THE RUBY RING

My mother, beautiful and dramatic,

Owned a small town jewelry shop

Catering mostly to women.

Each week she went into Manhattan,

Purchased gold and jewels; then

Skillfully sold her loyal customers

What they would want to buy

Before they knew they had to have it.

I grew up watching her care

For them, so on my seventh birthday,

I asked for a birthstone ring.

My Mother did not let me down. 

She gave me the most magnificent ruby ring,

Child sized, but with a diamond on each side.

I wore it, showed to anyone who’d look,

And I did not lose it.  It was

My Mother’s certification

Of my worth.

Many years later, with the ring

Still sitting in my jewelry box

I reminded her of it.

As matter-of-factly as

Telling me to turn off the TV, she said,

“Why I picked that up in Woolworth’s.”

My ruby ring, the one my Mother gave me,

Was only a five and dime legacy.

I never told my Mother

The way I felt.

If she had only said nothing,

Her silence would have been a gift.

She was probably right,

As a kid, I’d lose the ring before long,

But I didn’t lose it, I lost

Being her ruby.

SEA GLASS LOVE

You might love me less

For I am broken,

My frost makes me hard to know,

I cut you when you press your lips

Against my unfinished edge,

I am worn, sea tossed and I don’t float.

Might you love me more

For I fit in your pocket,

I am solid and smooth,

My translucence has depth,

I know the harshness of the sea,

But refuse to be cruel.

Hold me in your hand,

Don't throw me back, but

View me in the sunlight,
I will shine for you,

Be your sea treasure and

Never seek another.

SEA GLASS PEOPLE

WAITING FOR THE TENTH MAN

While waiting for a minyan

Harry’s hand slides into his pocket.

He recalls a promise to his dead wife

As he fingers her broken gold locket.

While waiting for one more man

Myron reads about the patriarchs’ lives.

What amazes him more than anything,

Their stories were shaped by their wives.

While waiting for prayers to start

Stanley, not subtly, takes a nap,

His breathing slows as he snores,

His glasses fall into his lap.

While waiting for the tenth man

Rabbi looks out the open door.

He still sees a star in the east,

He decides to wait just a bit more.

While waiting for morning prayers to begin

Nine old men nap, read or feel a sorrow  

With no minyan they stand and pray on their own,

Rabbi shrugs, “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

WHAT THE MASTER SAID TO THE GRASSHOPPER

WHAT THE MASTER SAID

TO THE GRASSHOPPER

Foolish nymph,

I’ve been writing forty years,

You, but a butterfly’s life-time,

Of course your poetry

Sounds different than mine.

Tens of thousands of hours

I’ve labored, struggled,

Ulysses-like. I’m still not home.

Work your craft a thousand hours,

A mere beginning, but  

At least by then, you’ll feel

The gravel of the road, your road,

Not mine.