Memory, Long Term and Short
Whatever happened to that brash 13-year-old
who shamelessly threw her arms around my neck
and locked the gaze of her hazel eyes on mine?
Whatever happened to that 14-year-old in the Juliet cap,
whom I sought so eagerly when the curtain parted
at the end of the worship service?
Whatever happened to the girl whose cheek I kissed,
leaning out the window in that precious last second
before the train began to move
— a kiss that would sustain me for months to come?
We were children, uprooted from parental home
by persecution and war,
deposited in a strange country where people spoke
a strange language,
and after five loveless years we had found each other.
But postwar reunion with parents, who had been denied
bearing witness to their child’s flowering,
was just as disruptive as the original parting.
Preoccupied with memories of suffering
they had barely survived,
they had little patience with my romantic awakening,
did not rejoice with me, did not allow my adolescence
to run its natural, happy course.
Fearful and suspicious, they maligned, blocked, warned,
and thereby sullied our parent-child relationship.
What a shame they didn’t simply let youth’s fancy
bloom and wither of its own accord.
Seventy years later — years of maturity,
settled with life partner, children, grandchildren —
she vividly remembers that lush oasis
in the desolate landscape of our childhood.
But the present eludes her.
She forgets my answer
to the question she asked just minutes ago,
even forgets that she asked.
So she asks again,
and asks again,
and forgets both answer and question each time.
That’s what happened to her.
She did not choose what to remember
and what to forget;
her illness mercifully chose for her.
Mercifully, because forgotten questions can be repeated,
over and over until remembered,
but forgotten memories of youth are lost forever.
Family Issues
Maggie
My wife is a woman who’s most energetic —
And this I can say quite unapologetic.
At Medford she helps those who can’t help themselves,
And makes sure equipment goes back on the shelves.
Her bike she does ride and her mill she does tread,
And then she retires to the comfort of bed.
Wildflowers and websites are subjects that suit her,
Because for sheer fun you can’t beat a computer.
On social occasions she knows where it’s at,
Her plus haute couture is a certain Red Hat.
But she’s at her best tending garden and house
And being a true, steadfast friend to her spouse.
Lisa
My daughter’s an expert on dates .and events,
She knows social changes, both whither and whence.
And that’s why she uses her graduate degree
To teach her disciples the world’s history.
Jim
My son spends his time doing urban research.
So if you are building a school or a church,
You’re taking a chance that your plans don’t comply
With codes of New York, and he’ll explain why.
Sue
My daughter likes music and plays the bassoon.
Her concerts are evening, sometimes afternoon.
The conductor’s baton flashes up! down!! around!!!
The orchestra answers with beautiful sound.
Grandkids
Now they’re lots of fun, well behaved as a rule,
But sadly I trained them to jump in the pool.
So Josh, Rachel, Ethan, though splashing you crave,
just try to slip in without making a wave.
Herb
All you who have read this will surely have guessed:
I just can’t help feeling that I have been blessed.
Down in the Alley
This tough guy bowls with joyous clout,
Straight in the gutter, straight back out.
Across the alley, bounce back in.
He jumps in glee; just see him grin.
Meanwhile the pins await their fate.
How many will be hit? Four? Eight?
The ball slows down, unsure, and then
Rolls to the side, missing all ten!
Our guy still wins le plus grand prix
For bowling when he’s just turned three.
Stillborn
He lies lifeless in his mother’s lap.
A few hours are all she’s allowed of what should have been a lifetime,
A few hours not even of life.
Then he will be taken from her unwilling arms –
arms that remain outstretched after him,
And pass through the door of no return.
The fruit of hope and promise,
Nurtured in love and safety from cell to infinite complexity,
He was ready to grasp the world
And achieve his destiny.
But his future was denied.
Neither the breath that would signal his communion with those who waited in welcome,
Nor the flung-wide embrace that would announce with joy,
“I am yours and you are mine!”
Nor the cry and reach to her who bore him,
–No. Fate, perverse fate, allowed none of those.
His life ended at the very moment it should have begun.
His mother and father float between shock and understanding,
Between bewilderment and realization that their life must go on.
“What was he like?” they wonder.
An ephemeral being that passed into memory
Leaving only the anticipation of his totality to remember.
A shadow without substance.
A nursery, a crib, and a dozen other objects,
Gathered over months for a common task,
Now find themselves without purpose.
In their mute, inanimate way
They, too, mourn the loss of their charge.
And the bereaved parents, looking upon them,
Touching them ever so gently,
Grieve all over again.
But grief cannot sustain its cruel, crushing grip forever.
What will endure is the joy this child’s fleeting visit
Brought to those who love him.
My Pet Peeve
I brought a little doggie
back home on New Year’s Eve.
He looked so cute and soulful
alone in Tel Aviv.
I took him past Security
a-hidden in my sleeve.
The wagging tail protruded.
Oh God, where’s my Aleve!
