(dedicated to my father, a child victim of a Polio)
I feel your shame
As you swing your bum leg
Over the edge of the rocking dingy.
I hear the thud
When you settle down hard
On the salt-weary bench.
But I see your pride
When you grip those oars
Looking like everyone else
A whole man at last on the open sea
And safe at last.
(dedicated to the troubled women I worked with in a shelter)
Tonight
When he staggers home
She will kill him
Erase him from that page in her life
And start to hope again.
Blood
Crimson as those autumn birch leaves
Will drop from her knife
Falling at last into empty eyes
In the velvet night.
But in the morning…
Outside my window
A leaf journeys to a certain death
Embraces a resting drop of dew
That glistens in the morning sun
To remind me you are here.
We are amazed by the glimmers of life and beauty
But mostly the sadness that manages to reach us in our basements.
Who can ignore that slow, sad whistle of the morning walker
Or disregard our memories from long ago.
They all come with each incessant pearl of rain
That knocks without remorse
Against our only window on the world.
This morning we open the blind to a raging storm
It attacks all that is selfless and modest.
Even that insignificant weed out there
Bends in the wind to remind us of nature.
It presses itself one last time against our window
And like a lover is gone forever.
I wrap this Yahrzeit candle
In a wool sock.
This time you will have safe transport.
Yes, I must pack and get on with life
But never , not even once, will I forget you.
Dedicated to my late husband, a Holocaust Survivor
Written in my room at the Hotel Banat in Bucharest, Romania on October 28, 2018
Your spirit is here in this old hotel room
Its laughter drifts out through heavy drapes
Blends with echoing street sounds below.
It sips local wine in the elegant glass of yesterday
Lifts its arms, whistles to the high carved ceiling.
Dance Rudy
Dance your own dance
The one where you pretend
You are what you are not
The one where you are
What you pretend.
Written by Cora Schwartz
(dedicated to Grandmothers)
The baby stretches out on my wrinkled chest
Her tiny fingers tightly curled around my useless one
Her innocent eyes study snowflakes caressing the window
She does not know those are my angels watching over us
Just an old woman in her last moments of joy.
She makes the gentle cooing sound so natural and sweet
She does not know it echoes through the universe
That no one really knows that this pure baby
Makes the world revolve around only us.
How do I know, you ask
I’ll tell you how.
In my meager life I have waited a long time
Knowing someday the joy, the warmth
The streaming blood would flow
From my tired heart to her new one
Now she is everything, all that can be.
My never-ending years of longing are over.
We are one heart.
They think she is theirs
But she is mine.
(dedicated to my late husband, a Holocaust Survivor)
Friday night you are alive again
I strain to hear your whistle
See you burst back into life
In a glorious shower of stars.
Enticed by the wine glass
Watching my single, hopeless tear
You speak your wordless wisdom
Your heavy hands resting on yellow formica.
Treacherous wind
Whips around the northeast corner
Creeps through our thin walls
Rattles windows like bones.
I’ll make tea
You watch the candle
I lit it for you, my dear
No Sabbath for us.
Hear the chimes
The garbage pails crashing
See your man hanging,
He dances in the Gypsy wind.
We are the last of the last
So take your time
Warm yourself
On the copper pot.
I ask, shall I turn up the heat
You answer, suffering is good
I say, one candle can light the darkness
You laugh and say it always goes out.
(dedicated to women I’ve known)
The Grand Concourse,
Once we promenaded there in Sunday finery
Past steadfast doormen
Under sheltering canopies
We waited in plush lobbies
Where smoky blue mirrors
comforted us.
Now, on an icy morning
Seventeen, maybe less
She pushes a stroller to the yawning giant
Feeds it empty beer-can sacrifices.
It spits nickels at her
Perhaps to buy milk for the baby
Perhaps to buy beer for herself.
Who’s to know?
Who’s to care?
(dedicated to my late father, a child victim of a Polio Epidemic)
You took pride in just being there
Despite your handicap
‘Me car’s me legs’ you’d say
In your fake brogue
As you waited patiently outside.
I will never forget
The Daily News propped against your steering wheel
The warmth, the cigar smoke
The concerned look when I returned
I know now
You always feared
My bringing back something you could not handle.