messy, you could pick up all kinds of disease,

And so on, and so forth.

Chicks galore, in lime, blue, pink,
chirping under florescent light,
we'd buy them at Woolworths every Easter.

Being Jewish, not a taboo
for my parents, but for his - no way.
Later, our chicks shed their dyed feathers.

Released into the living room, they'd fly
round in gay abandon - one chick, Snowy,
ever perching on my brother's shoulder.

With sticky seeds, feathers, spilled water, things
could get messy.

We grew up wild and wooly, helping my
dad run his business out of the house, but
we were granted freedom,

like buying chicks at Woolworths.

As Frost said of his road,
"And that has made all the difference."

Lillikoi, Oh My Joy

I went down my love to stir
in gardens of spice and myhrr.
Lillkoi, oh my joy,
Guava, my darlin'.

Underneath the banyan tree,
there he slept so peacefully.
Papaya, oohlala,
Guava, my darlin'.

It was in the mornin' mist,
when we first began to kiss.
Banana, nanana
Guava, my darlin'.

Do ya, do ya love me true,
Do ya swear it through and through?
Prickly pear, do I dare?
Guava, my darlin.

Reframing

Joseph drew them close, saying,
"I am Joseph, your brother. Does my father still live?"
His brothers stood stunned, speechless, 

ridden with guilt.


"You may have meant me harm, but God had another plan, 

figuring a way get us down to Egypt, 

before the famine."

That was Joseph spinning 

reframing, knitting

them back together,

If Joseph, thrown into a pit, sold into slavery,

can reframe a story, then anyone can, 

Surely, you and me.

A Strawberry

When Grandpa Morris was a boy,
he'd go off to sun-crazed fields
to seed and plough, and if he saw
a strawberry, ripe and ready,

he'd pick it, cradle it in his hands, 

a gift for his beloved mother. 

At sunset, he'd present the strawberry

for her sweet smile.

Coming to these golden shores,
he'd patch the elbows of his sweaters,
and I'd watch him send dollars back home 

wrapped in sheets of carbon paper to fool the censors.

This, before all turned to ash, 

except for one niece. 

Tales rolling down to me of Grandpa Morris,
That's all you'd need to know,

A strawberry and an elbow patched sweater.

Take Her To Saks

When Blanche Bauman of Beverley Hills strolled
into the room, all heads turned. She crossed her
long legs, and gave the judge her full attention.

There I was at the national Bible contest,
struggling to answer the next question
for the crusty judge, when Blanche strolled in

full of razzle dazzle. Blanche, Mom's second
cousin, visiting New York, figured she'd
swing by, and lend her support.

That day, I didn't win the grand prize,
a trip to Israel, I came in third 

in the U.S. and Canada.

"Jean, why didn't you dress her up? Then
maybe the judges would've noticed her more."
Blanche inquired of my Mom.

In my cotton black suit and white blouse, I felt like

a church mouse scrounging
for a morsel here, a morsel there,

holed up in an attic, studying
away, ever so prim and proper.

Next day, Mom confessed we'd traipsed around
all day and found nothing for my big party.

"Jean, what's the problem? Take her to Saks."

Never saw Blanche after that day, but Blanche,
in her silks and alligator heels, had
advocated for me and opened a certain door.

Fishke The Lame

Fishke, the lame, schlepped coals, lugged water,
guarded clothing in his shtetle bathhouse,
begged for bread if he had to. Behold one day,

he met his hunchback girl, they talked endlessly.
She'd been abandoned as a child, then
abducted by a gang of thieves who beat
her, and set her to begging for them.

His hunchback girl would look at Fishke with
such tenderness that he said to himself,
"Fishke, you are not alone in the world, no
you are not, not anymore."

"She sees you, she sees your pain,
You see her, her pain, as well.
Enough to bring two souls
together and so be glad."

Tal, My Tal

Tel Aviv dressed in white, the sea
her sequined scarf. I imagine how
I could have stayed here, carved
out a life. Had a child named Tal like

Tal from El Al, red head, tough and sweet
blushingly beautiful, Tal, my Tal,
early morning dew on bougainvillea.
I hear her calling me, whispering my name.

