                     The hat the world makes me wear
                      is way too small for my head.
                      It presses on my thoughts
                      hurting my ideas, and crushes
                      all my dreams.
                      The shoes too are short by a size
                      or two. Wounding my feet
                      they constantly prevent me
                      from taking the right step.

                      For the heart no garment is available,
                      since it rejects any cover
                      adhering to the naked truth.

                      And the soul—an entity so lacking
                      substance as to doubt its existence—
                       has no body which one can clothe.

                      The only possibly adequate dressing
                      I am able to find in this world,

                      is for salads—

                                         http://www.bostonliterarymagazine.com/winter12poetry.html#winter12couture.html

Old Adam and old Eve

Old Adam and old Eve are sitting in their old kitchen of their old home.
They’ve just had breakfast and now are half snoozing half schmoozing :
- “Remember the taste of that apple you’ve given me?”
- “How can I ever forget…It wasn’t really an apple, but rather
some other weird fruit resembling apple, the like of which I can find
nowhere in the supermarket.”
- “If only He had let me have another bite I might perhaps
have gotten me a college degree…”
- “Well, no use crying over spoiled snack…”

Old Adam and old Eve are still sort of homeless in their old home.
This is yet another apartment after being expelled from Eden, for
like their eldest son they too keep wandering from place to place,
since nothing can, even remotely, compare to their first abode.

Now with generations of offspring spread all over the world,
strange people they don’t even know their names, old Adam and
old Eve are ailing and alone. They reminisce a lot about the early
golden - ah, so very short - times long gone.
Oh, how happy they were then even though with no parents,
sort of the world’s first orphans…
Oh, how happy they were when they didn’t know they were happy -
They never mention their neighbor Mr. Serpent for whom Adam
still harbors some grudge, nor their beloved son Abel whose death
continues growing, like a malignancy, in Eve’s womb.

They’ve always been so busy fulfilling God’s command to work
and multiply that years passed them by in a twinkling. ”Too fast…
If only we had a moment…” they used to complain. Now retired,
they’ve lots of free time and don’t know what to do with it.
Awareness of the difference between good and evil hasn’t bettered
their existence, neither has it taught them how to overcome this
absolutely awful boredom.
Insecure, in spite of the social-security checks, they go on
munching pieces of their life day by day,
without gaining any new knowledge.
They’ve taken policies of life-insurance on each other, so at least
the dying spouse may die in peace.

Old Adam and old Eve are sitting in their old kitchen of their old home.
They’ve just had breakfast and now are half snoozing half schmoozing -
- “Aren’t you glad we didn’t taste from that other tree?”
- “You bet! Imagine this going on forever?”

http://www.millerspondpoetry.com/index.php/issues/index.php?page=vol-14-3web#Rena Lee

Miller's Pond Magazine Fall 2011' Vol 14-3

Modigliani’s Wife

She is the woman behind the portraits:

Jeanne Hebuteme, artist and model who let all lights shine

on her beloved. She stuck by him through thick and thin,

in health, and mostly in sickness, despite her family’s fierce

rejection of the man they regarded a Jewish debauchee.

She is the woman behind the portraits:

Jeanne with hat, Jeanne with necklace,

Jeanne with hat & necklace,

Jeanne with wide brim hat. In yellow sweater…with red scarf.

And in all of these, that typical Modigliani neck, graceful as an

alabaster column, yet so extremely fragile, somewhat tilted,

as if carrying the head proves to be too much of a burden.

Ah, that typical Modigliani swan neck!

If you listen carefully to its silence, you may catch at any time

the latent notes of the forthcoming swan song –

In a late portrait – black top, red skirt – one may spot a slight

curvature, which the future viewer, well aware of what has

already happened, will take as sign of early pregnancy.

However, the woman in the picture knows not yet that both

mother and baby are doomed, that this child is destined

to stay unborn, forever buried in a painting,

sealed in oil colors.

*Modigliani’s wife (Jeanne Hebuteme) pregnant in the ninth month,

jumped to her death from the fifth floor two days after her husband’s death

http://www.subtletea.com/ September - December 2011

Man in the Moon

"The nights get darker and darker," you say,
looking out the window at a waning moon.
You turn your crescent back to me,
and back you slide into blissful sleep.

I listen to the shadows of your face.
Your eyes are playing games under closed lids,
sending a wind through your lashes.
A breezy smile is hovering upon your lips.
Gazing at you, I ask myself:

"Who is this happy stranger in my bed?"

The moon too, passing by, raises an eyebrow -

Take me with you, I wish to cry, don't leave me behind
all alone like this, clutching a feathery beam
in an ocean of darkness. I move closer and touch you,
as ever searching for comfort in flesh.

Suddenly you stir. Your smile becomes a grimace.
Disturbed, you're grouchy and grumpy and full of accusation -

Oh, this is unmistakably you…
And I’m so happy you’ve returned!

http://www.ascentaspirations.com/ V.15 Number 8, Aug. 2011

Marriage Sentence

You may view them as two clauses in a sentence
that often lose their copulative conjunction.
Still, there always remains a certain nebulous connection.
It’s exceedingly hard to tell which one is the subordinate.

