B”H

RUTH FOGELMAN: A RETROSPECT

     For almost twenty years, Ruth Fogelman z”l, who left us this past winter, was a steady contributor to The Deronda Review.  Her presence in the Review will be sorely missed.  Here we have gathered the poems which have appeared in our magazine, as well as one or two more that epitomize the luminous character of her work.

     Ruth lived in the Old City of Jerusalem, and her poems are at home there.  Besides her collections of poetry – Leaving the Garden (2018) and What Color Are Your Dreams (2019), she collected her letters in a book, Within the Walls of Jerusalem: A Personal Perspective, which shares with the reader the experience of living in the holiest of all cities.  

     At the funeral her poem “I, Jerusalem” was read out.  We share it here:

I, JERUSALEM

I hear music on my streets every weekday

and on nights when my children rejoice.

I hear the wailing of a grandmother

whose world has crumbled away.

I smell fresh mint in Mahane Yehuda

and cinnamon in the Old Market.

I smell acrid remains of bodies from attacks

in a yeshiva, in a mall, in buses and cafes.

I see prophecy fulfilled as my children return

and crowds stream through my streets before dawn.

I see my children butchered and maimed,

and speeding ambulances after each terror attack.

I taste honeyed baklava and pomegranates,

olives, figs and dates.

I taste the guilt of those who survive

and also the flavor of their prayers.

I touch those who hunger for inspiration,

and all who seek eternity within my gates.

                                                                          from Jerusalem Awaking

   Ruth loved to encourage other poets.  For many years she led a creative writing group, Pri Hadash. In collaboration with one other poet, she would write “challah poems.”  One of them, written with Mindy Aber Barad, was read at the funeral by Mindy and fellow-poet Leah Gottesman.

Fingers of Gold

A Challah Poem

By Ruth Fogelman and Mindy Aber Barad

RF

Fingers of gold

Shoot from the morning sun

And curl around the waking city,

Bathing her in light.

MAB

Fingers of gold

Clasp the altar.

Tufts of smoky fragrance

Float to the East.

RF

Tufts of fragrance

Jasmine and pine

Are carried in the morning breeze

And seep into the crevices

Of the City’s stone.

MAB

They curl around the waking city.

And the altar and the smoke

The cradle of the Shechina

Rocks us gently

As our eyes open wide

Thank You for the gold

This is perfection!

RF

As our eyes open wide

To the new day,

And we shake our bodies

From our dreams,

We inhale the fragrance of the leaves.

MAB

Jasmine and pine

Ride upon the smoke

Freely

As the fingers of gold

Glow in the new light.

RF

Glowing in the new light,

The leaves reflect the angels’wings,

The cobbled streets, for now, still silent,

Remind me of the footstool

Of the Throne.

MAB.

We are as dreamers

As we again witness

This new day –-

This renewed day.

We invite you to enter Ruth’s world. 

I.                  Precious City

Precious City

My precious city, you enthrall me

you captivate, inspire and uplift me

Jerusalem, my spirit is bound in yours.

Beloved city, you beckon me

to enter your gates, you embrace me

Jerusalem, you hold my soul in yours.

***

To A Pigeon at Dawn  

Your coos awake me.

You perch lightly outside my window

and your landing makes the shutter creak.

Then with a whish of wings you are gone.

Are you the pigeon pecking bread

near the Western Wall

or the pigeon on its ledge

eying those below?

Are you the pigeon

who once nested on my kitchen sill?

Or are you a descendant of the pigeon

who nested in the oak

that lent its shade

to Sarahʼs Tent?

***

Jerusalem, Summer 2007

Darboukas and ouds on Old City rooftops,

jazz saxophone and keyboard in Mamilla’s new mall,

Latin American xylophone and charango in Safra Square ,

self-playing bells, harp and pipes within the Citadel –

all open-air on midsummer nights.

Under yellow lights

Herodian stones glow.