Waves wash the Tel Aviv coast, I see an
Ethiopian girl, thin as a stick,
jumping in and out of the water.
"Eema, count for me, see how long I stay under.

I see a blond of four, born in Frankfurt,
having a tea party with herself,
tiny cup, tiny pitcher, visiting grandpa.

A couple from Paris lotioning a
baby, placing him in inflated tub,
pushing him along with help of sea and sky.

All of us, like Yehuda Halevi, 

part here, part there, 

glimpsing past, present, and
what may still be ours to have.

The Most Ancient Traveler

A Russian river, maybe the Volga,
overhead, three ravens cross the wintery sky,
then swoop down on an ice glazed branch -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

We trudge up fifteen steps, freshly shoveled.
A lit candelabra welcomes us.
Inside guests gather. I greet paintings
from other walls, carpets from other planks,
piano hauled from home to home.

A gaggle of students huddle on a couch,
quacking, quacking, flipping cards
across a cedar chest, when down swoop -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

One Pakistani, one Afghani, one from Iran,
"These three always hang together," he says.
An Indian woman with diamond studs joins them,
also a one-legged lad; half Chinese, half white, and
Daniel, son of Survivors, his wife, Tova, their son, Levi.

All here to celebrate Andy's birthday
come round like a full moon.
Against all odds, he's alive.
The piano has traveled, as have I.
Raising my glass of Russian River, I toast
the heart - by far, the most ancient traveler.

I'm enraptured by the moon come round
for one more birthday in late February.
From an ice glazed branch, three ravens swoop down -
Three princes: two Muslim, one a Jew,
while earth's red shadow eclipses a satin moon.

The Stork Opens Her Beak

That night, we slept with distant cousins,
We'd lost our luggage en route to Tel Aviv.
Shifra wasn't terribly glad to see us.
We gave her Nina Ricci from Air France

to compensate.

"Best hit the road as soon as the sun's up,"
Shifra says. "Start interviewing early."
First kibbutz officer will not have my sister,
"Too young, too much responsibility."

Next one agrees to take her; he's a Communist.
"Fine, even a girl of fourteen can work."
Orders Egged driver to drop us at Sde Yoav.
"Never heard of it, my friend," says the driver.
"Cross the road from Negba, you know Negba, right?"

By a weepy willow, he drops us off.
We trudge down a long dusty trail.  With little fanfare, 

they put us to work clearing a field, 

bending, tossing rocks of all sizes into a pile. 

As I bend down yet again, I see before me 

a flapping of wings. A stork has opened her beak 

and dropped us down on this God forsaken plot of earth.

For three days, we toil under the hot sun.
Watery blisters sprout on our arms and faces.
"Listen, sisters, this is not for you.
 Try making yourselves useful in the dining hall."

Blissfully, we mop. Out on the back porch, 

seated on plastic tubs, we peel potatoes,
dice cucumbers, refill salt and pepper.
Suddenly, my sister says, "I've had enough of this drudgery.
I've gotta move, see the country."

"You can't just go wandering off," I say.
"Yes, I can." She phones up the Katz family 

who I'd stayed with as an exchange student years ago. 

They agree.

Days pass, maybe weeks, I'm picking pears.
A strident sun roils the sky, when
in the distance, a silhouette, a woman

from the days of Abraham, our father,
balancing an urn on her head, walking our way.

Only now, it's my sister, wearing a dusty blue tank top 

and white Israeli sandals,

her smile victorious, and in that moment, 

the stork opens her beak once more, 

and drops down a streak of red envy 

that enters my heart.

Summer of Water Balloons

That summer, I was still wearing undershirts 

though too hefty for them.

It was the summer of water balloons.

One of us crouching over a facet,
another knotting long ones and plump ones,
plump as a baby's belly. Then we'd lob

each other gleefully and with vengeance.
From high embankments, we'd drench

innocent shoppers wheeling their carts.

That week, I was the only girl not asked
to Louise's sleepover. But the boys needed my help.

I was to knock on Louise's door - and they'd blast
her hall with dripping balloons.
Later, she would upbraid me, saying,
"How dare you - you stained my mother's carpet."