Long ago they pledged allegiance to matrimony:
One couple indivisible for better or worse.
Long ago it was better.

At times, when their bond approaches bondage,
they quickly embark on search for mitigating circumstances.
Theirs is a sentence with hard labor, non-stop nurturing,
on-going strife for meaning.
After all, it takes so little to mar a marriage, just a small step
from rapture to rupture.

They’ve stayed linked together in service of their
common sentence.
The thin thread of love and commitment still holds,
even though - as evident from knots in certain spots –
certain cuts occurred.

Yes, they’re still hanging in there, within the wedlock.
The key, it seems, is now forever lost.
What they possess may not be a lot,
but they’ve reconciled to their lot.
Besides, they’ve gotten so used to each other
and habit has its pros, like those worn-out comfortable
shoes of which one is reluctant to dispose.

Perhaps by now they’ve even forgotten what exactly
it was they were so keen to achieve.
They avoid looking at the growing want
preoccupied with their minor everyday needs.

And they’re very busy, indeed, with countless repairs,
for theirs is an old model of marriage, no spares.

By now, they appear content with the status quo.
Perhaps, they’ve learned to expect less of the more-or-less.
Perhaps, they believe that if you lower your goal,
there’s a better chance to score.
Perhaps, the lower you go, the lessened you become,
scoring itself too is less important.

At least there are no more of those bitter arguments,
nor ego’s fierce claim for domain.
At least, the full blast of lust is not upon them
and a low fire of desire still emanates warmth.
At least, there is forgiving, and tenderness,
a world of blessed tenderness, unsurpassed tenderness -

Oh, let it be!
http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/poetry_august_2011_3.php

MRI

The machines are all there waiting for you –
Modern-age deities they have their own ways
of probing your inward.

A technician in white proceeds to ascertain there’s no
scrap of metal in your body, and you suddenly imagine
yourself in the airport checked before boarding –

You embark on a table, a tube’s hungry mouth opens
to swallow you…
“And remember not to move…”

Now, like it or not, you’re in for the concert.
The variety of sounds is astounding: Hammering, knocking,
dentist drilling… On occasion it’s like a repetitive sentence:
“Don’t think about it, don’t think about it…”
“Don’t think, don’t think…” “Don’t, don’t…”
Then a burst of chimes from thousand bells –
Yet, amidst all this noise a solo thin voice may sneak
reminding of the Shofar blowing on Judgment Day
when verdict is issued whether you live or die.

The cacophony grows. It’s terrible now, shaking vigorously
the entire table…And when in agony thinking it’ll never end
it suddenly stops.
“You’re done,” declares the technician bidding good bye –

All stiff you assemble your bones, bundle up in the warm coat
and scarf, and off, on the way home. It’s cold outside.
All the time you were cooped up it was snowing heavily,
and the streets are white like a technician’s gown.

In a few days you’ll have the test’s results, and you seem
to hear Ma’s voice from distant years:
“Never mind the A’s, all you need is a passing grade
to move you on to the next semester.”

http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/poetry_april_2011_4.php

Calling God Long Distance

"Hello! Does someone hear me up there?"

Holding the receiver tight, pressed to ear,
while the clock's hands dance around time,
changing angles desperately,
as if to avoid final judgment.

Pinned by seconds, needled by minutes,
I continue to dial endless numbers
from the huge telephone-book of the universe.

Oh, good God!
Does He too have an unlisted number?

Always at the mercy of some operator,
I'm being again operated on, again cut short,
again kept on the long waiting list -

Oh dear God, please drop me a line
from somewhere between the lines!

Buzz-zz, is the only sound I hear.
My soul unplugged is running out.
My life hangs on a cord -

Suddenly this voice, loud and clear and near:

"Hello, are you still there?
Please hold-on another minute...hold-on...
just keep holding-on..."

http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/poetry_april_2011_4.php

Shortcomings

To the long list of my shortcomings is now added

shortness of breath –

Still, worst of all is my time that keeps getting shorter & shorter.

Incredible how it was largest at its inception, which coincided with

my own birth, and how as I started growing up, it proceeded to decline.

Now I live in continuous fear of its disappearance.

I am a tall woman who often falls short.

“Whether large or small, tall or short, matters not,

things are bound to come around if you only persevere,” was

one of Dad’s sayings, before he stopped saying anything at all.

This occurred when to my friends I suddenly became

a graceless ostrich amidst pretty little chirping birds -

I keep recalling other sayings of his, such as:

“Remember there’s always light at the end of the tunnel.”

Yet, he failed mentioning that the state of the eyes was the key,

for what’s the use of light if one cannot see?

In the dark wake of his death, I’ll never know whether he saw

that promised light at the end.

To the long list of my shortcomings is now added

shortness of breath –

Still, worst of all is my time –

Constantly on the run and formless like water and wind, it may yearn,

on occasion, for some sort of incarnation. Perhaps, this is why sometimes

it takes the shape of my father, who similar to my time towered high

above me when I was little, and proceeded to shrink as I was growing up –

I visualize him as last seen from the window, shriveled and bent ambling

down the street, smaller and smaller with each step, till swallowed at the

North West corner.