A Crusader arch turns from purple to pink.

Ottoman walls are decked with blue and white lights –

Music and magic

in Jerusalem .

***

DAWN AT THE WESTERN WALL

Dawn breaks over the Western Wall.

On the ledges, pigeons that slept as motionless

as the ancient stones,

now stretch their wings.

Sparrows land from nearby trees

and hop at my feet.

A flock of swifts flies west

towards the pale moon still high after night=s retreat.

Above my head

glide a pair of white, luminescent wings C

an angel=s C a dove=s?

At the Western Wall,

when night and light embrace

maybe

more than birds meander through the sky. 

***

WHAT IS ITS NAME?

"What is its name?"

I ask, pointing to the tree next to the locked mosque.

He shrugs, as if the name

has the importance of a shell on the seashore.

"What is its name?"

I ask a woman with covered head and wrist-length sleeves.

She returns a blank stare,

as if to say, "Since when do trees have names?"

I gather the tree's purple blossom

strewn across the cobbled stone

and walk over to Marietta at the book store.

"What is its name?

Her eyes light up, her lips spread into a smile.

"Oh -- that's jacaranda."

Jacaranda -- the smile of my day!

***

ABOVE THE MINARET

I

Above

the minaret

on the Mount of Olives

dawn=s mist

mutes the sun.

In the plaza below B

two black, yowling cats

nose to nose

eyes ablaze

tails curved outwards

like a symmetrical paper-cut.

II

Above

the minaret

a pale pink crest

rises in the haze.

A thin cloud

slices the sun.

In the plaza below

on a sea-blue shawl,

a calico cat

cleans a raised limb

like a princess in her morning bath.

III

North

of the minaret

beyond pink quilt-clouds,

when twilight rises

above time,

the cats B

lions standing guard

at the courtyard gates;

the sea-blue shawl B

the purple, scarlet and peacock-blue

curtains draping the palace of twelve gems.

***

In Jerusalem

Walking towards my bus stop at Kikar David Remez,

I bump into Larry, whom I’ve not seen in years.

“The twins will celebrate their bar mitzvah next month;

we want to do it at the Kotel,” he says.

“Do you have any idea who can arrange it for us?”

I put him in touch with the perfect person.

After the celebration, our ways again part.

Past midnight, I’m on my way home

from a poetry reading,

through the Jewish Quarter’s deserted alleys,

my cart heavy with books.

Please, G-d, send someone to help me

get this cart up the steps to my door.

A young man appears –- the answer to my prayers.

I’m uncluttering a corner,

digging through dust-laden boxes

of my husband’s pamphlets and papers.

I find a postcard showing a field of red tulips

from Amsterdam, addressed to me, from Miranda,

with whom I’ve lost contact for twenty years.

I find her on Facebook, contact her.

She’s coming to Jerusalem

at the end of the month, with plans for Aliyah.

Providence dances in Jerusalem.

*

Masked - Unmasked

She's playful,

covers her face

as if at a masked ball,

calls herself

Coincidence,

and sometimes, with a giggle,

Serendipity;

unmask her

and you'll find

Providence.

*

RAIN STORM ON A THIRSTY LAND

The rain-clouds part and the skies open up,

blue skies after the torrential downpour.

The sun glows and the wet ground glistens;

I think I can hear the earth whisper

aah, now that’s what I needed,

a good strong drink. Give me more!

The waters of the lake rise five centimeters,

more, more water, the rivers gurgle as they flow,

at least another five meters, murmurs the lake.

I still need to pray for rain,

rains of blessing to quench the earth,

to fill cisterns, rivers and lakes,

rains bursting with Heaven’s bounty.

***

At a Jerusalem Building Site

On the rubble of a building site

five crows watch a cat

who eats yogurt, dipping a paw

into a plastic cup,

calmly licking its creamy-coated paw,

its back to the birds.