But that night, I went bike riding with the boys.

We raced past Schenley Park, 

past the stone mouthed panthers guarding Panther Hollow, 

panthers roaring with vengeance and glee. 

The sky was oiled an olive black,

moon slivered in its silver shell.

A sharp wind swept across my face and yes,
there was this one lanky Irish kid,
head of the pack, who'd been adopted by
a childless Jewish woman.

At times, he'd ride without holding the bars,
like treading water, or daring fate. Then
surprisingly, he rode to the place where
I was. My heart was open.

Home, Mummy scolded me, "Out so late, four kids
still up, what were you thinking?" 

Like four ducklings, I gathered them into the tub, 

scrubbed them down, wrapped them in towels,

smoothed their feathers.

Then, I opened the drawer to my pink
diary with its brass lock - I listed
the names of all the boys on the ride, and
wrote in detail about the lanky Irish kid.

Wedding Cake

A new bride at twenty four, we move into a place 

on the other side of the tracks,
where Venetian blinds cling to the windows.

I replace them with curtains from Sears, 

both blue and flowery, but too short for the windows,
like kids in hand-me-downs.

Three months go by. Ivan's asked to be
best man at his friend's wedding in St. Louis.
Then suddenly, his grandfather, a Pittsburgh
icon, dies and now Ivan has to choose:
funeral or wedding.

What goes 'round, comes 'round, 
Ivan makes his choice, and I acquiesce,
We leave the smokey city on the windy Thursday of Thanksgiving.
I'm glad for a break from my screeching seventh graders.

I take along my sewing basket with patterns and pins.
Howard and Ellen welcome us into their drafty flat. 

Saturday, we'll all be dancing at the wedding.

That night, trying to sleep, I hear a tip-tapping,
the undeniable tapping of roaches
on tented tin foil covering the turkey,
tip-tapping their own wedding dance.

Once home, two roaches boldly waltz
from my basket. They colonize.
The red-headed landlady refuses to help.

I'm cleaning on a Sunday afternoon.
Ivan once again off with Bill to chase trains, 

to shoot them comin' round a bend.

We'd stashed the plastic bride 'n groom from off
the wedding cake high up on a kitchen shelf.
As I swipe my rag, half dozen roaches scatter
north, south, east 'n west from the folds of her gown.

Stayed in that marriage nineteen long years.
Whys and wherefores, don't ask.

Into The Sea

Fleeing from Egypt,
Nachshon Ben Amichai was the first
to march into the Sea,

Before Moses with his staff,
before Aaron with his rod,
before Miriam with her timbral,
before the waves themselves
had parted.

Where did he get the chutzpah?
From where the nerve, the verve?
You have to wonder - when
it's so difficult, sometimes,
To make a simple decision.

Maybe he could hear
The Divine pounding
Pounding inside.

Does Anyone Have A Tissue?

"Does anyone have a tissue?",  asks Miriam.
Easy, straight forward, yet, for me, it's not
easy to ask for favors, even small ones.

My brother says, "Thank God I can receive love
from the birds." Not easy for him to be with
people, but birds are fine.

Frying Eggs on the Sidewalk

In Tucson, you can scorch your hand
on the handle of a car door,
or fry an egg on the sidewalk.

In New York, beware of black ice,
you can slip, not difficult at all,
take it from me.

So easy to get fried or iced,
a moment's inattention,
a willing suspension, and
all that misery - so unwanted.

These Bare Limbs

Staring at trees has become my daily
ritual, deciding if a tree is male,
female, old young, strong, feeble,
intelligent, fearful.

Second day of January, out walking.
Will I meet a friend for my soul,
will we exchange names,
converse?

Will these bare limbs remind me
of someone from my past, someone
I haven't seen in years?

Will we continue our discourse
from long ago?

Threads of Saffron

I'd drizzled the sky with threads of saffron
to mark the new year. Air still very still,
only the tip tops of trees stirred and
my cheeks burned to a burnt sienna.

If only I had a baklava, I'd
traipse across the tundra like a Russian
peasant. I'd feed salt to spotted deer.
I'd drizzle the sky with threads of saffron.
.