Thus Dad left me with all my old shortcomings as well as my new

shortness of breath, perched on the window-sill as a bird that lost its song,

alone in the all engulfing sunset -

Literary House Review

Third Annual Edition Dec. 2009

Shoes

This is not about an old woman who lives in a shoe, or
any other nursery rhyme, but about one in a tiny apartment
on the tenth floor of a large walk-up dilapidated building.
This woman has no children, no husband, no next-of-kin,
in fact nobody, except the neighbor – a kind soul from
across the hall - who comes to check on her before
going to the supermarket.

This is an old woman who lives in her cramped stuffy
place utterly out of time. Nobody can estimate her age,
and even she seems to have forgotten –
Shriveled, ailing and often confused, she sometimes
doubts she was ever born.

The entire space is so full of the past that – for lack
of room - every new day is destined to remain outside.
In a blur she may recall when as part of a pair she used
to be whole, as opposed to the now diminished self
apart.

In a blur she may recall how then they were like a pair
of shoes, or gloves, committed and complementing
each other. For shoes and gloves make sense only
in pairs, a single shoe can go nowhere, and a lone glove
is indeed a pathetic sight -

How then they were going places together
hand in hand left and right. And how at night upon
returning home they’d put their shoes in a row at
the bedside, climb on the bed, and make lots and lots

of love, until the springs turned strings, the bed
transformed into a one-of a-kind musical instrument,
and the shoes below started bouncing and dancing.
She still can remember how wonderful it was, butnot
how it felt.

There is this old woman who lives in a tiny apartment
quite by herself. Reduced and often confused, she keeps
watch over her beloved’s last pair of shoes he had no
chance to wear. Those “New Balance” sneakers he bought
when balance wasn’t much of an issue in the wheelchair.
Now they’re standing over there where she can’t escape
their stare, and she doesn’t know anybody,
anybody at all they may fit -

miller's pond poetry magazine, vol.13 issue 2, spring 2010

A bed on nine legs

My beloved made our bed
with his own two hands.
To the lumberyard he went
and brought two sturdy wooden doors -
once trees growing forests away
from each other -
and joined them in wedlock.

The plank he then raised
from the floor,
to stand - as is common - on four.

But this bed wanted more…

So he kept adding legs, one-by-one,
first a fifth, then a sixth,
and so on and on,
until with the ninth
his labor ended
giving birth to our bed.

Now he proceeded to throw
a foam-rubber mattress,
on the hard top,
then a neat, sun-smelling sheet,
then me,
then himself -
thus turning a mere platform bed
into some sort of cathedral.

On its nine legs there's no telling
how carried away one may get,
nor is there a way to estimate
the knots one makes
in the foam-rubber ocean.

Others may wish for bed of roses,
but I (knock on wood)
am grateful for mine.
Besides, what can be more inspiring
than the Nine?

And when in darkness
I lie awake and wonder,
what is there for me in store,
my beloved already appears to know
"Remember me,” he whispers softly,
"I’m the guy next door,
'love thy neighbor’,
'love thy neighbor’…”

http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/main/page_poetry_april10_2.html

Question

You lie lopsided

posing a question mark.

Next to you, I too lie askew.

Bodies of two old buddies

by now so well versed

in their positions.

Too close, yet not close enough -

My once prince charming

is fast asleep, and I,

his once sleeping beauty

lie wide awake pondering

an infinitesimal crack in

love’s seemingly tight wall

open as a question one dares not ask –

The Bijou Poetry Review, April 3, 2010

http://www.bijoupoetryreview.blogspot.com/

New Arithmetic for an Aging Couple

In their love exchange

they both lost and won.

Now they are so invested in each other

it's hard to tell the separate assets

from their common stock.

Their commodities sharply declined

yet they found a new appreciation.

In trust, all their bonds hold.

In their love exchange

love itself has changed:

From fierce and ruthless

it turned toothless.

It's as tender as their gums.

Its gait humble, its voice low,

it seeks to sooth self-inflicted blows.

After all, they're but an aging couple:

A husband and wife

who depend on each other

for life.

You might have seen them

passing through:

A man and a woman

the sum of more than one

less than two –

A Hudson View Poetry Digest, Summer 2009 Vol. 4 No. 2

In the Same Bed

For years they’ve been sleeping together

in the same bed.

Insomniacs now, they’re still together

in the same bed -

not sleeping.

They’ve already tried everything,

from medication to counting sheep,

yet nothing has brought relief:

Wide awake in their old narrow bed

they can only dream of falling asleep.

Night after night they continue lying

back to back -

the once-groom on one side

on the other the once-bride –

in fetal position,

as if still anticipating

to be born -

A Hudson View Poetry Digest, Summer 2009 Vol. 4 No. 2

The Net

We were caught in a net, you and I -

"The simple truth is," you said,

"that truth isn't simple."

You turned and looked into the lake

where trees were growing from their tops

and houses from their roofs.

"You've always been good," I said,

"at turning everything upside down."

It was late afternoon.

Having lost its battle for the day,

the dropping sun seemed just another grain

in an enormous hourglass.

I thought of resignation, of its hurting peace,

and watched bloodstains trailing off in the sky.