My fear of being stopped and searched
you never would believe.
And yet the agent winked me through
–though he was not naïve.
His overwhelming kindness
to grant me that reprieve
Restored my calm while wishing
our flight would quickly leave.
My doggie used the wait time
his bladder to relieve.
I spilled a glass of water
onto my other sleeve.
One arm felt warm, the other cold.
Thus tried I to deceive
my boarding fellow passengers
so they should not perceive
the odor emanating from
my jacket’s worsted weave.
Once in the air, I sought a name.
My wife suggested Heave.
I thought she was just trying
my mis’ryto aggrieve.
That’s when I knew what I must do:
I christened my pet Peeve.
Her Last Task
She sat like a Sphinx,
oblivious to any other presence,
unseeing eyes fixed, wide open, on infinite space.
Day upon day her world had shrunk
until none remained outside herself.
Nothing mattered now
save her diminishing vital signs.
For she was engaged in the ultimate task
that every sentient being faces.
A task so demanding that
its proper performance brooks no distraction;
a task so solitary that the best-intended
offer of help is but a futile intrusion.
During the night, as the world slept,
she completed it.
And next day we buried her.
View From the Train
October Along the Hudson River Valley
Thought
The picture window scans the landscape
At 100 feet per second.
How wondrous that abandoned factories,
Panes shattered, bricks crumbled, roofs collapsed,
Flit by in an instant,
Only to reveal again, exactly where they were,
Majestic Palisades across the watery divide,
Orange-clad trees worshipping at their feet.
What marvel to witness Beauty and Permanence
Make a mockery of Ugliness and Decay
Swept aside with such dispatch.
How lucky to have Trigonometry
As my travel companion!
Afterthought
A thousand or two Octobers hence
They’ll excavate, brush, measure, frown, delight
Over shards and blackened concretions,
Over objects rusted beyond recognition.
Beautiful! they’ll say. What a find!
And they’ll divine what took place here
In ancient times.
Then, exhausted by their efforts,
They’ll rest and behold the landscape.
Majestic Palisades across the watery divide,
Orange-clad trees worshipping at their feet.
And they’ll think, Those trees weren’t even sown,
Nor even the trees from whose seeds they sprang,
When all this stuff was new.
How lucky they’ll feel to have Archaeology
With its own definition of Beauty and Permanence!
The Prayer
Oh Lord, have mercy!
Coughing, coughing, coughing tears my ribs apart.
My nose is stopped airtight,
My mouth is parched,
My eyes are on fire.
My head will surely explode.
I dare not breathe for fear of coughing,
I cannot sleep for lack of breathing.
Have mercy!
I sneeze, not once, not twice, but thrice on a single breath.
Oh my ribs! Oh my ribs!
I lift my eyes heavenward in supplication.
Oh Lord, have mercy!
“God bless you.”
The voice behind me rises from waist level,
Accompanied by the screech of a two-wheeled walker
Whose other two legs long ago have cast off their rubber tips.
I turn and look down.
The old lady’s upper body forms a bridge between her hips and the walker.
I picture a child riding freehand, laughing, on her back.
I picture her mock remonstrating: “Now don’t you ride this old nag too hard!”
Does she remember a time when she stood straight?
Her head is turned on its horizontal axis to face me.
Her luminous smile comforts me
And, penetrating to my innermost self,
Rebukes me.
I behold the answer to my prayer.
Heaven is not where I thought it was.
I look down upon my angel with awe,
And I say “Thank you.”
Hush, Genius at Work
When asked which is longer,
the night or the day,
Al Einstein at first
did not know what to say.
In panic and frenzy
he dashed for the board.
“This most cosmic question
cannot be ignored!”
The genius physicist
tore at his hair.
The chalk dust whirled furiously
up in the air.
In near-suffocation
he started to sputter,
While breathless and gasping
he essayed to utter
The answer begot
by his almighty brain.
The blackboard screeched desperately
under the strain.
At last he turned round,
a broad smile on his face,
His Sturm und Drang vanished,
not leaving a trace.
He lit a cigar
and he said, “It’s still tentative,
But I think I’ve discovered
that everything’s relative.”
The world bowed its head
in profound admiration
And gave Al The Prize
to a rousing ovation.
History Review
Young Chris Columbus scored a grant
From Reina Isabella,
Who looked him up and down and said,
“Seems like a worthy fella.”
You see, by going west, not east,
You don’t wear out your horses.
Just hoist your sails and leave the rest
To anemonal forces.
So she decreed, “Go out to sea
And email me from India.
The Sant’ Maria shall you take,
The Nina, and the Pinta.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” quoth he,
“Of sailing I’ve no fear.
With three such mighty ships I shall
Return within the year.”
She therewith let him kiss her hand
And wished him fond adieu.
“Make waves,” she urged, ” ’cause it’s already
1492.”
Group Therapy
The geese are flying,
The boy sits crying.
