The Tel

Her Little Red Dictionary

Pages, yellowed by the tides of time

washing over them

Inside,is a note

which must be unfolded, carefully

The paper now old and frail

like the sinew of a decaying corpse

Barely visible words,

the definition of metaphor

scrawled in class

to remember for an exam long ago

She is frozen in time

Stolen from our gently flowing waters

Now just a treasured memory upon the riverbank

White and pure in remembrance

Like a new book’s pages

Young and strong

A tear

when I remember why

Her little red dictionary

is so withered, withered

And old

Graduation Tassel

Which hung from her rear view mirror

Green and gold threads and

the year that time stopped

to become a seared memory

When dreams fell from our tree

and turned brown

I found it in a small box and

opened it slowly

An archeologist peering into an an ancient tomb

And remembering everything

The Haunted House

Can you see it?

Perched upon my throat

With rooms and corridors

that echo yesterday’s pain

behind closed doors

And a basement

where Kaddish is recited

everyday

And mourning is not allowed to end

Pullin’ the Sled

I’m lead dog now

No one out front but me

to cut through the headwind

Gotta blink the snow outta’ my eyes and

think where I’m goin’ all of the time

Can’t be careless no more

Got the whole pack followin’ me through the storm

I get lost, they get lost

Can’t get tired

Or at least can’t show it

Get stuck in this kinda storm is bad news

Miss watchin’ that strong back

lead us through the snow

I’ll admit to you

(but don’t tell no one!)

Sometimes when it gets tough

I imagine him out there

out in front of me

Leadin’ the way

Surrender

Only G-d can part the waters and alter the forces of cause and effect. Only G-d is everywhere, within and without. Moses parted the Red Sea, but only by surrendering to G-d and letting His power flow through his shepherd’s staff. We must think, plan, try our best, and do the work. But then, ultimately, we must surrender our heart and soul and our lives to G-d, accept where He takes us. The current of His river cannot be overcome no matter how strong a swimmer you fancy yourself. Surrender. Feel the sun dry your wet skin. Watch the orange glow at sunset. You have been given the gift of another priceless day. Slumber and rejoice with the new dawn; each new dawn. They are finite. Baruch Ashem.

The Funeral

I am Ashkenazai
I can weep iron tears
Of strength
In the deepest valley of parched
Bone bleached despair

Under a blazing desert sun
And the shimmering mirage
Of heat rising from the dried bed
Of an ancient oasis, long gone

Kaddish will still be recited
Even if just the murmuring of
Parched lips and a cracking voice

Exiting the funeral parlor into
A quiet room off to the side
The door closed behind the
Din of friends and relatives
I look up
Beyond the ceiling
Towards Heaven, asking
Why?
And accept the silence
As wisdom.

Cemetery Nights

Headlight beams
startle the dead
For even they slumber in the quiet night
Names
date of birth and death
illuminated
Swallowed back into the darkness
as my car passes them
and they turn back over and resume
their sleep

For who can harm them now?
Beyond the reach of mortal hand
All evil that can be done to them
has been done
No more can be
Undone
And she too, now, numbers within their ranks
Row upon row
Bunk beds of final resting

I keep the car running
Cold outside
Always windy
I see the name, my surname
The dates too close together
Eighteen years between naming and Kaddish

Put the car into gear and start to drive away
Try not to look back
But I always stop before I get out the gate
look back
and see her lonely name upon the stone
and wave goodbye as if she could see me
and hope she doesn’t see my tears

At Sea

I remember
the safe harbor of youth
the tacking into gentle wind
shore still in sight
my youthful vessel flanked by familiar convoy
flying our colors in noon sky
Hulls pristine
Without time’s barnacles

I saw her ship struck
Broadside by a rogue wave in
White squall
Capsized and gone in a moment

Nightmares of a drowning
Voice
Calling to me
Calling my name in the storm beneath
Howling sea-

Death
Silent
Hand outstretched towards me
The skeletal abode of coral and anemone
And eye socket crabs
Looking out upon the ocean floor

I saw his hull’s gall
As he unfurled

Sailing before the star crossed wind
To outrun the Pirate
Cannonade firing amidst billowing sails and gunpowder smoke
Until, with powder depleted
A warrior’s Howl
Cutlass and pistol in hand
Throwing himself upon the black flagged deck
Fighting until he
Died fighting

And
Here I am
With my own billowing sails
His compass in my hand
And charts bequeathed to
Guide me (and consulted often!)
I see other ships on the horizon
But they are far away
And will remain unknown to me

Just as well

Best to keep my eyes on the weather
And the night sky’s stars
Spending my time with the
Dead
Reckoning of latitude and longitiude
Caring for my crew , my mate
For we all die at sea

Absurd Me

I can see Things
In the pitch blackness
That you are blind to

Above my underground
Labyrinth
In the brightness
I squint
Blinded by
the bright light

Hold Firmly

Tene fortiter to the
Window pane little moth
My dear friend
What chrysalis’ journey
Have you endured
To alight upon this glass
This moment
With Your Angel’s wings
Drawn into the howling whirlwind

We look into each other’s eyes
From opposite sides of the plane
My hand outstretched
Tears meandering down
Carrying the alluvium of
Memories
Swept away in a gust
Of autumn leaves

I Wish I Could Talk to You Again

I know the sounds that my House makes
At times it shudders, shifts and shakes
Upon the stones,
foundations floor
Layers of lifetime’s painful lore
I hear the sounds
try pay no mind
And pray surcease
with passing time
But louder now the House extols
The fear and guilt
within my halls

Loud footsteps pace my basement floor
with Souls of shoes
walked in before
Specters now
but sounds they make
within a dream and while awake
Their voices echo in my room
I listen silent
as a tomb
And try to grasp each torn shroud’s shred
of conversations
With the Dead

Ghosts

Exist
In my mind
Or outside
Does it really matter?
For they are there just the same
The wind,
Or the settling of the house, or
Images in a nocturnal mirror
That are real or just
Reflected moonlight upon tired eyes

Rustling leaves and wind chimes
Melodies upon
Starving ears that yearn to hear those footsteps upon
The stones
Once more

Let them go
They say while
Packing their Things away into
Forgotten boxes that are sealed with tape
To silence the sounds of their memories, voices
Stacked one upon the other in a dark corner watching
As the last wisp of light is extinguished by
The closing door.

So now it is all fine and each
Memory is filed away and in its place.
No need to reexamine what was as
The waters of Now displace, erase
What was written in the sand Then.
Only once a year or thereabouts
Do we unpack them and let them come out and play with
A lighted candle
And a prayer

Angels

One
Noun
Is
But there are
Many Verbs
Winged cherubim
Messengers
Verbs
Some more powerful
Archangels
Of Noun’s thoughts
Upon this world
This predicate

Ripples

What is more real
The photograph or
Its taking?
The monument or
The events
The ripple of the pond
Or the pebble tossed
Now resting on seabed’s floor
Time
Or distance

What is the smallest piece
Of this fabric
And where does it go
When the lesser light has risen
And our day in the sun
Has passed away?

The photographs hang
Like windows
Gazing backwards

The Tel

A mound of invisible memories,

pain

Buried beneath our sands

The archeologists dig

to find our truth

as we lay on their couch talking

In our passion,

wine,

rage

Our bones are exposed

Until the sands bury them once again

Leaving Tels

Wittgenstein

No!

Whereof one cannot speak

THEREOF can be found the Truth

Truth

Is on this blank page

and in the silence