Nearby, on a boat, two fishermen were busy

mending a net. So intent they appeared

on catching nothingness and tying ropes

around its neck.

"How can you tell a whole hole from a hole in

a hole?" you asked, attempting to laugh away

the sadness, the pain, the bitter acknowledgement

that any truth within our grasp could be only

a meshwork of knots and emptiness.

Trapped we remained standing there, you and I,

up to our ankles in water,

at our feet a sea of cold twitching fish –

Voices Israel 2009, Vol.35

Woman at a Certain Age

sitting at a table, hands clasped in lap.

There are apples – borrowed from Cezanne? – And perhaps

a pear or two, laid out on a blue-glazed platter.

Wildflowers in a large white mug may be added

as feature that befits a painting like this.

The woman seems immersed in thought:

Is she reminiscing about all the things she was able to do

once upon another time?

Regretting all the things she could’ve had, but let pass by?

Contemplating how it always keeps getting

too late too soon?

No telling for sure what goes on in her mind -

Perhaps she reproaches herself, as suggested by the brooding

expression: “Come on,” she may say to herself, “you’ve known

all along one essentially remains alone, that with the perpetual

clattering and chattering all about you,

it’s really not about you.”

Woman at a certain age, at a table, head tilted,

slightly lowered, palms clutching emptiness.

Not a stir in sight in the opaque air, yet one senses the

approaching night, even catches an escaped echo

from the rusty cage of her heart, where a locked-up nightingale,

crazy with love, cannot stop singing –

Woman at a certain age sitting at a table

in the company of flowers and fruit.

It’s still –

life.

Voices Israel 2009, Vol.35

Metamorphosis, Or, Songs of a Worm

Curled up in his cocoon
feeling out of this world
for a change,
the worm is, at last, the apple
of his pupa's eye.
"Time to sleep now," he mutters
to himself, safe, more or less,
in his silky house, for there's only
so much one can do to protect oneself,
as we (who've seen the transparent
transience of stone and iron)
must know.

"A worm is a worm is a worm..."
he whispers, dreaming of a rose.
So weary is he of turning and
returning like a sort of living screw,
wriggling his way through
blades of grass, pulling strings
from himself, for himself,
treating his own body
as if it were an important document
that ought to be sealed
and concealed, and kept intact
for some future act -

"Sleep...sleep..." he mumbles
drowsy and drained,
his last energy spent,
his thread of larval-life
at its end -

"A worm is a worm is a worm…"
he tries to stick
to what he knows ,
to what he is,
has been,

was.

II.

Strange sensations, "Oh!"
The pain, the ecstasy, the
creepy motion from behind -
"Oh!"

When was it that he felt
so happily singled out?

"Out!"
He cries out, aching, already
forgetting that this enclosure
is of his own making.
(After all how long can be
a puny worm's memory?)

He is almost at the tail
of his old self, perhaps
he is already the wiggly tail
itself, of some unborn
butterfly?

Is he about to die?
"Oh!

Who?

I?”

III.

When did his custom-made home
turn into this prison ?

Surely all is not well. Not well
at all. Much too small.
He can take no more the hurt,
the sting, the pressure on every wing.
He can't wreathe, can't breathe,
there's absolutely no room.
A break is all he needs
and from pupa to popularity
he'll zoom -

Oh! Another chance.
A chance to be another.
A slight change of role to get him
out of this hole.
He can take no more this squeeze.

Who is he?

Is he?

But to be or not to be
is hardly the question when
one is neither here
nor there.

Even a worm has his own
crossing
to bear.

IV.

There's only so much one can do!

First you crawl. Then, recoil.
Then, feeding on deathlike sleep
and crumbs of a dream,
you seek to redeem yourself,
to grow, perhaps draw
a bright circle from the pit of despair,
to mark your existence
sometime, somewhere,
between eternity and nowhere.

First you crawl.
Then, if lucky, if against all odds,
you indeed proceed, and succeed,
and prove to be good -
at least not worse than others -
you fly for a while.

Never as long as wished for,
never as high,
not nearly as the singing-bird
at the top of the tree.
Maybe, she too is sick with envy
at the sight of eagle's flight?
(As we, who heard that note
of sadness in her song
have suspected all along.)

Low and little you fly.
Perhaps the flimsy wings
are not enough to lift one above
his earthy, wormy past?

Low and little you fly,
close to the grass, the thorns,
the shrubs at most,
a host for the moment
like a drop of dew, taking a bow
on a perfumed flower -

Alas! You cannot stretch the hour,
cannot shake the awesome power
of infinitesimal particles of dust
conspiring to let you down
once and for all.

Alas! You know one must fall
at last, back to the ground
as decreed -

or else, on what will the worm
feed?

www.cyclamensandswords.com Apr. 2009

        A Bagel for Breakfast

    You sit at the table across me
    calmly buttering a bagel.
    Watching how your hands move,
    I hold on to you by the fingernails.
    It is late in the morning
    and the rain never stops.
    Its diagonal regiments
    threaten to erase the world.
    The windowpane is in tears
    over losing its vision,
    and the persistent crying
    only aggravates its blur.

