small poems: june 2014

two large men — bearded and bald —

stop to breathe in

peonies

heavy rain

I am not afraid

the leaky roof was repaired last week

from the other side of the country

my mother's laugh

finds me

a young girl

picks a bouquet 

of chocolate mint / /

muddy footprints

fill that small patch of garden

sister — do you remember —

each tentative step

from shore to sea

we wait for the ferry

a well-packed picnic basket

at our feet / /

one of us

thinks only of death

black and white photo

your yellow sundress

in my mind's eye

when we hug

your cheek bruises mine —

so much has changed this last year

leading me down the middle path

yellow butterfly

here you are again

my father and his cigars

still together

after all these years

crossing the wide avenue

mother

don't let go

first bunch of radishes

the veins on my hands

more pronounced

once I thought

all black birds

were the same / /

what will I laugh about

next year?

in my Brownie uniform

(and beanie)

how special I felt / /

we stuck cloves in apples

and called it Arts & Crafts

on my bookcase

a basket of seashells

coated in dust / /

years and miles from the ocean

make room

for African violets —

breathe slower

after ballet class

we stand in 1st position

my sister and I . . . .

that is all

we remember

fish tank

in our building's lobby —

mother says 

they're sleeping —

dad mouths the word 

dead

I bring chalk —

my friend has a bottle cap —

we play Potsie 'til the light fades

growing out of a crack

in a Bronx sidewalk 

the first dandelion / /

mother says

"it's like living in the country now"

if I walked through puddles

instead of around them

would we ever have met?

mid June

I spend the whole afternoon

drawing flowers

slow walk

through birdsong

my body is healing

broken sidewalk

I meant to take a different route —

absent-mindedness

viewing us 

from behind his camera

Grandpa never says "smile"

buried in the dream garden

you

and your broken old guitar

re-arranging my bedroom

Kwan Yin

is everywhere

beside the hall mirror

mother hangs a photograph

of herself

purple shawl across

an unmade bed —

so many yesterdays

the untuned piano

flowers dying in the vase

even the mail is late

scrabble tiles

photos of fake ancestors —

good day at the flea market

guarding the entrance

to our apartment building —

two carved lions

and the neighborhood bum

my father's lost record collection

still mourned

65 years later

before bed

polishing the whites of

our saddle shoes / /

my sister and I 

long for patent leather sling-backs

they called her the Cat Lady

she was kind to me 

my great-aunt Helen

next door:

a man and his fish tank

(and his lonely wife)

after a hard rain

goodbye

irises

new morning

stepping around

my same old fears

waking three times in the night

always the same

rainfall

walking into the morning fog to clear my head

surprise:

a perfect mushroom

at the bottom of the stairs

carelessly

you toss it into your straw hat —

my wildflower bouquet

two clouds

meet each other

for the first and only time

I waited all night

for you —

mauve breeze

we don't have a Special Thing, I whine, 

bemoaning our lack of daily ritual. 

Not having a Special Thing is our Thing, 

Blue says, 

wise owlwoman that she is. 

After a pause she adds, 

our Special Thing is loving each other 

every day

my dear little city

today the mourning doves

weep for you

creekside walk

I stop to watch a rabbit

breathe

pink rose

pushing through a spider's web — 

my neighbor's front porch

first night in a new city

hello

same old moon / /

home 

again

watering the coleus

butterfly

I went looking for you . . .

you found me

left at the side of the road

a 5-drawer dresser

so much emptiness

Oh Holy One

In the early morning of December 24, 1995, I had a dream that seemed, at the time, significant. I was able to remember it in great detail when I woke up and I typed it immediately (on a typewriter, I didn't have a computer then), made xerox copies, and shared them with a few special friends. Luckily for me one of my friends, Barbara Brazill, saved a print-out of my dream and recently sent it back to me, after a discussion about names. I thought I would share it here and now …. with special thanks to my archivist buddy, BB.

I am standing in a candy store having a conversation with the man behind the counter when a young boy runs in through the back door and asks me "Are you Zahava?" I say I am and he says "The Dalai Lama is coming and he wants to see you." I follow the boy out of the store, wondering why the Dalai Lama wants to see me. I think it may be that I've written something the he liked, or else I am about to write something that he wants me to write, but I don't know the exact reason. I come to an opening, either an outdoor clearing or a wide indoor space, with a long high wall to my right. The boy is no longer there. I see a small group of people in the far distance and I know the Dalai Lama is one of them, even though I can not see him.

