The Taste of Poetry

     Tomorrow — a confluence of events. Easter Sunday and the beginning of poetry month. Perhaps that sounds like an unlikely  pairing, but both are joyous, filled with hope and expectations. The day promises to be sunny. Our tulips have pushed their way through the winter ground, our snow has melted, and spring anxiously awaits backstage to dance. 
     Thousands of gardeners read seed catalogues and garden shops begin to open. 

     And thousands of poets welcome this celebration of poets and poetry. 

     And for the fifth year I’ll take part in the month long poetry challenge— a prompt a day. 

Psalm 96:1-2 “Sing to the LORD a new song; Sing to the LORD, all the earth. Sing to the LORD, bless His name; Proclaim good tidings of His salvation from day to day.”

The Confluence

Because deciding between a Good Friday service

and a first night Seder was too hard 

I went out for dinner with friends

Because I recall my grandparent’s Seder 

and the Manischwitz stained Haggadahs, 

pouring a drop of wine for each plague,

where all the children asked the Four Questions,

and my cousin Bobby who died too early

always found the matzah

I missed the celebration and the story

Because I agreed to host a small Seder 

the second night  I would celebrate

Easter Sunday at church

Because I remember a sunrise service

in West Virginia with a mountain background

Because I still hear the voices echoing

around and over mountain peaks

I will celebrate this Sunday

and cook someone’s mother’s brisket

for our small Seder Saturday 

We will read a shortened Haggadah 

and think of ourselves as being there 

It is our story to tell and retell,

to ask what narrow place we need

to move through this year

We will eat Matzah with horseradish

and drink sparkling white grape juice

We will recite the plagues of today

Then on Sunday I will add 

another celebration and remember how

Jesus once celebrated the story

of the Exodus from Egypt 

Posting

I’m impatient while waiting

for letters to arrive from strangers

Didn’t I take part in the letter writing month

I wrote to twelve people I never met

Selecting each one— geography,

hobbies, outrageous ideas—

I never traveled to South Dakota,

only put two feet in Montana,

thought that Western Australia sounded

remote, thought that a woman who

chose seventy new things to do 

to celebrate her 70th year 

was close to my inner self, although

my selections would be tamer

I travel down the Amazon on an adventure 

bound in a book, or run a marathon

in relentless heat while wearing sneakers

and drinking a banana - strawberry smoothie

I wait to hear from the woman who

puts up jam and I never grew a grape

but I can tell her how I walk past a sign

telling of the first planting of Concord Grapes

And to the woman who leads a Bible study

I will tell her about Bible journaling

and the study I’m taking and how

the leader parses words bleaching meaning

And to the woman who takes photographs 

of the canyons in the Southwest I will tell her

how when I hiked that orange and red landscape

I swallowed the colors and carry them within

Each day I open the mailbox and hope that

someone sent a return letter 

Directions

when you approach a crossroad

look both ways, spread it out

and smooth down the edges

careful not to disturb crisscross lines—

when you look back will you wonder

about those lines and possibilities

later on more lines, more open paths

and each time another place

to set your feet and keep moving

don’t stop— what’s behind 
stands as nostalgia or memory

The Uncertain

You never know what

hides beneath a rock

or what’s beyond a bend

in the road or when you

wanted the moment before

when a decision was possible

You never know what misplaced

word sets off a torrent of  events

into a spiral that tilts your life

when you open your window

You never know with certainty

 what is outside 

An Open Moment

Cherita sits in her motorized wheelchair, an attendant at her side. Her limbs contorted and only guttural sounds for speech. When we sing she often makes a deep throated sound that is unlike any speech sound. Sunday BrIan walked down the aisle to his preferred seat. Brian who is shorter than my five feet, whose speech is hard to understand, who is limited in his understanding and who says the same thing every week when he speaks about his concerns and his thanks—stopped in front of her chair. They know each other from the Sunday Fellowship group— a gathering of individuals with developmental delays. 

