GRANDPA SHERMAN’S CHANUKAH STORIES

I remember as a kid,

Each December, Grandpa told Stories from his childhood )>

When Chanukah was a simple holiday.

Lighting candles, one the first night, two the second, one more )>

Each night until all eight burned so bright,

The bronze menorah ablaze in light.  Prayers sung, stories told, )>  

Old ones by the adults,

New ones by anxious kids finally old enough to take a turn. Songs )>

And clapping filled the air, Chilly to save coal.

There were no gifts, no little toys for the children, just gratitude being together. )>

They’d watch the thin candles

Burn down, wax melting, dripping, pooling on the table.  First time )>

We celebrated without him, my father

Cried softly as he retold Grandpa’s Sherman’s Chanukah stories. )>

For many years he continued

The tradition adding memories of his own. My own eyes are wet, )>

My heart so full as

I tell you these stories, my Grandpa’s stories, your Grandpa’s, )>

Stories that will go

On and on.

WRITER’S IMMORTALITY

Some writers hope

To make a living

From their writing.

I seek immortality.

My writing

Will likely be forgotten

In a garden lily’s lifetime.

My hope is

Publishing my poetry will

Inspire my daughters to dream,

Conceive their own books,

Books better written than mine

Remembered for successive seasons

Inspiring their children

To write wonderful books,

Maybe one

Will become a classic,

A book never forgotten.

Inside that book a dedication

To my grandfather

Who wrote poetry

And I

Will have gained

My writer’s immortality.

NO BEACH OR SEA SHELLS

My morning walk, so important to me,

Alone with the dark as comfort,

Mondays always into town

Passing poorly maintained

Row houses, then

Without announcement,

Chained to a paint chipped porch,

Two old rusted bikes grab my attention,

Token-less transportation

Better than walking to work.

Inside the journeymen sleep

Dreaming their wishful fantasies,

At best, a kaleidoscopic future.

I understand so little of their lives,

How they survive, feed their children,

Save for a kitchen table or toaster oven.

I’m outside, but I know in my head, I

Need them, their youth, energy, optimism.

They need me too, to pay cash and

Not abuse their delicate dreams.

EDEN LOST

Watercolor by Pat Morgan

Before I was born,

I lived in my mother. 

The sages say,

I was taught wisdom there,

But when I left

The sanctuary of my mother,

I forgot all I had learned. 

Parents and teachers

Do not teach us, as much as

Help us remember. 

Once, in a dream, I recalled

The way it was in the womb:

Warm, cultured, all needs met.

Now I’m awake, I wouldn’t,

Not even if I could,

Go back to Eden.

VISITING THE WTC TRIBUTE

Sitting silently

In the viewing gallery

Staring at a wall filled with

Family pictures of faces lost,

Each different, but the same

Sharing a common fate,

A fellow standing near me

Saw my wet cheek,

“Did you lose someone up there?”

I knew none of them,

I knew none who had lost one of them,

I was equally unrelated to all of them.

Did I lose someone up there?

I lost them all.

My voice failed,

I had no reply.

INSIGHT

I live in a house

Of my own design

With windows and mirrors

Made of glass;

Through my windows

I see people walking,

In my mirrors

I see only myself.

The difference between

A window and a mirror

Is a thin layer of silver;

I lose a piece of myself

Every time I let silver

Come between me and

Seeing other people.

5 A.M. AFFAIR

Woman bared in the window

Moonlight makes her skin glow

What does she know that

She’s staring at me so?

Has she no modesty

Where is my chivalry

As I walk past her property

Why aren’t I faultlessly free

To turn away and go?