A short young monk leaves the group and runs toward me. He is smiling broadly, I can see a mouth full of strong white teeth. As he runs he calls out to me, not using my name, but some word that I recognize means long-lost-and-well-beloved friend. I have no memory of having met this monk before but I know that I know him. I run forward to meet him, calling "Oh Holy One, Oh Holy One" over and over again. Both of us have our arms stretched out in front and we are running and smiling and calling out loving words. When we reach each other we embrace with deep affection. We are laughing hard and tears of joy wet our cheeks. We stand and look into one another's face for a long moment.

By this time the rest of the group has also arrived and I know that the Dalai Lama is among them. To show respect, I turn toward the wall and kneel down, bringing my palms together with my fingertips up to my lips. The monk does the same, at my left side. I don't see the Dalai Lama pass behind us but I know he has finished his business with this group of people.

When I stand up I realize I am no longer next to the wall. I'm in a large, comfortably-furnished room with colorful rugs on the floor and textured wallpaper on the walls. Chairs and couches are arranged in small clusters throughout the room. I sit down on one of the couches and when I turn to face the monk (who I thought was still at my side) I see that it is not the monk, but an old woman, dressed in the same kind of robe the monk had been wearing. She is wizened, her thin grey hair pulled tightly back against her scalp in a small bun. 

I recognize her. She is my grandmother, Sarah, my father's mother, who has been dead for a number of years. For the briefest moment I am not positive it is her, but then I have no doubt. Even though she's in monk's robes she is wearing stockings rolled down to her knees and has on white, open-toed sandals. A small beige pocketbook is hooked over her elbow. I smile at her. She smiles back. She only has one tooth in her mouth and it is clearly visible. 

I turn to a person standing next to the couch and I say "This is my grandmother." Pride is evident in my voice. The other person is not sure whether or not to believe me. "Oh really? What is her name?" they ask. At that instant I cannot remember her name. I say "I don't call her by her name. I call her Oh Holy One."

small poems: written since May 10, 2014

sunning itself —

an independent snail

on my neighbor's fence

walking into the sunrise —

today smells different —

do I?

across the creek

a woman croaks like a frog —

does not return my wave

ladybug

slowly over the ridges —

my aging hand

I am not a mother

& it's too early to call mine . . .

restless

church bells

as though for the first time

every Sunday morning

open windows

the world is

too loud for me

painted across the bridge

"Be Here Now"

I am

only the scent remains . . . 

magnolia tree

a pair of cardinals in red

everyone else

is wearing black

black horse gallops toward me

— nearsightedness —

hello jogging girl

this week

I became

my mother

if I still had it

I'd wear it — red blouse for you 

my cardinal friend

decades pass —

moving my bed across the room —

new dreams

summer plans:

be patient

grow a braid

ant — caught in the folds

of an origami star —

you free yourself

hibiscus tea

nearly 

forgotten

wooden buttons

on my least favorite shirt —

a waste

butterfly — wait! — take me with you

early morning walk

I sing to the robins

they sing to me

my mother's lipstick —

I seek

the exact same shade

what is the sound of purple?

dear sister, it is your

deepest laughter

mandala moon

let us dance together

circles within circles

at the front door

a strand of blue paper butterflies —

hello // good-bye

this morning

a different path with

unfamiliar smells —

garden exotica . . .