Brian brushed his hand gently over Cherita’s hair and kissed her on the forehead. A gentle kiss, a soft touch. He smiled and continued to his seat. 

Other people often hold her hand when they walk past her wheelchair, but the tenderness of Brian’s kiss was a witness to this season.

And Then I Said...

    We encounter each other in words...

          —Elizabeth Alexander

syllables shouted in syncopated beats

short words answering  questions

words — elongated snakes across a page

sirens with high pitched voices

words —like kettle drums 

the gossip of words

we open ourselves in words

we hide words, retrieve them, taste them

let them be,  exchange them with others

twist them into knots

wear them as ornaments or amulets

savor their delicacy in love

When?

today thousands, hundreds of thousands, marched, walked, rode, to take a stand

today our young people stood up and marched, walked, rode, to say no more

when did our schools become places that no longer felt safe.

i read of a middle school student who wrote his last will while his school was on lockdown

when did that become something we no longer reacted to with shock

why do we read about schools being places where students die

why do we hear of too many young people killed in our urban cities

why do we allow guns that are war weapons

why do we permit almost anyone to own a gun

how can we tolerate yet another prayer instead of action

how can we bow another head when someone is digging another grave

what are people who say they believe the bible reading

when will our politicians stop being puppets 

Young people led the way this day

Will we follow
Will we be open to their message

Those Old Hymns

give me those old time hymns

the kind that makes you move

raise your arms, stomp your feet

and listen to the preacher

who looks down at his open bible

and knows he’s there to save souls—

back in the day i heard the word 

of a radio preacher who sold

prayer rugs, small pieces of cloth,

relics he prayed over 

always wanted to buy one

but bought a recorder instead

and tried to learn to play

old time hymns 

Of Language

if i went back in time

beyond my generation

and the one before my

grandparents stepped

on ellis island to the 

old country with different

languages and a clock set

hours earlier i’d look for

the town they called home

and walk through the streets

past open markets

along the pathways to learn

the  past that remains 

within my bones when I

use my finger to trace

the  shapes of countries 

where my ancestors

lived in shetels

and spoke yiddish 

To Open Your Heart

     A book must be the axe 

     for the frozen sea inside us.