    Between you and me
    all is quite on the table’s front.
    Knives and forks lie side by side
    like good old couples.
    Teaspoons rest on saucer-beds
    tired of their endless stir
    in effort to sweeten.

    Around us, the room’s walls
    are trying to square
    the vicious circle of life.

    You sit at the table across me
    calmly buttering a bagel,
    and all I can see is how we are
    in a hole.

                                 Flutter, Poetry Journal.     Feb. 2009

                                 www.freewebs.com/rarepetal/leefeb09

                                 miller's pond poetry magazine,   vol.12 issue 2, spring 2009

                                 http://www.millerspondpoetry.com/index.php/issues/index.php?page=vol12-2web

Songs of Shulamite (Prologue)

I come from a summer country
where days, hot, dry, and slow-dying
plod like camels' caravans in desert sands.
In their humps, a hidden future,
chains of bells around their necks.
In some prehistoric cave of my being
the metallic echoes persist.

I come from a country of ancient sorrows,
where merciless sun is remolding a nation,
melting crowds in sultry streets.
The scarcity of water can be matched
only with that of peace,
and a weary soldier in dusty khaki
is perpetual reminder
that this isn't just a borderline case
but a question of life and death.

I come from a country pregnant with hope, and dreams.
Juicy ones, sweet and heavy as those watermelons
wheeled to a sheltered shade, where they lie
round and green, bursting with expectation.
At the height of my palate the taste lingers -

Back and forth I go to Jerusalem, to look once again
for traces of a youth buried in the hills.
They say the nights in Canaan are beautiful,
yet how can one bear that awesome beauty
alone?

I was raised on pines' resin in the mountains of Judea,
but all the pine-needles of Jerusalem failed to
sew up the pieces of my torn love.
From time to time tear-cones are falling down
to kindle the bonfire of a poem.
Perhaps in many years, words and pain
may crystallize into golden amber.
Oh, my love,
thou art in the clefts of the rock
If I forget thee, if I forget thee

I carry you with me wherever I may be
as one carries soil from the Holy Land.

I come from a summer country, where the sun is a lion
roaring, its curls billowing fire. There is always some
terrible danger lurking in clouds of smoke. And always,
always this hard unbending love -

I come from a country that never lets you.

www.cyclamensandswords.com Nov. 2008

Fashion Designer’s View

The secret is to keep the right balance
between revealing and concealing,
always letting the eye see
into an ocean of fantasy.

Now, after the dwellers of Eden
had their taste of the forbidden
fruit,
they discovered that slightly covered
is sexier than starkly
nude.

(The proof is right there,
just Goya’s two Mayas compare.)

No apparel stores around,
they made do with what they found,
which leaves,
leaves.

Perhaps wearing a fig-tree’s leaf
instead of not a fig,
isn’t much of dress progress,
yet – as put in French parlance –

“Vive la petite difference!”

www.cyclamensandswords.com Nov. 2008

Psychiatrist’s View

So depressed, and sexually suppressed
was Adam at first,
I had to make him realize
he actually lived in paradise.

It appears I’ve failed despite all my efforts
to treat, for eventually he split.

However, presently both parties are in need
of my services, for although together
they still remain alone,
each with problems on one’s own.

And even if less sexually suppressed,
Adam isn’t a bit less depressed.
In fact, he has turned much worse, quite a wreck!
Now he wishes he were single again,
(not unlike some other married men).
Therefore, I think, he seeks help from a shrink.
Alas, the jinnee is out of the bottle,
no way putting it back –

So far my therapy hasn’t won,
yet I’ve got me two patients instead of one,
and I welcome the extra trouble
being also the pay is double!

www.cyclamensandswords.com Nov. 2008

Creative Process

Writing on clouds

turning into rain

thickening into snow

melting into water

solidifying into ice

and again

dissolving -

There's no end to beginning -

Poems in purple ink

on white flat sheets

march back and forth

undecided.

Flaky cold letters ganged i11to words

line-up in bitter phrases

to pass upon me

sentence after sentence.

I feel so harshly misjudged -

Caged in rain. Cemented in snow.

I'm nailed-down by my own possibilities.

There's utter chaos in my world

and on the naked floor, alone in tabor ,

I struggle to divide the light

from the darkness.

Voices Israel 2008, Vol. 34

Past Meridian

"The nights seem to get darker", you say, "and quieter", I add,

thinking of all the neighbors who went South.

"Now you see them, now you don't", you motion to a flock of

birds performing in the sky.

Holding hands as we walk on. All around us trees proceed

to bare their hearts. There's a metallic ring to their

confessions. "One of those moods again?" you ask gently,

lifting my chin. Perceptive as always, you and I,

as always caring, yet so careful not to eclipse one another

You and I: a couple past meridian

trying to salvage whatever is left of themselves,

jointly and severally.

"The nights seem to get darker", you say, "and colder", I add,

thinking of my shivery loneliness no blanket can cover.

Stranded on the banks of darkness like some shell reject

by the sea, I feel time's creeping snail within me,

its ticking echoes in my heart.

"Now that they're stripped", you say, looking at the trees

"their secrets are given out in countless squirrels".

I can see them dancing in your eyes, little arrows of

distraction. I know you want to cheer me up, yet I find

this nakedness so painful, so much harder to bear

than fruit.