Maybe the crows and the cat

are like the lamb and the lion

and prophetic days are here.

***

An October Day in Jerusalem

A cacophony of sirens

rips the air.

My three-year-old thinks it is music

and while police and medics tend

the stabbed

and murdered

a minute away

he continues to play

in the park.

*

AFTER THE SHOOTING

Eight names gape at me,

eight names in big, bold, black letters

stare from posters plastered along the City=s cobbled streets.

Doron Meherete, twenty-six, from Ashdod B

was he my friend=s brother?

I phone her.

He was her parents= neighbor, not their son.

I=m happy.

I groan.

*

ADAR 5768

a month of increased joy

endless sirens in Jerusalem=s streets

strains of music from wedding halls

eight boys butchered in the yeshiva library

fragrance of cherry blossom

eight funerals on Friday afternoon

a satin robe of peacock blue

***

Life’s Good

My daughter’s getting married

another just had twins

my son’s serving in Hebron

and a terrorist killed my teacher’s son

life’s good.

My youngest has a birthday

and is doing well in school

the price of living is outrageous

and war is raging in Iraq

life’s good.

See these giant olives

and the sweetest pomegranates

missiles fly across from Gaza

and calls of annihilation from Iran

life’s good.

See the desert flowering

and the bounty the earth gifts us

we’re in our home, our family’s close

one day we’ll live in peace

life’s good.

***

Missiles and Molotov Cocktails

Missiles and Molotov cocktails

fly across our Gaza border.

Fire crosses our Syrian border

while within our borders, terrorists

set our land aflame

and maim and kill our daughters and sons.

And yet, doves fly at the Western Wall

and pigeons coo on our window ledge

as we mourn and celebrate

as if we have two hearts.

We love, have babies

as if we have no battles,

build families

as if we have no wars

and with the hope

that charges our vision

we live each day to the full.

***

WITHIN THE CAVE

       “the Lord said that He would dwell in thick darkness.”

                                         I Kings 8:12, II Chronicles 6:1

I stand in the cave by the Western Wall.

A deep voice fills it  

“Yitgadal Veyitkadash”

And I see the pain  

Red coals,

And water cannot extinguish their fire.

Barbed flames rise up

And rivers cannot quench them.

And I fear I will turn to ash,

Yet cannot flee.

And I must walk through these flames,

Allow them to tear at me,

Pray that G d holds my hand within the fire,

Trust that from this, too, I shall return,

That through these flames G d is showing me my self

C one strengthened by the test.

          And you will dance with the pain

          And you will climb its ladder

          Rung by fiery rung

          And you will let the pain guide you and be your light.

          For G d is in the fire

          As He is in the pain.

***

MAKE PEACE WITH THE DARK

Let us make peace with the dark

Embrace our shadow ‑

Our crookedness ‑

Turn our fall into a dance

Like Judah of old:

AShe is more righteous than I,@

He stated before one and all

Let us turn our fall into a dance

Like David, King of Israel :

AYou have transformed my fall

Into a dance for me,@

And he leapt and twirled

In holy ecstasy

Before the Transformer.

Let us dance with our shadow,

For in our dance

We remain whole.

In our brokenness

We remain whole

And we access

Our primal essence,

Remain true to our source,

And like Betzalel,

Who walked in the Shadow of G‑d,

A Sanctuary, we, too, can create. 

II.               Jacob’s Ladders

JACOB’S LADDERS

The poets of the town

that may never have existed

uncover silence with poetry

which they craft in the back rooms of their dwellings.

Their poetry flows

as if heaven is their ink;

they claim they are but channels

which bring down verses from on high.

Their ladders bridge earth and heaven:

angels drink from jacaranda petals,

an old lady’s swollen fingers caress pages of Psalms,

the messiah’s footsteps echo in the city’s cobbled lanes.

Yes! Their poems are more

than ladders bridging heaven and earth  

they stretch earth up to heaven

as they pull heaven down to earth.