     —Frank Kafka

the author creates a world, 

peoples it, writes in conflicts,

sets up scenerios, clothes them— 

this fictive character who only 

exists on paper permits you

to grieve, to finger loss, to cry,

to ask forgiveness for what

you discover between the 

covers of a book 

Hebrew

I listened to a teacher

 weave scripture, building

 bridges between stories

 Meanings embedded in 

Hebrew, lost in English

until unpacked — old stories

seen through new lenses

Am I too old to learn

 the shape of the aleph,

the sounds of letters, the grammar

of an old language, the roots

within the words

Am I too old to decipher 

this vocabulary

,

Savor the Now

we just have moments

 each moment adds

itself to the last moment

until a memory is cast—

take care and savor 

what is present

rather than looking

ahead and tripping over now—

open up to hear the sound

of silence, the nuances of silence

open up to hear the wind song

learn how a breeze sings

or how  zephyr wind whispers—

by tomorrow today’s moments

can’t be replayed if you 

ran ahead

Memorial Service

this weather turns against itself

thinking that spring denies its place

it returns to winter’s cold

but the sun knows better, changes

slant and pushes through  
opens to solace and warmth—

so too at yesterday’s service

for a young man whose life ended

too soon and too tragically

people spoke of his goodness,

of conversations, of his love 

for his daughter, of cooking pizza

from scratch with neighborhood children—

as each one spoke 

light was added to the darkness 

Extrapolate

to create unity out of our uniqueness is the rub

to meld diversity into the one without losing anyone

not to bend each person into one mold

to bond together with common needs

and watch each other’s back is at stake 

to learn how twelve separate tribes

become one unity, one hebrew people—

one rabbi suggests that when they

built the tabernacle, the tent of meeting

each individual gave a piece, one gave 

cloth, one thread, one his strength, another

her gold, her metal work, embroidery

one knew how to dye cloth, another how to weave

it was, the rabbi said, that work blended them

Into a nation, into a people

God gave instructions—
to open hearts

and all the people did the work 

and twelve tribes became one 

Be Ooen to Redemption

kindness extends beyond

a word, a gesture, a look—

it repairs the world

Sleep Directions

On a night when sleep

eludes you and you

hold one position hoping

that when sleep returns

you’re ready—when 

you have completed

counting sheep, imploring

Hypnos to intervene, tried

deep breathing, and arrive 

in the morning convinced

you waited all night

and sleep passed you by

it is time to try other means

Don’t eat hand dipped chocolates,

jelly donuts, licorice laces, raw apples,

cannolis, pizza topped with sausage

and pepperoni, avoid champagne,

hard liquor, mixed drinks, church punch,

Ice cream, yogurt, butterscotch toppings,

avoid snacks and comfort foods

Avoid ooen newspapers

Watch cooking shows

Do not watch any national news

It’s been know to cause heartburn 

Palpitations

And Sleep Deprivation

Lines to Remember

    Circular. Often events follow a path, circuitous perhaps, and then come back to their beginning root. To begin—I listened to an interview with the poet and prose writer David Whyte.        Because he was interesting I went to the library and borrowed two of his books— the only two that were immediately available—neither one a poetry book.

    Within the first ten pages of one book Whyte quotes Peter Levi. Years ago I bought one of Levi’s books because a friend suggested his poetry. Levi was a Jesuit priest, an archeologist, a poet, a reviewer, a translator, a writer of prose, and eventually an ex- priest. 

    I no longer have the book and haven’t read his poems in years, but there’s an attraction because there was a connection to a complicated friendship. 

    When I read his lines about a winter morning I return to many winter mornings.

     I return to other places and earlier days. As a child I climbed a snow mound and thought myself intrepid. As a young mother I sat with a child on a sled and sped down a hill between two houses. As a young woman discovering who she was I walked with another in the falling snow and spoke of discovering the world anew. As a woman who loved being with women I camped out in a cabin, walked in the new snow, and spoke about being open.

    Just reading Peter Levi’s name and then these lines...I return to a maple table in a kitchen and three women sharing poems. I return to one woman singing poetry. I return to the first time I hear Peter Levi’s name.

              

 On winter days when the late-rising sun

   eases the grass under the painful walls,

 I feel it down to the roots of my bones:

Nor’easter Opens Up

The universe is showing off

twisting and turning

in her white tutu

She performs a plié,

leaving footprints 

on foot deep snow—

Then the wind careens, keens

 and rearranges drifts 

into mounds and hoodoos

Steps lose their contour 

Trees wear white garments

Fir trees shimmy from under

a  snow poncho

Each snowflake unique

in its long journey here

I Believe

Take two divergent points
and merge, finding one tucked
inside the other as if one birthed
the other and in the overlap
what is discordant finds peace
That which appears incompatible
when viewed through another
lens shapes into a stepping-stone,
a place to walk toward the other
Let us meet in that convergence
where an assemblage of faiths
open up to one another
and hear the other

Idle Thoughts

     My team lost by two points. My diet seems doomed by snacks—chocolate candies in particular. Another significant snow storm heads this way possibly bringing twelve or more inches of snow. Scones were sold out— even the ones I wouldn’t buy. The library consortium doesn’t carry the book I’m seeking. Why didn’t Lot’s wife keep her eyes straight ahead?

     Why is it so hard to take advantage of open openings? The word or phrase that begins a conversation needs a responding word, a touch needs a reply. 

     Questions don’t always have answers, but it’s necessary to keep asking. Why didn’t my team score that last Hail Mary basket? Why didn’t I buy those chocolate covered pieces of ginger? Why didn’t I go earlier to purchase a scone? Why don’t I take out a different book? Why don’t I write a midrash to answer the question about Lot’s wife? 

     Why don’t we recognize the open opening as grace? Pass it up, turn it down, refuse to see it— and the lack of sight  may haunt you.