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.  

Equality For Me And My Sisters

My eyes are luminous. 

My heart is alive.

My soul is hungry.
I am not defined
 by my skin

or the vessel that I live in.

I am a visionary.

I am a rebel.

I am a woman that says no.

I faced venomous snakes
 who desired to crawl on my skin.

I faced ravenous eyes that longed to devour me.

Their actions
 birthed shame rising through me.

Shame that I refused to claim.

I raised a son 
on my own

before I understood the strength,
 and the power that I had.

I raised him to be a better man than the ones I had known.

My layers unraveled,
my inner voice found,

my inner voice soaring.

My layers flooded with light
and
 the understanding of being equal.

Weaving stories of my independence

and the independence of all my sisters.

Sisters I had known
and ones 
I have yet to meet.

I understand myself.

I am valuable.

I am human.

I am love.

I am equal.

The memory leaves scars.

The memory leaves the residue of all that came 
before us.

 

The Boat Sleeps In The Boatyard

The boat sleeps in the boatyard.


When the moon rises,
the boat tells the trees and the frogs


stories about her boy


and his grandpa.


The boat carries them


through waves that gently rock her.


The boat is silent but she feels


and she hears.


Grandpa showed the boy


how to tie a knot.


How to lure a fish to his line.


How the birds in the sky are the guides.


Grandpa showed the boy


how to watch the tide.


How to ride the waves,

 when they rock the boat up and down.


Grandpa knows the ocean

the way he knows the wide eyed boy.


Grandpa’s hands are large and rugged
.

The boy’s are small and tender.


At night
,

the trees listen,


the crickets sing,

the frogs dive into puddles.


They wait and anticipate the joyous tales


the boat will tell about the day.

My Boy And The Moon

Dear moon,
have I told you that every time

I see you,

I think of

my boy?
The way his eyelashes gently flutter when he sleeps.
The way he reaches for my hand to grasp it.
He tells me,
"I love you to the moon and back, grandma."
His eyes mischievous and luminous.
He watches the moon
as I do,
in separate cities
but joined in thought and in spirit.

The full moon intrigues him.

The quarter of the moon leaves him with anticipation for the growth

that will transpire.

He wishes he could touch the moon,
hold the moon in his hand and
place it back in the dark sky to light the way,
for all those lost,
for all those unloved.
Because his heart is full,
his heart is kind,
his love is complete.

Fifty Plus

Rebel,
believer,
dreamer.
Woman,

INVISIBLE.

Your pulse was thunder,
your hands were tender,
your eyes were luminous
like your soul.
Your laughter echoed in dark alleys,
your lips were devoured.
You drank,
you spoke loudly,
you dreamed big.
You lived in the moment,
your skies were vast.
Your journey on broken shards
made you stronger.
Your exterior beauty changed.
Your inner beauty grew

and evolved into something bigger than you.

FIFTY
INVISIBLE?
NOT!
sexism,
youth obsessed culture
denies you entry or importance
but you won’t surrender.

You have settled in your vessel,
you have shed your skin.
You have found serenity
and humor.
Your fire raging,

your spirit elevated.

You bridge the old world with the new.
Wondering how you arrived
to this intersection sooner than you thought,
while you were
living a full life.
Holding,
embracing,
cradling,
everyone you’ve ever loved.