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poetry from "The Street" aka Poetic Asides
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Hi lily Hi lily Hi Lo
Long ago Amy
kindergarten classmate
sang in pure high contralto
next to the piano in front
of an impossibly large auditorium
sunlight shafted from high windows
and we all kindergarten through grade
six sat transfixed, that voice lifted my
heart - I didn't have the words beyond
happy - never noticed the way the
light shone through the thinness of
her dress or the pinch of her hungry
cheeks - not until much later -
came to know that beauty
can sing over sadness
Oh Amy ..
Hi Lily - Hi Lily
Hi Lo ....
The Old Man and Israel
I recall an old man with a long black coat
a snow-white beard who came to the house
once in a while and collected a small tin
box - blue and white where we put coins
for Israel a fledging place of bible story
a magical place far off that had come
to life - where there were young people
dancing in circles with flowers in their
hair - free from the horror of family
ash - I recall the old man - I learned
the anthem, saw pictures of a blue
and white flag and draped it all
around the stories heard of
crematorium and genocide
hatred and those iconic
piles of shoes and suitcases
Israel - tucked away -
a just in case place -
a place of Sunday stories
somehow come to life
in unconflicted shining
moral standing -
standing now
in sadness that
should never
can never be
the old man long gone
I no longer that little girl
and yet I hold the dream
of the just-in-case
next to nightmares
what was and could be
a cacophany of clanging
images clattering -
imprinted early in my
heart - the succor and
safety of Israel of
Yisrael - fledging
nation now powerful
needing the coins of
belief dropping still
into tin cans of
blue and white as
she struggles to be
the flower of hope
sanctuary and safety
in the center of pain
Oh how I yearn for that little girl -
for the mystical old man in his
long black coat and beard
who took my coins to help
Armfuls of flowers
armfuls of flowers tossed in the air
falling about her as he ruffles her hair
giggling at nothing and everything where
they run in elysian fields without care
armfuls of flowers of peace, puppies
and such - at twenty or so it takes not very much -
as decades fold and
flowers and lovers fall to the ground
and peace seems a dream, a child's tale once told-
the ravage of time
the downside of growing so old
Beyond
Oh all mothers or most think their babes are special
but he was -
he was turning at two days and
on and on and on - each day
sprinkled with new joy and love
oh the love -
all mothers or most think their babies are
special - most mothers or all expect that they
shall be loved forever - most are - some are not -
and the sadness that follows is beyond the realm of poetry
Oh My Papa
I sang this song
standing on a chair
where they would
lift me under my arms
My father never did -
My father and I drifted
on magical air whether
we were in company
or alone - the others
curled my hair in
white rags and
dressed me in
starchy petticoats -
My father lay with
me under the willow
tree showing me the
shadows dappling on
our shirts as sunshine
sparkled -
my father sat with me
in our little living room
eyes closed on our
couch small red records
playing at roaring volume
violin concertos - Pathetique
The New World Symphony -
sitting curled against his side -
eyes closed -
feeling stories in sound
pounding through my tiny chest
The others had me read, chattered
flatteringly about how quick I was
smiling with bright red lipstick
My father painted oil pictures
on an easel on a rickety wooden pier
I sat at the edge and as sun fell
watched the crabs blow bubbles
where did it go -
where did it go...
Oh my papa
I hum ...
I hum ...