***

A FRAME

A frame holds me, borders me,

and within the frame

I splash purple, crimson and peacock blue.

The colors whirl and create circles and heptagons.

Within the colors

I place quavers and semibreves.

The notes play their song

and their melody is heard beyond the borders.

Within the melody

I pen letters.

The letters join together and form words.

The words -- a fence around the truth.

Truth sprouts white wings,

gains strength and flies

to a canopy standing on four poles

and under the canopy, Truth's bride --

Peace.

***

A POEM HAS A LIFE

A poem has a life of its own.

Do not clip its wings to leave it tottering on the ground

-- release it to fly beyond sunset’s gold.

Do not make it squawk like a caged bird

-- allow it to sing a rainbow’s song.

Do not shackle it in chains

-- free it to scale a mountain range or sail upon a cloud.

Do not mangle it into a nightmare scream

-- let it fly and let it sing and let it share its dreams.

For a poem has a life of its own.

It may lead you through fields of sunflowers, tall as men,

nodding yellow heads to the sun.

It may wind through wadis

or span across waterfalls.

It may soar on a swallow’s wings

or awake in the cave of a bear shaking itself from hibernation.

A poem has music of its own.

It may soothe like the melody of a moonbeam on the sea

or surf retreating from a pebbly beach.

It may have the cadence of footsteps on a forest path,

or of horses galloping down a hill.

It may sing like a butterfly perching on a rose

or stretch through the silences between shofar blasts.

A poem has a light of its own.

***

The Poet

Who are you?

Your tongue is heavy

if your voice is not heard;

your pen falters

if your words are not read.

When we do not hear you,

your lips are blocked;

when we do not read your lines,

your pen refuses to meet the page –

you are no longer you.

***

Do You Hear?

Do you hear the woman speaking?

Do you hear her laughter, her song?

Do her night-time sobs travel oceans no-one sails?

Do you hear the infant gurgle?

Do you hear his cries and comfort him in your arms?

Do his screams fall on cracked earth no-one treads?

Do you hear the dove of a thousand voices?

Do you hear its call across the hills?

Will you leave your tools to listen to the woman,

                                               caress the infant,

                                               follow the dove?

***

THE WORDS OF THE KING=S SON AND A KING=S DAUGHTER

I

The king=s son writes stanzas in the wilderness;

A king=s daughter pens lines on a mountain-top.

Their quills are fashioned from the same phoenix.

They dip them in the same fountain of ink.

His words stretch forth their hands and enter her soul.

Her words stretch forth their fingers, pry open and enter his heart.

The phoenix flies between the wilderness and the  mountain,

Perches on a lily in the dunes,

Rests in a cypress on the mount,

And carries their phrases, like pollen, one to the other.

II

The phoenix rides the rolling winds far beyond the wilderness

And spreads its wings, carrying their words, far beyond the mountain.

Their words= song is heard in the corners of the world.

They stretch forth their arms,

Embrace the children of Eve and open their hearts.

The phoenix carries the words, which stretch forth their legs

And form a ladder standing on earth and touching heaven;

From the ladder=s peak the phoenix flies into the light rom the lost palace.

The words unlock its gates of pearl and enter its courts

And the phoenix sets them, phrase by phrase, in the scepter of the king.

III. A Glimpse at the Book

*

A Broad Space of Stillness

A Challah Poem

By Mindy Aber Barad and Ruth Fogelman

MAB

In a broad space of stillness,

A breeze disturbs the pages of a Book.

It has lain there, open, quiet,

For thousands of years.

RF

A broad space of stillness

Before the birds open their morning song,

Before the rooster’s first crow

Casts its light in the dark pre-dawn.

MAB

The first light taunts

The dark of the pre-dawn.

They are all governed by the Book;

The light, the dark, the dawn,

The spirited breeze.

RF

For thousands of years

The stillness has reigned.