thank you new neighbor

young man

cradling a Buddha statue —

such gentle smiles

even in shadow

my dangly earrings

jingle jangle

following a small butterfly

up the hill and down again —

until we lose sight of one another

repaired sidewalk

I remember my fall

years ago

lost in my thoughts

peonies pull me back to

now

mourning doves

coo my name —

zeeee zeeeee zeeeeeee

my purple Crocs

easy to pretend 

I'm wearing irises on my feet

yellow police tape

between us —

a scattering of dandelions

I  R  I  S

good morning 

darling purpleness 

discovery —

my inner marigold

still blooms

across the canal

Maggie's spirit

in the garden

walking behind 

the black cat

superstitious

small poems: written since March 18, 2014

I don't blame you, crow —

under my wide-brimmed hat

no one would recognize me

my wandering mind

rainstorm

brings me back home

Sister Crow

you want to borrow my sparkly new earrings

sorry to disappoint you 

but the answer is no

torn paper lantern

summer moon

drips rain

my cautious friend

wherever you go

your purple umbrella

unexpected downpour

neither of us want

to leave the picnic

Sister Crow

my only regret —

I never invited you for tea

you     me     a bowl of tangerines

and now at last

the rain

afternoon rain

impossible to nap

I reach for my pen, again

we live in two different time zones

you and I —

but in the same house

Sunday afternoon

our old house creaks —

your footsteps, overhead

icy fingers on my wrist —

remember when we 

walked the frozen pond?

lacing up my walking shoes

hello sky

hello earth

yellow crocuses

my neighbor's white cat

approaches

my shadow

grows further away from me —

long walk home

spring

fills in

the empty spaces

my neighbor's backyard

prayer flags hang on the clothes line

Sister Crow exhales

my friend unlocks 

the heavy wooden gate

I've passed so many times before —

and there it is

a secret garden

curled leaf

cups rain drops —

a fairie's spring bath

nightlight

burns out

wakes me

brewing

hibiscus tea —

the temperature continues to fall

wrapping myself

in deep purple

dear old shirt

I remember wearing you

for the first time

30 years ago —

that was a good day

this is a good day

Sister Crow

a fat snowflake lands on your head —

April beret

look up

look up

3 bluejays cross my path

stranger in front of my house —

his neck heavily tattooed

his voice gentle —

"warmer today"

he assures me

too late in the season

looking for snow geese —

on the drive home

peepers find us

before we find them

45 years later

the old manual typewriter

louder than I remembered

on my back porch

the old typewriter ...

only one new sentence a day

the old typewriter

a small plant

would fit nicely inside

I meant to type "test" —

instead my fingers tapped out "tears" —

strangely accurate

on the back porch

3 daisies

fresh from someone else's garden

and a typed note

too faint to decipher

old typewriter

swelled

with suppressed words

untied

the sash of your robe —

your guests look away

full moon

we share the last tangerine

unevenly

your red plastic piano

left out

for the cat to play

my mother and a hot pretzel

long ago . . .

mustard stains her new blouse

peeling an orange

even now

grandmother's hands guide mine

my birthday cake

stale —

brushing away the last crumbs

singing along with Sam Cooke

soulful

morning meditation

good morning purple flower

I don't know your name —

I will call you Ahhhhhh

with much satisfaction

turning the calendar

to May

someone planted pansies

all along my street —

thank you someone

breezy morning

as I pass them the pansies 

shake with laughter

hung to dry

colorful underwear

across the front porch —

my neighbor waves

her own prayer flags

strong wind —

chasing my hat —

Sister Crow is delighted

beside the monastery

a plastic chicken

guards baby tulips

flower shop closed

daffs open

all the music I need inside my head

Sister Crow

I made this beaded necklace for you

come closer

let me hang it 

around your beautiful neck ...

you look so good in red ...

garnets? are you kidding?

these are glass beads

(who knew you had such expensive taste?)

I strung them with care

and affection

thank you for watching out for me

all winter —

caw caw right back at you

Happiness is a phone conversation with my mother 

and she says something funny 

or I do 

and we start to laugh 

and we don't stop laughing 

for a very long time

Happiness is when 

I've been crazy worried about doing something new 

and I say I don't want to, I won't do it, you can't make me — 

and then I do it 

and it's the most wonderful thing 

and afterwards I say 

I want to do it again 

and you say 

let's do it next Saturday

Happiness is when 

a girl and a dog 

both panting 

appear behind me in the middle of my morning walk 

and the girl is making high snorts of exhalation 

she is that out of breath 

and I think 

oh no! 

this girl and her dog are going to follow 

behind me all the way home 

disturbing my peace

but I keep on walking 

a straight path to my house  

because what else can Ido? 

and then I realize the dog 

(followed closely by the girl) 

have veered off to the right 

heading toward the coffee shop on the corner 

and I keep on going 

and I never have to see either of them again — 

that's when the happiness kicks in