I'm watching your familiar profile but cannot figure out

the many angles of your smile.

I keep recalling how we first met,

once, upon an imaginary intersection of a longitude and

a latitude, on the face of this earth, when

dust mixed with dust and flesh with flesh -

long before we turned into some sort of celestial bodies

solitaries of different orbits

and a shared space.

Voices Israel 2008, Vol. 34

miller's pond poetry magazine, vol.12 issue 2, spring 2009

http://www.millerspondpoetry.com/index.php/issues/index.php?page=vol12-2web

The Evil Spirit And My David

Evil spirit, evil spirit

shakes my whole soul—

I know not for how long,

nor to what end I may come—

Bitter am I and sad and weary,

it seems, unto death—

Evil spirit, truly bad—

And my David is old.

He stopped playing ages ago –

And my David—even though mine

bears a different name—was too ruddy

and with beautiful eyes.

He too was akin to a king,

and accomplished marvels

striking and strumming.

Now he is old.

His lids are heavy, and at all times

half down, like curtains ready

for the show’s close.

His eyes watching the television

are extinct, and his hand, once so skilled

with the bow, now clutches the remote-control.

He is changing channels, one by one,

in search of a parking-spot, someplace

where perhaps he’ll finally be able to rest

from all the wars—

but finds none.

Also, no bits are left of footage

from the other regal, glorified

personage.

Frenzied in the evil spirit’s grip, I visualize

once again David’s harp—that

evil spirits’ chaser, about which so much noise

was made—and wonder,

for the thousandth time around,

at the secret of its healing sound—

And bitter am I and sad and weary,

it seems, unto death—

And my David is old and full of days,

and comes in the nights

no more—

Translated from the Hebrew by the author, from her poem-collection

Juniper Songs (Shirey Arar), Israel:

"Carmel Publishing House," 2000.

For information about the author, see her internet site: www.renalee.net

Midstream — November/December 2005

Zoo Keeper’s View
(From “Views on Eden”)

The snake ought to have been in a cage.

Being dangerous, it shouldn’t be allowed to roam about,
spreading its poison. Is paradise for everyone?
Did God perhaps wish to let every creature have a taste of it,
even when in hell? (Which in turn renders hell all the more hellish?)

Or else: God knew that if Eden’s relish would be exclusively a right

of the righteous, the place would become like some motel down the road,

and down on its luck, posting a large sign for all to see: “Vacancy!”

Besides, an attorney for the snake could have struck accord
arguing no previous criminal record, begging for pardon. That is,
if attorneys were permitted at all into that heavenly garden.

Had the snake been fenced in, all of us outcasts would probably be

still enjoying Eden. Compared with the countless laws restraining us today,

wouldn’t it be easy to obey a single decree, namely,
abstain from the fruit of a certain tree?
Alas! Maybe this only proves that liberty for all was destined for demise

even in paradise. For one’s freedom is bound to infringe on another’s.

Be it man or beast, there are always “the others” —

I tend the animals locked up at the zoo. I watch them running,
lost in the confined stretch, eyes clouded with memories of space.

The staring people outside are perfectly free to move it would seem.

Yet, each one of them too is prisoner of a secret jail within.

"Modern Age" Spring 2005, Vol. 47, No.2

Attempts to Render Form

(Nisionot Ledamot Tzura)

When still a child

he envisioned God in the kindergarten teacher

whose wish would declare whether to punish

or spare.

Then, in the schoolmaster

with his ever open book and inscribing hand.

An adult, already versed in pain,

he viewed God as Atlas, a sort of porter

who bears the heavy load of suffering

in the world.

Flooded with trouble, by tidal waves

crushed, all images were smashed,

in his dimmed eyes-

Weary of all things beyond reach,

in the evening's ashes, his search persisted

for embers of that which existed.

Suddenly,

in a desert of muteness, the whisper of silence

caught his ear, and a great joy took hold of him.

For he recalled the splendorous garden where

he had been, long before kindergarten,

and knew:

The awesome gardener strolling that garden

in the cool of day,

whose kingdom ruled the universe,

was no other than

his father.

Translated from Hebrew by the author, from her poetry collection,

Past Meridian (Shenot Tzohoraim), 1980, Israel: Reshafim Publishing House.

Midstream - May/June 2004

TEACHER'S VIEW

Like their parents

children of Adam and Eve

pursue their pleasures

heedless of any prohibition.

When it comes to studies

they'll take any fruit

rather than a book.

The knowledge

they may finally gain

will always remain

only a taste:

Never filling the hunger

yet enough to expose

their nakedness

and shame.

Midstream -November/December 2003

In The Market

A gain I was beguiled by the Jerusalem market. Led in the narrow, crooked streets,

through arched openings with their ever-frowning brows.

Again I was captivated by ivory smiles, drowned in spices and incense,

daggered by hundreds of eyes.

Again I was shot by an accidental camera, forced to partake in some strange life,

a mere piece of its intricate jigsaw puzzle:

An old Arab on a low stool sucking on a water pipe, people bargaining in a store,

their fingers silently tell the story.

