Memories

Memories well up like the bubbles
On the bottom of a pot of water
That is just about to boil.
They rise up to the surface
And pop
As they release a moment
From the deep recesses of mind.
Sometimes it is a picture
A sound,
A smell,
An emotion.
One word alone may release one
Recalling when that word first was
Understood.
A crossword puzzle can start a rolling boil
Suitable for cooking pasta.
When each bubble breaks
Another memory escapes
Until the pot is empty
And the memories are in the world.

                At The Gate

Standing at the gate of the Kingdom Water Park
Somber people wait on line for admission.
Inside, the little children frolic and play
In the light of never-ending day.

The children have cast off their garments
Stomping them under their feet
Jumping and dancing and singing they dive
Into pools of water that is alive.

"Unless you become as one of these",
Points the gatekeeper to the children
"You cannot enter the Kingdom Water Park."
He counsels the people in the dark.

          The Science Lesson

The earth revolves around the sun in one year.
The earth makes one revolution on its axis in one day.

We are spinning, spinning
Each day the dancers turn
Around the imaginary maypole
Bow and face the sun
Bow and turn away.
The planets and their orbiters
Spinning, turning, dancing
As they make their yearly tours.
The sun stands solidly motionless
Sending benevolent rays of light
To all her solar system children
Watching the dances of seasons, days and years.
Each day artists paint it
Writers write it
Singers sing it
We measure our days
Sunrise to sunset to sunrise.
The sun doesn't rise
It is we who are spinning.
It is we who rise to greet her.

A poem from Pescha through Sarah
Pescha insists that the original title is maintained.

The Ocean Is Our Mother

The ocean is our source
From her we gain our lives
We carry her in our bodies
In the blood's pulsating force.

The unborn child is confined
By the oceanic fluid
Safe within the holder
Evolution has designed.

Take me to the seashore now
To smell her salty scent
To hear her peaceful song
To watch her ebb and flow.

In this landlocked location
I miss my mother's voice
Her soothing, rhythmic lullaby
Her tidal variation.

And yet she can be violent
You say, I've seen a storm
Over the ocean, it was fierce
And virulent.

The ocean is our mother
A woman like myself
She longs for peace eternally
She responds to the wishes of others.

The ocean doesn't cause the tempest
She doesn't make the tides
She is a fluid entity
That would remain at rest.

Except when eager fluctuations
Of gravity and winds
And shifting masses of the earth
Disturb her placid contemplations.

An image and a poem from my childhood

                           Blue Tango


Slipping away under the boardwalk
Away from the burning white sand
I found a patch of twilight
Lit by stripes of sun that leaked
Between the boards above
And by a blue neon light.

A radio was blaring a haunting tune
From behind the neon sign.
The bar was open
I could smell the beer
Mixed with the salt in the air.

Slipping away, I found
A patch of twilight
An adult world of mystery
That re-assembles whenever I hear
Blue Tango

A Poem about Pescha, Leah and Sarah

For those who have read the book, I thought you might enjoy  a photograph of Pescha and Leah taken on their front stoop in the early 1930's.
Here, too is a poem (which didn't make it into the book ) which predates the prose and directed it:

Patterns

A box arrived one day with things you made
An embroidered tablecloth, some dresser scarves, a bedspread.
The bedspread was part of your trousseau
Crocheted in filet with strange birds in the design.
Later on, I learned there were such birds in the forests
In Europe where you lived as a girl.
Packed within the needlework were photographs
Of that girl. A girl who looked just like me
A girl, who, like myself sewed her own clothes.
Making her own designs was her artistic expression.

I remember seeing you only once in the nursing home
Mother thought you would frighten me, being old and ill
But when you held me, I felt a certain kinship and kindness.
I was scarcely two years old when you died.
Years passed, I grew up. Your son, my father, died
Your daughter grew old and sent those things to me.
I set the photographs on a table and when my children came in
They asked, "When did you dress up in those old clothes
To take those pictures?"

There are some patterns that transcend time
My needlework and yours are one.
Although I never knew you, we had parallel lives.
It's in the genes, they say, the way
I like to lay out the colored threads and plan a pattern
The way the stitches are even on the backside of the cloth
The way we rip it out and redo it until it is perfect
Because only we know there is one wrong stitch.
The way we bury the knots and break the threads
The way our girlhood dreams were buried and broken
By the realities of life.
The way we learned to accept
Even to delight in
Things that aren't perfect.