Transition
A longing for heart quiet,
end of further fall
into winter — short days of sun
forwarding to spring’s
longer days, circling back
in the sameness of time —
heart-and mind-numbing time
with no respite. A longing to quiet
thoughts playing back
battle after battle, the failing
to even half-fill life’s wellspring.
And in my darkest season
of discontent, convinced the sun
will no longer shine in this lifetime;
feeling that sting
as from a bee disquieting
green slumber, swelling to a fault
every damned day, slamming me back.
Season upon season, holding me back,
chilling me with doubt that the sun
warms body and soul without fail,
and without doubt, given time,
better times, rise with each dawn quietly
advancing into spring.
Fast forward, past spring
to summer, autumn, back
to winter, and round again, disquiet
ever more glaring under the sun.
Then, out of the blue, a glance, nod, time
stopped, my heart races falling
in love without doubt. No fooling!
Empty seasons done for. Spring
burgeons and flowers time —
a new lifetime. No looking back.
Past care and sounder reason,
my heart basks. Quiet
as snowfall, springtime-sprouting,
sun-bursting-through-cloud quiet,
a kiss blown then blown back.
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Emily, Rescue Me
from Mediocrity
hunkered down on Me
— an Albatross, that by Night
in full fright, slips ten Talons
through my sleepless Brain & digs
up Bits & Pieces of Poems
of mine ostensibly laid to rest.
By my writing Hand by Day
— in full sight — the no-good Interloper
presses me to pen again & again,
those scrapped Fragments, & renders
the Verse I write that Trash into
not the least bit better for It.
Fighting Tooth-to-Nail not to write
worse & worse, I sweat wanting
Invention — your Intervention.
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From Two Sons of Abraham
My brethren, born to Ishmael,
first son of Abraham, want blood
of kin to the second son of Abraham--Isaac,
his Hebrew brood, the Talmud
they revere, sheitels & yarmulkes
their orthodox wear.
My brethren, born to Isaac,
second son of Abraham, want blood
of kin to the first son of Abraham--Ishmael,
his Islamic brood, the Koran
they revere, hijabs & kaffiyehs
their faithful wear.
O, the spilled blood
Ishmaelites & Israelites--all
begotten from two sons of Abraham.
Zionists, zealots, terrorists, militia,
politicians, civilians scanning the horizon
above the land of milk & honey.
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Ten Rittenhouse Square
“A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark’d, where, on a little
promontory, it stood, isolated...”
Walt Whitman, “A Noiseless Patient Spider”
Mother sleeps, wilting in her Gerry chair,
the corners of her mouth cradling oatmeal
I’d fed her earlier. A lifetime ago
she told me she’d been a tomboy.
This stranger, once that girl, once
my father's bride, wakes, whimpers,
grimaces. Her hands grip the wheelchair,
her eyes squint shut, head bows. She prays
to a god I still don't know. I search
her lined face for signs of pain, touch
places on her body believing she’ll wince
if I hit upon a hurt. She’s still. I’m sad
not to know what she feels, thinks, would
say, if only the phantom spinner hadn’t
seized her, squeezing out the last trace
of speech weeks ago. Now,
only a vacant stare & a patient
noiseless spider eyeing its next victim.
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mom
dad died
but i’m here
like he
would have
hoped
now
i’ll care
for you
think
speak
for you
mom
blink
if you can
remember
me
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I Ate My Mother’s Hair
standing behind her, as she sat
on a stool in the shower stall
of her nursing home bathroom,
tile floor catching the silver snippets
I cut from her statue-still head.
What could I do with the comb
when I had to wield the scissors
with one hand, clasp her locks
with the other, Mother’s tangled
brain not letting her grasp that
she could ease my task, she could
turn her head when asked, hold the comb
and look in the mirror when I finished,
see what a fine job I did? Every month
for seven years, I stood at the sink
in that bathroom rinsing her traces
out of my mouth, the sadness.
---------------------------------------------
Coming in Second
Body chilled by years of neglect,
my twin lies in a hospital bed
trying to grasp how she’s come
to this. The sum of my fears
she’s the one person I dread
I could be, save for some kink
in our link of genetic fiber.
Struggling not to catch her death
of cold, I’ve steered clear of her
view our life was conceptual
error, yet I find myself more
akin to her than sanity permits.
And though, at times, I fall into that
black hole of her undoing, I manage
to climb back out, into the asylum
of my life. Out, according to my twin,
the same way I exited the womb,
climbing over her in order to be first.
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on yet another birthday
my prized micro cassette
i keep stashed away
in my dresser drawer
but for this day
each year when i take it
out of its velvet-lined box
to play and replay
my father’s message
promising he’ll return
my call soon
as possible
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Slipping into Red
In the big tree’s cradling arms
a hammock lulls me to dream
that I don’t give a damn
if coming is going.
I leap into a swarm of flushed pairs
of red-shoed dancing bodies pushing
and shoving ‘round a mirrored floor
and I too wear red shoes—tear across
the glass down spiral stairs
into a bright night
and oncoming rash of fast-paced
pinched-faced madcaps dashing
as blasts of red blitz my head
jolt me awake.
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The Sky Is Falling
Bless the birth of flying
insects and certain rodents
like belfry bats — all vying
for a place in a once benevolent
domain of fair-feathered fowl.
Curse the filthy-fuel scourge
of huge metal birds that foul
the air with engine surge.
Where is the environment
early birds flew with ease?
The clear-blue firmament
of nothing to heed
other than torrential downpours
or the frightful flutter
of huge-winged dinosaurs?
I speak of bona-fide harm to
winged and other creatures,
for when a Jet streaks through
the stratosphere a piece of sky fails
& the likes of Chicken Little’s wail
resound the world round
& King after King’s scoff
blows each voiced concern off.
---------------------------------- Across from Her Mirror
her husband sits buried in his paper.
She turns his way:
“Do you like my dress?”
“No need to shout, I’m right here.”
Leave screams in her head.
She thinks of her mother.
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For Want of Red
I see men wanting a red-clad woman:
see-through-cheap red, backless
& sleeveless, breast-tight, cheek-taut.
Behind their ogling, no thoughts barred.
What ecstasy, peeling her ruby-ripe layers,
her glistening core color revealed. O!
to see the body in red slink past
“All You Can Eat” to “The Pink Pussy”
down the street; to nosedive into hard-
core fantasy, rock & roll in it. Hey,
in the thick of it all, they appear master-
fully cool — cucumbers that’ll escape
getting caught red-handed eyeballing
the eye-catcher. In the dogged pursuit
of red, each voyeur cocksure of coming
home fulfilled, no shred of red
showing — my old man, a looker
from way back, home to me, his post-
menopausal wife whose red faded
dress grows threadbare, eyes bloodshot
bawling over this most wearing state of affairs.
I look to my husband to redress despair,
hold me, at the very least, notice me.
He looks my way, turns away.
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Copyright 2009 by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal. All rights reserved.
