I Am Water

 

 

 

 

 
I am fluid
as the river
flowing through a canyon.
I am not stagnant water
standing
still in a bucket.
I am rippling,
rolling,
unbroken.
I am free.

The Sun

 

The darkest hours

will unravel the light.

Waiting,

questioning 

the conundrum.

Disentanglement 

will be late coming.

In Mariupol, the smoke

is rising.

The land is ravaged.

In the steel factory

the girl has sheltered

52 days

underground.

All she wants is to

see the sun.

The Rubble

 

The Rubble

The rubble stained.

The rubble cloaks shame.

Innocence taken.

Innocence lost and forgotten,

as if it never existed.

Once, there were children playing,

their laughter echoing through these streets.

Their faces beamed with joy as they ran free,

playing hopscotch and hide-and-go-seek.

Once, fathers and mothers tucked their children into bed.

Teeth brushed,

bruises tended to,

bedtime stories told, as

the moon and stuffed animals listened.

Once, there were lunches made,

homework examined,

board games played,

holidays celebrated,

music played.

Once, there were grandparents conversing,

tending to the children,

bridging the present to the past.

The sun rose.

The sun set.

Life was lived.

Love was shared.

Underneath the rubble,

bodies are buried.

Hope ravaged.

Laughter silenced.

Life ended.

The promise of tomorrow stolen.

 

Praying for the people of Ukraine

A Corner in the World: Holocaust Poems for My Father

 

It’s out and available! 

As difficult as it is to remember,

the history and sentiments will remind us

that we can never afford to forget.

I am proud and I feel honored to share

these poems, 

these stories that I will carry with me forever.

Book Reveal- A Corner In The World:Holocaust Poems For My Father

 It's been my honor to write this book.

Thanks

 

 

 I heard that

thanks is a prayer.

Thanks is enough.

Struggles arise,

angels and saviors.

Old scripture along side the new.

I have morphed 

from the faithful

to the spiritual.

I read verses,

I listened to chants.

I am my father's daughter.

He claimed to find refuge and

communion anywhere.

He crawled from death to life.

He dwelt in the moment

because nothing is promised.

It was a gift

that he unknowingly handed to me.

I find solace.

I find sanctuary,

in a dark room or

under a vast sky.

Sitting beneath a sequoia tree,

peace spreading within,

within.

I inherited his optimism and 

his despair.

I inherited his aura.

His spirit dwells in the 

walls of my house,

when I light the memorial candles

on Friday nights.

The light glows.

I walk through the shadows

feeling less alone.

Thank you is my prayer.

Thank you for a thousand mornings

of silence.

A thousand mornings of love.

Thank you on paper ships

in the bay,

and rose-colored dreams.

Thank you though struggles

and failures.

Thank you.

Grandmothers And Granddaughters

 

 

 My mother welcomed the sabbath,

lighting candles.

Her head covered,

her eyes closed

as she whispered her prayer.

Her house spotless.

The smells from the kitchen intoxicating. 

Her table was adorned with a white

starched tablecloth and

crystal goblets for wine.

Silently she uncovered her head,

the way her mother had,

and her mother before her.

My mother's mother accumulated

a dowry when I was born.

Dishes and lines all chosen with intention

but mostly love.

She is present in my thoughts 

as I think of my granddaughter.

Holding silver candlesticks that 

I will gift to her.

How beautiful they are

for the home that she will make

some day.

Her eyes sparkle bright,

her smile is infectious.

Her sweet face can light 

desolate paths,

and dark days and nights.

She was born with a crown on her head,

during a global pandemic.

The days were challenging

but she was the sun and the moon.

Enveloping us with love

from her first smile.