Earth gives only so much
and does not always cooperate.
We gather and steam
and work and regale each
other with stories. Meanwhile,
a single emerald winks
from the dull ground, then becomes
another and another
until life pushes forward, sliding
aside our doubtful sands
and mournful pebbles.
A new life, a new garden
begins with that single stem
suddenly, exultantly budding.
If you do not enter
the heart
now, there will
be pain.
A poem in offing
sealed coffin
and, all those poems
up at arms, in protest.
I sit in the grass by my grandmother’s grave
as I do every year, leave a stone, a Jew’s way
to show respect. I feel our souls touch.
I speak to her, about family events she never saw,
great-grandchildren she never met. I tell her how
much I love her, miss her, and I leave fulfilled.
This year, I tell her I’m sorry she is forgotten…
her pain, her struggles, her terror, her arduous journey,
her American dream destroyed in a cyclone of hate,
where swastikas and slurs swarm like bees, effigies
hang like ornaments, and Nazi chants draw cheers.
This year I mourn for her and for all those like her.
I am sad for those who say get over it.
Wounds have left scabs that are being picked open.
I feel chilled, my spirit broken.
The stone of respect I left behind seems crushed
like the fragile bones of fledglings under
Nazi boots in fresh dirt.
Don’t tell me to move on. Not yet.
Don’t judge, listen.
Don’t tell me you know. Hold my hand.
I want to feel protected. I want to feel safe.
My grandmother sacrificed more than you know
so I could live unafraid. She deserves that.
I do, too.
Thought he was
the whole slick
package
His love turned
out to be rusty
barbs
The keeper,
a prize, turned out
sour and false.
You cannot spread my ashes yet,
No, do not plan to spread them.
I am not yet dead, crushed, gone.
You may want to tie me to the stake
as you did my namesake, Joan,
bury heart, stomp ashes into ground.
Yes, I am sad now for choices made
But, hear me, I will work
To protect those left bereft.
I am not inactive.
I am not at rest.
I am working, working, working.
I will not give up
My vision of America
I will not give in
to hate, so
do not make plans to
scatter my ashes yet.
The principles
of our democracy
have been set aflame.
Smoldering.
I will douse the flames of hate,
not fighting fire with fire,
but with a blanket
of good works.
Yes, they might come
For me, after all, I am olive
skinned and of
independent mind.
But, I shout, do not plan to
scatter my ashes yet
for I am still alive –
and fighting.
They sell what they
can, what is not
bolted down.
When troubles come,
they loot neighbors
and friends.
Eyes full of dollar signs.
I know it is cliché,
but what about the old
saying about giving
and receiving?
those unknown small side roads
that peel off the main route
mysterious and unexplored
what’s up with the dead ends
with the not-a-thru-streets
with the many nameless ones
who lives down the gravel lanes
what’s up those steep grades
a fleeting moment of suspense
never stopping allowing curiosity
eyes on the route cannot deviate
got to get somewhere 55 mph