“Why do you cry?”
“‘Cause I can’t fly!”
So sad
The lad.
The cat chased two mice.
They thwarted her twice.
Bereft of all joy,
She pleads with the boy.
The blues
She mews.
The dog digs a hole
His bone has been stole!
What rank, callous greed
Incites such a deed!
He pines
And whines.
The boy strokes her fur.
The cat starts to purr.
The dog licks his face,
Receives an embrace.
The cat turns to nuzzle
The cold canine muzzle.
Now all are content
With their predicament.
Serenade
Beloved, pristine snowflake,
suspended in the air.
The gentlest updraft lifts you
and moves you here and there.
Come here, oh gorgeous snowflake,
come close so I can see
your symmetry six-sided,
your flawless geometry.
I promise not to touch you
Nor will, for any price
allow my breath to turn you
to slippery, shapeless ice.
The Proposal
I love you, dear lady, though fully aware
That some of your values I simply can’t share.
I’m willing to bet that with passage of time
Your views will improve and merge closer to mine.
Thus, knowing how much I can offer your life,
I’ve duly consented to make you my wife.
Go away, man, you bore me, and let me remain
To suffer alone my inferior pain.
You’re obstinate, woman, for surely you seek
The protection the strong can confer on the weak.
Just think of the riches, the jewels, the gold
Which you, thanks to me, in your dear hand will hold.
The scents you will broadcast, the fashions you’ll sport,
Each one further proof of my generous support.
Does it ever occur to you, Mighty and High,
That I don’t give a damn for the tchotchkes you buy?
I concede that my life might be richer with you,
But it seems to escape you that you’d profit too.
In your eager desire your largesse to bestow
You are speaking from hauteur, to a poor soul below.
Therefore listen to me; let’s be plain and direct:
If you really would woo me, then show me respect.
I am off’ring you gifts, you may e’en kiss my hand.
And if that’s not respect, then I don’t understand.
If you cannot see reason, if you will not agree . . .
Hey, try my kid sister. She’ll fall for it, you’ll see!
A Mother and Her Children
January
She stands naked, indifferent to wind and ice and snow.
With equanimity born of years of survival, she bides her time,
Knowing that the earth will inevitably carry her beyond winter’s grip.
Only then will she unlock the secret
That illuminates her patience during those bitter months.
April
Days triumph over nights at last, and warming undoes freezing.
To the wakening world she shows the reward for her fortitude:
She delivers a hundred thousand children,
Which joyously clothe their mother in bright green garb.
Nature, caught up in spring’s fervor, bedecks her with flowers of brilliant hues.
July
In the heat of summer she welcomes visitors to her shade and offers them fruit for refreshment.
She reminds her children to replace their exhaled breath with fresh air,
And solicits the birds from their midst
To entertain her guests with song.
October
The sun recedes and the nights become chill.
She knows that the seasons are coming full circle.
With serenity she girds herself for the coming ordeal and accepts that she will outlive her beloved children.
She watches wistfully as they doff their greens and flaunt their gaudy underwear in farewell celebration.
Then she loosens their bonds and consigns them to the resting place of their forebears.
Coda
She finds peace in her year’s accomplishment, and marks her calendar with another ring.
But her work is never done, only interrupted by winter’s inclemency.
Even as cold closes in, next year’s brood, in protected latency, awaits the signal for birth.
To Love’s Messenger
O gentle hand, alight on me,
Let your fingers sweep in an ever-widening arc,
Spreading outward and returning to meet again,
Leaving in their wake a feeling too delicious to describe.
O loving hand, speak to me in your mute tongue
Of feelings exquisite and intimate —
Your message indifferent to ears and eyes,
For it seeks the quiet and the dark.
O comforting hand, quench my yearning
For what is unfulfilled in my life.
Apply your balm to my body and my spirit.
Restore my being and make me whole.
O sensuous hand, cover me with your caress.
Leave no spot untouched, for each has its unique shade of feeling.
Let no garment dull the sweet sensation
Of tender fingertips endlessly exploring.
O wondrous hand, you are the messenger of love,
Charged with delivering the heart’s most precious gift,
The gift that answers the need, with us from the day of our birth,
To feel another’s touch.
Words for a Sacred Place
I look, I listen.
I feel an indefinable presence.
In the majestic woods, in whose embrace this sacred place is nestled,
I feel it,
though my eyes see only trees and the sky above.
In the ground on which we stand, so full of life and the remains of life deceased,
I feel it,
though my ears hear only the occasional birdcall and the random rustle of leaves.
I sense a hand beckoning and a voice softly saying,
“If you are moved by what you’ve felt here,
then, in your good time, come to me, add your voice to mine,
so that together we may afford the same experience to those you’ve left behind.”
Meditation Garden, a place for quiet and contemplation in the woods at Medford Leas, underwent extensive reconstruction in the summer of 2013. These lines were written for its dedication on November 7 of that year.