Before each battle for the Land,

The stillness settles across the earth.

MAB

Before each battle for the Land,

The Book is held and read

Aloud, by an unseen Voice.

Horn of the ram,

Cry of the babe,

Whisper of curtains

That flap in new tents.

RF

The light, the dark, the dawn,

The spirit, the slight breeze and strong wind

Split the stillness

Like a canoe slicing wate

r

MAB

The Voice splits the stillness.

Readiness shimmers in the air.

Straightened shoulders

Crowd in for a glimpse at the Book.

*

STORY-TELLER

No tree, no leafy bush,

but endless sand and rock stretch

towards infinity.

No scorpion, snake or desert fox

scurries through the sand or over the rock.

Sometimes in the evening we come

with tambourine or drum

and gather near the center of the camp

and sing songs of yearning,

songs celebrating our new freedom.

And in the center of our circle,

with a colorful wrap around her shoulders,

and her deep eyes dancing from face to face,

Miriam tells stories of our fathers

and of the promise that awaits.

Transfixed, we sit on a woven mat

spread across the sands, our eyes

on the prophetess, our ears

clinging to the intonation of her voice

and to the gems that leave her lips.

***

THE TALE OF TWO WIVES        

Penina

 Though fever rages in my head,

I still must rise, bathe the children, give them food.

They are his, too, but Elkana is over there, with her

And emptiness fills my tent.

          Hannah

          I see her children running across the fields,

          Climbing fig trees, I hear their laughs

          And I beg Elkana   give me child.

          But emptiness fills my womb.

Penina

 At night I dream of horseback riders in the fields

Chasing me, overtaking me, and I fall,

Scream out for help, but Elkana is over there, with her

And emptiness fills my tent.

          Hannah

          Her jibes are arrows that pierce,

          Her taunts, spears that tear apart my sleep

          And I beg Elkana   - give me child

          But emptiness fills my womb.

*

BROTHERS-IN-LAW

Jonathan

When my father stabs me with his jibes,

I shrink away, like a stream deprived of water --              

I walk with David in the vales

For only he can hear the words beneath the ones I say.

David

When I am nothing but a clod of earth,

At a loss for melody and psalm,

And fear that G-d may not receive my thoughts,

Jonathan hears

The words I cannot express.

Jonathan

When my father’s melancholy turns to rage

I escape the palace for a breath of air --

I walk with David through a wadi in the wilderness

For only he can hear the scream that barely leaves my lips.

David

When enemies encircle me as fields of thorns on fire

Jonathan finds me praying in a cave.

Though I fear G-d may not listen to my prayer

Jonathan hears

The scream refusing to leave my throat.

*

Abigail Wife of Nabal, After Meeting David

I heard your mind sing

in harmony with mine,

I saw your soul dance

in step with mine

in a whirl of fire –

the smile

of your eyes

like dew on a parched field –

your voice, soft

yet compelling as a lion’s –

mouth to heart dare not reveal –

though I may never

see you again,

I will always know you.

*

OVERHEARD AT THE FOOT OF MOUNT SINAI

Mother, why can't I go there,

to where grass sprouts and red flowers bloom

and lilies nod their heads?

          Shhh, darling, there's the border.

          None of us may cross it, not even touch.

          Look, even the sheep and cows remain in their folds;

          they too, may not cross.

Why not, mother, why not?

         The border is there to protect us, darling,

         to protect us.

From what?

         From the Holy One,

         so He does not destroy us.

Why would the Holy One, the Compassionate One,

who brought us across the Red Sea,

and feeds us manna sweet as honeycomb,

want to destroy us, mother? Why?

        He doesn't want to destroy us,

        but we should stand here,

        each one of us, witnesses to Him.

        But His glory can devour us - a blazing fire

        if we draw near, my child."

        She trembles, drawing her daughter close.