Mezuzas, Magen-Davids, Crosses on chains.

Muslim-beads to be counted in the secrecy of a pocket.

the Old Testament. The New Testament.

In silver-cover. In olive-wood.

" How much does it cost?" " How much will you take?"

Israeli girls in short skirts, Arab peasant women

in long embroidered dresses, Americans in funny hats,

Arabs in Keffiyehs…..

Jerusalem the old. Jerusalem the new.

"What is the price of this?" "How much will you pay?"

Once again I was mistaken for a tourist.

Even by myself.

Midstream - February /March 2003

back to 'Poems'

Self Image

I am the rose plucked of the Sharon, the lily picked of the valley.

Born under the sign of Pisces, my life's map consists mostly of oceans,

and all the time I'm trying to bridge between land to land. My efforts never cease.

Constantly on the go, towards the changing horizon, the forever distant.

I stick out finders to scratch its sunset eyes and break my nails.

Next year in Jerusalem, next year in Jerusalem,

The hills of palpitation, the valleys of drained desires,

the monuments of armored vehicles, blood-drenched,

on the way-

In the shape of my country, I am made of streams and deserts, cities and fields,

and many different people. Her soil is my flesh, and wherever I may be,

my life depends on breathing her air.

I am her split image.

Similarly to her Jordan River, controversy runs me through and through.

Like my country, I too practice the art of living without peace.

Midstream - Nov./Dec. 2002

To Be Like Mmoss...

To be like moss

sparkling over old stones

between dust and dust,

making a living wherever a chance,

a whisper of hidden water.

Though

with connections

among some mighty trees-

such as the Cedar of Lebanon

to call one by name-

it lays no claim to fame

and keeps its profile low.

Content in being reduced

to almost nothing

with nothing left to lose,

and every gain

considered vain,

a mere excess,

it is happy to express

itself in a concentrated green

core of existence.

Glancing, dancing, at every comer,

like a child in bliss

never growing up-

Voices Israel 2001, Vol. 28

back to 'Poems'

Ashes

I too had once an albatross dream flying me

higher and higher. I don't know how or why

it vanished in an evening smoke

leaving me prey to a world of grey.

Twilight is but a short suspense followed

by unmitigated blackness.

No more can I tell the shadows

cast ill night's mold.

My sleep country is bleak and barren.

Should a dream stray there on the way,

it could only be one as heavy and sad

as this ashen elephant,

who crazy with loneliness,

never stops fanning its ears

as if ill a dim recollection of some distant flight.

I too had once an albatross dream flying me

higher and higher .

Voices Israel 2001, Vol. 28

Ennui

Great expectations? No more.

Even those cut to size

fail to materialize,

Leftovers of yesterday's hope

you heat up again and again

on the low burner,

watching how the pale-blue fire

barely catches its breath.

You're choking. ..

unable to swallow the fruit

of forbidden desire.

Chained to daily tasks,

a prisoner of minutes filled with minutiae,

you're held accountable

for each and every lousy act,

even ever-so-slight

an oversight-

The only one off the hook

is the telephone-

Voices Israel 2000, Vol. 27

www.ascentaspirations.ca/ennui.htm March 2010

Man's View

Always thought

"Shouldn't have had

that surgery .

Would have perhaps

agreed to pay

an arm and a leg

but certainly not a rib! II

This shows what

can happen to a man

who sleeps

at the wrong place

in the wrong time.

Sinking into a dream

with hope

of reversing the deal

1 always wake

with that same ache

inside me

and a wife

beside me -

"SHOFAR", Vo1. 5, No.6, Summer 1987

back to 'Poems'

A Woman's View

As if I had any say

in the matter.

If you feel cheated

put the blame on God, man.

Surely I, too,

would've preferred it

if you had no bone

to pick.

Often I wonder:

wasn't there dust enough

for the two of us?

In my opinion, as the world's

First Lady

I should have come

before Adam

to begin with -

But then, maybe God

didn't want it to look

too much the natural way?

"SHOFAR", Vol. 5, No.6. Summer 1987

back to 'Poems'

Of Moses and Others

when Moses saw the burning bush

he knew the miracle wasn't in the bush but in the fire.

Others may regard it

as one more technical achievement: a fireproof bush.

Embarking on a shopping‑spree they're still looking for

a bargain.

When Moses heard the voice

addressing him from the flames he was first bushed

then fired‑up,

and ablaze like the bush

he too wasn't consumed

as his soul reached consummation.

Others are being consumed by the minute,

burned out

though never on fire.

In search of proofs

in all directions,

they keep on going beating about the bush

“SHOFAR”, Vol. 5, No. 6, Summer 1987

Snake's Angle

It takes a snake
to have that spiteful desire
to live
though so low
though so loathed.

Only a rope with a sense of direction
governed by will.

Crawling through life's desert
clinging to earth
licking the dust
off her feet.

Yet he too must have had hope
flying him in blue bliss.
And a painful memory -
which he tries to doze-off
in the hot noon sun -
when his wings were shattered
into countless small scales
his blood turned cold
and he became enslaved
as carrier of poison.

"SHOFAR", Vol. 5, No.6, Summer 1987

To Her Sleeping Partner

Too fast and fast asleep

your knee is digging in my hip

your elbow stabs my heart.

