Monsters

articulating the depths

of your vulnerability

for the children you brought forth

was unbearable

made you powerfully belligerent

which in turn immobilized

those who could

the ensuing disaster

the sense of being both the victim

and the perpetrator, at the mercy

of your madness

*

Monsters also age,

where fire once raged

puffs of smoke swirl

into cloud formations

but knowledge of damage done

never fades

only memory thins

such a transparent veil

where what exists is what’s before you

and you, you billow, in a wind

of nameless remorse and gratefulness

Would it be Grace?

Photograph By Nick Zungoli

Photograph By Nick Zungoli

Fishing Rods

Remnants of my Uncle Jacob’s finer days

when, with my father and I trailing behind

we would make off to Wannsee,

spend the afternoon poking its Surface

with lines to which I hooked squirmy insects

meeting their soggy fate

in the gaping mouths of carp

 

Uncle Jacob had shown me how to fasten

the fleshy beasts, he used to say:

“With your small hands you should out-fasten

me very quickly!”, I never did.

Uncle Jacob had the largest palms I’d ever seen,

his fingers in comparison were thin and very long,

I imagined it was those spindly fingers

which fastened diamonds so nicely,

the large palm a secure surface

to hold them, assess their brilliance

without letting them drop into the dust

of precious metal and wood powder

 

He was such a Giant

Nothing worried him,

half his size, my Father knew better

the Black and Silver Cross

appearing Everywhere

foreshadowed an Evil

Never before Seen

Uncle Jacob wouldn’t listen, I did,

even the Trees seemed menacing

the Carp too hungry, the Water too green,

 

What would become of us, Where should we go?

 

 

vallotton pond

Painting By Felix Vallotton

The Scent Of Lemons

To Amnon Zamir

Macadamwolf

Photograph by Yaron Rosner

 

You carry the Scent of lemons,

of gathered Sun, weathered

like Salt into your existence

Millennia of unsettled Dust

 

With the Fullness of pomegranates

the voices of my Ancestors roll

off your tongue, fall to my feet

as you turn, lean towards me

 

Touching your cheek, I hear them

call me Home, pleading

me to remember

 

I shudder in your warmth

Pine beneath

my golden welcome,

your mouth stamps

me with my essence

Patience I whisper,

and return to the pact

I have made my life

in Exile to be.

 

King Island

Steeped in the abundance of stories told

She grew

A hum of voices lulling her spirit

Into fullness

Repeating names

Describing places of long ago

An island,

Houses perched Precariously

On cliffs

Beaten by a Vehement sea

Bountiful Traditions, ice fishing

carving, and Dancing – a life

Of millennia –

****

Like a wash of color

Deeply embedded

In the fiber of her being

Woven into her flesh

Is a longing She can’t define,

Pointing to her ancestors

She explains

That is where they lived

Half the year, in the Winter

She herself, has never been,

Imagines, smells, thirsts

A life no longer lived

Yet beats on, in her existence

Courses through her body

Evokes memories

Which are not hers – But Are –

****

With the persistence of a Survivor

She tells you

Of this world lost

To the arbitrary western mind

how she wants to return,

like one robbed of her Belonging

Her inheritance

****

King Island, Alaska. Photograph Dave Cohoe

King Island, Alaska Photograph Dave Cohoe

OLD STONE

old stone

To my father,      Memorial Day 2014

 

Resonant memory stored,

such centuries of utterances

cooling and warming

each flagstone,

the scent of mold

 

We ascended the large steps

you felt as I did, moved

by the voices you’d heard

echoing time immemorial

but from which you have kept

yourself for so long,

the wave of feeling swept

through to your brow

and as it transpired

you could no longer

hold yourself,

Too many whispers at once

too many greetings, entreaties,

too many

 

So we will sit here for awhile,

gather ourselves for awhile,

and I will wait

till you are ready

to go home.

Bishara

To my grandfather

a Spirit you Appear

through your written elegance

A visionary you Hover

in the wounded Flesh

of your children’s hearts, who

remember you Vehemently

but in fact, hardly

Stories waft in pieces, Scents

Sounds of darbuka,

they vanish as quickly

nothing retains them, nobody

really knows the man

who died of an ancient virus

caught upon opening

the buried vaults

of Forgotten gods

By way of your Book

you visit me, Reveal

yourself , your love

for a land which raised you

was not yours, still

houses your Bones

I picture your soul

as the wind lifts the Sand

restless Circling

questioning the years

you spent on your own

Waiting to die

so far from those

who needed you most.

Yaron _2