41.
Should you put
the fingerling goldfish
in a tiny glass bowl
on the table
it would remain tiny
and swim its life away
going in circles.
Put in a big pond
it would continue to grow
until it was awesome in size.
Are we, too,
limited by the walls
of the container?
Were our pond the universe . . .?
The Temple
This temple
has no walls
no halls
no congregants.
But in this sacred no-place
where I find myself
I find my Self.
Sometimes it frightens me.
Learning to live
in this space
means one must be prepared
to know
more than one is comfortable
knowing.
3.
When I was five
Margie Gahn said
I was not g r a c ef u I enough
to be in her dancing class
but I should WATCH.
I thought I was pretty good.
When I was nine
Miss Laughinghouse said
I was not t u n ef u I enough
to be in her singing class
and I must LISTEN.
I thought I was pretty good.
When I was forty-seven
Pearl Levine said Iwas not evolved enough
to be in her consciousness raising group
but I might AUDIT.
I thought I was pretty good.
If they had said
come dance with us—
come sing with us—
come grow with us—
Ooooooooohhhhhhhh
What a difference!
9.
Let us say grace:
By what miracle
Does this cracker
Made from Kansas wheat,
This cheese ripened in French caves,
This fig, grown and dried near Ephesus,
Turn into me?
My eyes,
My hands,
My cells, organs, juices, thoughts?
Am I not then
Kansas wheat
And French cheese
And Smyrna figs?
Figs, no doubt,
The ancient Prophets ate!
Generations
Grandma at forty-five—
had six children and one on the way,
wore a tatty brown wig
over waist-long crystal-black hair,
had a studious husband
to whom she never spoke, never!
sold fish wrapped in newspapers,
down on the lower east side,
had a couple of words in English
and for fun
wrote little jiggly Yiddish rhymes.
Mother at forty-five—
had three pretty good kids,
a sick stay-at-home husband
with whom she quarrelled
only behind closed doors
after 3 a.m.; wore
a sleek mannish bob,
distinguished for its
elegant (like her) silver streak;
had a love affair with words;
you'd never know she left school
after eighth grade to go to work.
She filled a dozen cabinets
wi
th journal notesto be destroyed upon her death,
and hid a couple of really fine poems
in the bottom drawer.
I at forty-five—
had pouffy hair
dyed several shades of gold,
two children
for whom I quit my job in radio
as "good moms" did
in that benighted time,
a gracious spouse
with whom I did not fight,
but to whom
I cried a lot
before I learned the art
of give-at-least-as-much-as-get,
volunteered in politics,
studied acting, wrote some plays,
discovered self-creation workshops,
and wrote poems like this.
My girl-child, now at forty-five—
looks maybe twenty-nine,
has real born-with yellow hair,
cut short post-modern style,
has a partner
with whom she shares three domiciles,
four cats;
practices the law
in courtrooms,
and for refreshment
climbs rocks
roller blades
scuba dives
runs, swims, piano plays,
but if she's writing poetry
I haven't heard.