*

CIRCLE OF RETURN:  ON THE ROAD TO BETHLEHEM

I. Ruth Reminisces

What made me marry someone from a strange land?

I struggled when my family cut me off –

he’s not one of us,

and when my friends vanished, one by one.

I never felt happy in the palace,

did not relate to gods of wood or stone.

There must be more to life, I thought,

for no idol created the stars, the moon, the sun.

Could be that’s why I married Chilion;

somehow he held a key to higher goals.

Or did I marry him to get close to his mother—

a woman of silent strength?

While Chilion taught me the laws of Israel

I struggled with years of childlessness,

maybe next month, he always encouraged me,

but he left me – a widow without child.

Widowhood in Moab means you are no longer a person.

Naomi alone supported me, sharing my loss,

and continued teaching me the ways of Israel,

reminiscing on life in Bethlehem.

Was it hard for me to pack up, pick up and leave

my country, my birthplace, my fathers’ home?

Emotionally, I had long ago left,

little by little, until no roots remained.

A voice within, like the sound of a candle’s flame,

whispered, Arise, go with Naomi.

II. Naomi Remembers

Heaven knows I didn’t want to leave Bethlehem,

despite the harsh famine –

to go to a strange land

with monstrous gods

and profane tongue,

stealing away at midnight

so neighbors would not see or hear.

Oh, the journey through the night,

the steady plod of donkey hoofs,

rumble of wagon wheels on rubble paths

and howl of jackals in the hills.

My Elimelech – when did he ever listen to me?

Oh, the struggle of gagging my tongue

and follow my man.

And the boys? They dared not argue,

especially when he spoke

of taking us to a place with food.

His arguments made sense:

Why should we stay,

pay such prices for wheat

when there it’s cheap?

Should your mother go out,

searching for wild mallow

to cook?

The boys shook their heads,

looked down at their feet

and at the barren earth

whose wide cracks, like open lips,

screamed for rain,

and the boys did not insist

on staying in Bethlehem

with their friends.

Oh, the struggle of living among strangers—

their eyes shot disdain

when we passed them on the way;

their lips curled in a sneer

as they mocked

the G-d of Israel, the Law of Israel.

And now,

alone

I return

with Ruth.

*

THE OLD COUNTRY

Jacob told his wives about the “Old Country”—

I left my parents there, he said,

in the land engraved upon my father’s heart,

the land where the songs of angels echoed,

a land kissed by Heaven.

His sigh brimmed with yearning.

This is the Land, he told them,

to which I must return.

Naomi told Ruth about the “Old Country”—

it was good before the famine, she said,

There, we had community;

there, our prayers could gather

rise and enter Heaven. She sighed.

Her sigh surged from the depths of her soul.

What have I here, she shrugged.

To my home-town I must return.

Mordecai told Esther about the “Old Country”—

there, in the land of miracles, I saw

rays from the windows of the House

that bathed Jerusalem in light.

He heaved a heavy sigh

that welled from the recesses of his heart.

This is the place, he told her,

to which I dream to return.

And now, with our return, the Old Country is renewed

and Jerusalem is again bathed in light,

the unique light that shines from Jerusalem

and spreads forth to the four corners of the world.

*

SHULAMIT

              Return, return, O Shulamit . . .

              Song of Songs 7:1

Snow blacker than witches covers the camp.

Voices lower than whispers echo in the woods.

Pelting rain does not wash the ground clean.

There, your brush, and combs for your hair, Shulamit,

Your velvet purse, your patent-leather shoes.

There, an orchestra played, and the lines marched on.

Some hacked the snow; others shoveled ashes.

Curses darker than wizards' cover the camp.

Footsteps softer than foxes' echo far from forest paths.

Thunder storms do not drown out their sound.          

There, liner for your almond-shaped eyes, Shulamit,

There, an image of your children, yet to be born.

On eagles' wings you returned to the mountain of myrrh,

For blessings, like pearls of dew, cover our Land, Shulamit.

