small poems: july 2014

your photograph

my memory

both fading

the way you used to play 

among the trees

solitary hide-and-seek

dawn

the cosmos

plans its day

my urban childhood

canned fruit

even in summer

spider's web

strung high between two tree limbs

everyday art

each morning

my front lawn

a "found art" gallery —

discarded bottles and cans

from night revelers

nearsighted moon

let's stay up all night reading

i'll lend you my glasses

from the other side of the fence

the moon calls

"here i am"

spider

next time I'll be more careful

before entering the shower

just now

a sultry song

on someone else's car radio / /

then the street light changes

from red to green

countless routes

my circlewalk always brings me

back home

my big sun hat

looks sillier on my shadow

than it does on me

after a hard rain

my neighbor's garden spills out

onto the sidewalk

cardinal

thank you for reminding me

to be surprised

who was I

before I was me?

I look at a painting of

a white swan

and wonder . . . .

weary —

2 blue jays fly across my path —

now I am awake

artist friend

in your open window

a bouquet of colored pencils

abandoned bench

longs for the feel of a 

soft tush —

moss is no substitute

an empty birdcage

floats down the creek —

in the nearby trees: nothing

Goddess of the East

your ruby necklace 

flung across the morning sky

I bow to you

brave little violet

in this moment

you and I

blurred vision

the morning seems

so much grayer

now in our 60s

we vow to wear 

less black

Some really small poems — one-liners, most of them written in the last couple of days:

since my last birthday bigger and noisier dreams 

pale gray faded ink time to toss your letter

heavy rain a bottle cap floats down the street

my hat flies off and takes me with it

so much happiness but no tail to wag

fighting my pillow through a long nightmare

waiting room anxiety fills the empty chair

listening for you so hard it hurts

precious objects I say adieu to you

another morning another crack in the ceiling

daydreaming about a garden I can daydream in

rain waits with me at the bus stop

muddy day happy day

late afternoon curled into a nap beside you

three times looking back no one is there

solitary day alone with the house plants

between thunder claps I count my ragged breaths

in another time zone my mother also washes her hair

hibiscus tea in a sunflower mug mixing it all up

spring cleaning foolishly discarding an old raincoat

steady rain i can't hear myself think

this cracked sidewalk keeping me on my toes

in your purple clogs you brighten this gray day

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