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I am caught between tantrum and
calm resignation
Suffering in silence is a
poorly learned lesson.
There is no reward for this acceptance
even divined by the debts accrued
even divined in the darkest tents
Who appointed me to be my advocate?
With my poorly presented
arguments
and a lack of a reasoned
reply?
It is true that we die alone
It is true that we die alone
My epitaph:
“No….I am not sorry.”
Rachmunis
Rachmunis
Empathy for the secrets of
the soul’s purpose
Is a doubtful defense
“No….I am not sorry.”
I am caught between tantrum and
calm resignation
and would rather return
to the darkest tent
and close the flap
behind me.
Warmth in the summer Warmth in the summer
The sticky sap under the bark of a maple
A full stomach
A photograpgh of a family
A husband and a wife
bookending a few children
Not posed really.....not posed
but a casual assemblage
that they fall into easily
The parents holding it all together
ilke the pages of a book. I supposed this would
be part
of my life.
I did not expect it.
I did not expect it.
The way a sapling does not expect to be a tree.
The way a stream does not expect to become a river.
It happens because it does happen. It was the way of things.
It was
the way
of things ______________________
I do not need anyone to tell me
I do not need anyone
to tell me that
all life is sacred. Held in the palm of eternty
like I hold these damp, cool pebbles
from the lakeshore in my hand. But I am of a species We are of a species that grew the way it did before we had words to explain that growth. And when the first words came they described a life that already was. Before anything was called a bed there was a safe place to sleep.
______________________
Longing Is The Memory
Longing
is the memory we do not have
but search for.
Somewhere
you pass the place where the memory was supposed to be
as if, caught in a current, you pass your landing on the river
or,
on the wrong train.
you see your station rush past you.
And
what was expected
receded into the distance
so quickly
you only saw it with you peripheral vision.
Like a movement behind you in the forest
leaving only rustling leaves.
You can't remember it's color
or texture
or smell.
Longing
is the memory we do not have
but search for.
The past you never had
kept in a locket
with no
picture.
Your future gone off to war
like a chaste lover
who
did not
return.
______________________
Memories Drift Past
Memories drift past us
every day
on the way to work
or
to the coprner store.
They appear
in the middle
of a another thought
like
a pressed flower
found
as you turn
the pages
of an old book.
You remember picking the flower.
The metaphor
becomes the memory.
______________________
Rosh Hashanah 2007
When was this a new year for a
reason?
What season in what other place
Made now a time to begin?
Here, in the northeast New York
crowd
The green bushes with the red berries and the thick clear
sap told me it was
Rosh Hashanah
Here, in Queens.
The first chilly breeze; the first buttoned sweater heralded
Honey covered cake balls and nuts
Honey sweetened sticky cakes
Red yarmulkes and white and blues talisim
Melodies not like the radio
Not like the record player
Melodies from some place older
And warmer
And drier
And older
The long tables cobbled together
From shorter tables
The long, white,
“special”
tablecloths covering the tables
making them one
Like the yarmulkes cover my Father’s head
My Uncle’s heads
My head.
Making us one.
No conversation at that meal was ever new
In structure.
Each part was owned.
The sister;
The brother:
The cousins;
The wives;
The parents;
The grandparents;
The dead both spoken of and kept silent.
The rituals of the family
The names; the places; the past
Always those same melodies
My mother singing the banal and trivial
The shared laughter of childhoods I knew/know nothing about.
Who would clear the table?
Who would wash?
Who would take home what was left?
Who
would
take
home
what
was
left.?
When was this a new year for a reason?
What season in what other place
Made now a time to begin?
Next year in Jerusalem
we say.
Next year in Jerusalem
2/9/2007
12:33 AM
There is
enough
blame
to go around
and
sometimes
you
are to blame
The burnt
toast
The
overflowing bathtub
The milk
left out
The
appointment forgotten
The lover
betrayed
The child
ignored
The belief
uprooted and made compost
The lie
you told yourself
The lie
you told yourself
what you
did you did didn’t you?
and
who forgave
you?
who?
Yes….there
are unspoken agreements
to move on
we call that
forgiveness
Yes….there
are quiet ceremonies
in dark rooms
and we
call that forgiveness
Yes….there
are prayers said with fists beating
your
closed eyes
and we
call that forgiveness
there may
be acceptance there may be that
there
might be a new agreement to move on
there might be that
but there is
no forgiveness
and there
is enough blame to go around
2/04/2007
I got old on Tuesday
There were one too many pains
at the same time
my left foot
the wisdom teeth I never had
removed
the surprise of a cramped calf
and some from the unknown interio
better left unquestioned
Skin has dried
Suppleness of movement and thought tightened and slowed.
I did not remember what’s his name today.
And I make too many wise decisions
Impulsiveness domesticated by accumulated and, truthfully,
Unasked for experience.
The fact of my own abbreviating remaining life became much
clearer
Wednesday
When it came to me
Over cocoa laced with lessening amount of bourbon
That those loved and gone
Outnumbered those loved and left.
That those loved
And gone
Outnumbered those loved and left.
And I began to worry about my friends
Not that they might be in trouble
For beliefs and ethical stands
Or love affairs deemed unwise and doomed in passion and
abandon
But that they might fall
From any number of unseen unexpected malfunctions
And living alone, having exhausted partners and lovers,
Lie there and I wouldn’t know
And I couldn’t help them
Not knowing.
And then there would be all
that I hadn’t quite gotten around
to saying
So shall I tell you everything today? So shall I tell you everything today?
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