***

CIRCLE DANCE

Circles dance under grapevines in the breeze,

dancers in white garments, borrowed robes,

singing rondeaux under grapevines,

dancing to drum beats with the song of birds.

Circles dance up the hills, up to Jerusalem,

up to the Mountain of Myrrh, through the seven gates,

down the narrow alleys, along the tunneled ways,

holding hands, for in their dance they are complete.

And on the Mountain of Myrrh

Forgiveness and Truth hold hands with Peace

and with joy they dance

in the center of the circle dance.

III.           My White Soul

I Always Want Eyes to See

In conversation with ”Ani Rotzeh Tamid Einayim” by Natan Zach*

I always want eyes to see

the beauty of God’s world –

the fuchsia sky at dawn

the sun sparkling on a lake

the full moon sliding out

from behind a cloud

a lizard as it scurries out

from under a stone

a rainbow’s curve across the sky

raindrops on a petal

the rich purples, pinks

and reds of roses.

I always want eyes to see

my children’s smiles

and to look at their artwork

displayed on my kitchen walls

eyes to see

the walls of Jerusalem lit up at night

the beauty of her ancient, tunnelled alleys

her domes and the splendour of her light

eyes to read —

whether words of inspiration

that uplift my spirit

or wisdom in a good novel.

I never want to be blind

to my mistakes and misdeeds

or to your feelings and needs

or the beauty and goodness within us

never want to lose sight

of our destination and fall

into a depression

and torpor of my spirit.

I always want eyes to see —

to understand what I must do

and recognize

that G-d is running the world.

***

DON=T SLAM THE DOOR! 

Though you=re irritated, frustrated, your emotions raw,

grabbing your jacket and keys in your hand B

don=t slam the door!

Though you think that no-one will understand

as you pack your bags to escape everyone,

grabbing your jacket and keys in your hand B

though you want to flee the commotion, to run

away from a world that is not as it seems

as you pack your bags to escape everyone B

though you need to evade the spins and the schemes,

far from the static, to hear yourself think,

away from a world that is not as it seems B

though you feel others are opaque as black ink,

and you must get outside for a gust of fresh air,

far from the static, to hear yourself think B

though you=re seething, huffing, in the depths of despair,

though you=re irritated, frustrated, your emotions raw,

and you must get outside for a gust of fresh air B

don=t slam the door!

***

Challenged

In school I learnt biology

history and geography

and Shakespeare’s and Milton’s poetry

but not geometry or trigonometry

’cause I am challenged mathematically.

I’m glad to learn linguistics

or take a class in semantics

and another in stylistics

but I’ll never learn statistics

’cause I am challenged mathematically.

I need math for physics and chemistry

and statistics for anthropology

sociology or psychology

so I studied literature and philosophy

’cause I am challenged mathematically.

Still, I can photograph in morning’s light

allow my imagination to take flight

or dance with my man all through the night

or take my notebook and sit down to write

although I’m challenged mathematically.

***

Light

Dawn ‘s silky light, velvety light of dusk

sparkling on lakes, caressing hills ––

wrap me in your gentle arms

light, brush my smiling lips.

In my deep blue eyes

radiant light

that reflects

my white

soul.

A Prayer

As a deer yearns for water, so my soul yearns for You, O God….

Why are you downcast, my soul...?

Psalm 42:2, 6, 12

untangle my tongue so i may speak

return my speech from exile ‘s clasp

that i may find the right words

to express the yearning

of my downcast soul

for You in love

exalted

Father

King

The House of Love

When you walk in, you know that someone

has been waiting, waiting for you.

When you leave, you know someone

is going to miss you.

You, too, will miss them.

You walked in lost –

later you

walk out

found.

***

Word Sonnet

upon radiation treatments

Blessings,

like

angels,

radiate

sheaves

of

light,

linger

on

eyelids,

kiss

my

blue

eyes.