I am as wide awake as pain.

Rage subdued by mountain sadness.

Clouds of shadows over our bed.

Far in the forests of night

sleep hides from me.

My eyes are open like a question.

"BITTERROT", Vol. XIX, No.76, Summer, 1981

miller's pond poetry magazine, vol.12 issue 2, spring 2009

http://www.millerspondpoetry.com/index.php/issues/index.php?page=vol12-2web

An Old Story

And the snake was
talking to Eve
in his forked tongue,
hissing into her ears
sweet words like
how sweet she was-s
and how he wished
to s-swallow her all up.

"Come-on" he said,
"I'll give you a taste
of real Eden."
His body shot as an arrow
in the direction
of the darkest tree,
and she darted -

Long hours they spent there
the two, on their plot,
perspiring, conspiring,
as if rehearsing
overplaying
some future scene.

And all that time
Adam was
busy busy busy
dressing and keeping the garden
for God.

VOICES WITHIN THE ARC (An anthology of modern Jewish poetry,
compilers H. Schwartz & A. Rudolf), AVON BOOKS, 1980.

back to 'Poems'

Trees

Trees -

rushing, dashing with me

at the car's window.

And what a glorious day, I swear!

The beaten gold of an Indian summer.

Every twig -a bonfire of sun.

Every leaflet -dripping with light's wine.

Houses dance on tiptoe in the blue,

and roads open onto

more and more

trees -

They jump into my heart upside down,

forsaking their roots

in mountains of sky.

Already in my veins their foliage streams:

cascades of blood and fire

like the gush of song.

From now on they'll travel with me

always.

Till the end of summers.

Till smoke rises

from evening's chimneys

and from the edge of a closing lid

a last wish will fall -

"PULP", Vol. 4, No. 1, 1978

back to 'Poems'

My Skin

My skin has spread itself too thin

running allover me

all at once.

It is easily bruised

and hard to heal.

And it fails to conceal

even those blue veins

that keep peeping at me

as perpetual reminders

of some violent blow

inflicted a long time ago

perhaps the minute I was born.

To no avail

have I tried to toughen it

with different prescriptions

or to grow another layer for protection.

Mine is a white and sheer

and excessively skinny-skin.

And frankly,

if not for its ability

to record your touch, my love,

I doubt its being worth saving.

"PULP", Vol.3, No.1, 1977

http://tajmahalreview.com/taj15.htm June 2009

back to 'Poems'

Pebbles

All their angles

they have lost.

Eternal friction

of sea and sand.

Hybrids

of water and land.

And even in form

they are something between

a drop

and a stone -

Does it mean they conform?

"BITTERROOT", Vol. XVI, No. 60/61 Summer/Autumn, 1977

"Getting Something Read" Jan.26, 2009

http://shortpoem.org/2009/01/

back to 'Poems'

When We Met for the Last Time

on the shore of a summer evening,

waves were kissing the salty sand

parting in multitudes of tongues,

sun was tiptoeing down the scale

careful to keep her head above water,

sky went on changing moods of blue,

and a single bird was getting smaller I

and smaller the higher she flew I

till she turned into a grain -

then heaven took her in and shut the door.

WISPERS OF THE UNCHAINED HEART

An anthology of poetry,

compilers & editors, S. St. BUTTACI & S. GERSTLE), NJ., 1977.

On His Printed Shirt

tigers are lying in blue water

lions are drowsing in silent sands

their manes well combed,

leopards spotted among green trees

are making eyes at me.

I know I have only to touch a button

to turn on, then -glowing in heat -

the jungle will be

all over me.

"PULP", Vol. 3, No.213, 1977

The Last Minutes of the Sea-Fish

On the terra firma of my kitchen-counter

he is dying drying up.

His fins, still trying to propel, are meeting with thin air:

A quixotic fight with something that isn't there.

Sweating in a last effort

he is already blue about the gills.

His mouth an outlined lost bubble.

His glassy eyes two tears solidified.

Shipwrecked memories are sunken

in the pit of his mind

of splendorous deep-water colors

their luster gone on soiled earth's surface,

of agile figures coming to a standstill.

No longer can he hear the music of silence

in his shell-shaped ears,

nor remember the life of small scale

down below the salt

amongst sharks and whales and other mighty creatures,

the cold darkness, the troubled ripples, the occasional

shuddering undercurrents,

or his secret proud joy

in being able to catch a taste of ocean

with every single breath.

"Poet Lore", Vol. 72, No.3, Fall, 1977

LanguageandCulture.net Poetry Gallery Summer/Fall2009

http://www.languageandculture.net/poem_lee-5.html

back to 'Poems'

God's View

Even I may confess

it's become quite a mess.

In the beginning it was fun:

those two naked fools playing around innocently,

like a movie that starts right out

with a happy ending.

After all, God too

has a right

to some light entertainment

in this endless blue,

among all these angels

flying back and forth,

forever doing His will.

All I wanted was

just a touch of disobedience

to make things a little less tedious

but nothing, nothing, oh nothing like this.

PRESENT TENSE, Vol. 4, No.4, Summer, 1977