Linger here—wait, hereafter–
listen to the gulls call in laughter.
Rest awhile in this in-between
the sky so blue, the trees still green—
soon, the russet-leaves will fall,
and we’ll recall–
memories dim–rose-scent and sun-kissed skin
as icy fingers stroke your chin.
A quadrille for dVerse. Linda has asked us to use the word linger. We’re just about at the autumnal equinox, and the weather seems perfectly balanced. I wish it would linger like this for awhile.
Let me tell you about the clouds, the sun,
the flowers, tall and smiling, the tons
of debris left, the work that must be done.
Now the hawk screeches and broad-wing flies
in concentric circles, as the wind sighs
at summer leaving, but with the prize of bluest skies
September comes, and we are in-between
the muggy green and russet- gold; not yet seen
the frosted crunch, yet geese convene
debating if–or when–to leave.
But I don’t grieve summer’s end, perhaps naïve
I must believe
that it will come again.
And so, I dip my apples, and ponder time,
drink my wine, as the sun sets and moon climbs.
Another year passes, she chimes,
while the stars in constellated chorus sing,
and light scatters from white egret’s wing
in the universe’s laughter, from winter to spring.
Most of you know we had storms, tornados, and flooding in my part of the world last week. Then we got beautiful September weather. We went to Dalton Farms, where they have a sunflower festival going on. Yesterday we went to William Heritage Winery. It was rainy, but we were fine under an umbrella. Part of their weekend sales were going to help Mullica Hill homes and farms damaged in the tornados last week.
Today is Labor Day, and tonight is Rosh Hashanah. I’ve baked some challahs, and we’ll be dipping apples in honey and drinking wine tonight.
The wind whispers, storms
over river dreams, the river seems
awake and wild, shimmering—riled
by ancient breath or humming moon.
The wind whispers, storms—
too soon the blue, the hue
of water-sky. So high the ospreys fly
through shifting clouds, the rustling loud
as the wind whispers, storms,
through trees, bent but proud.
The squirrels chitter, the deer skitter,
while blue becomes slate grey–
they hide or stay.
The wind whispers storms,
but the sun, bright-rayed
comes out to play.
And the wind whispers,
the storms have gone away.
Ingrid is doing a dVerse prompt on oral poetry. I’m not sure that I did it exactly. I often read my poetry out loud and adjust it. This is not the best recording, but here it is. 😀 I finally figured out how to post it here.
Open a window to another universe–
there is always an after
and before
the bang and birth of stars,
the flutter-shift of vibrating strings
across dimensions, the light on stellar wings—
he sings, she laughs
the fever-dreams of future-past-
perfect brings
remembrance, she, and we see-saw
imperfectly and fractured–all
colored by mood and life-swings
in revolutions, the Earth spins,
love, laughter, tears, and fears—it begins
and ends
the stars sing, and we catch their light,
swallow to hold it within, and in our dreams,
or in some after, we sing their songs in flight.
Today my father would be 102. We’re going to have Chinese food and ice cream for dinner tonight–both of which he loved. My mom’s birthday is later this month, and she would have turned 99. My parents divorced (twice), but in my mom’s final years she believed my dad lived in the same building, and in her final months, she talked about him a lot, always with smiles and giggles. I think she was in love again. Of course, they were my stars.
The first set of photos were taken long before I was born. My brother is about twelve years my senior.
My mom’s first cousin, who was like her sister, turned 95 yesterday. There was a small party for her. My sister, husband, and I stayed masked in the house, but took our masks off outside. We got her a blanket that had a word cloud of English and Yiddish words we chose.
We ate homemade pizza and streamed a play this week: The Most Spectacularly Lamentable Trial of Miz Martha Washington by James Ijames performed as part of the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival, which looks like a beautiful place to see a play. In the play, Martha Washington is dying, and the enslaved people around her are waiting, as they will be freed when she dies. In her fever dreams she imagines them in various guises, as lawyers, Founding Fathers and Mothers, and King George and Queen Charlotte. The play is funny, sad, witty, and unique. Here’s the NY Times review.
This is when the world takes wing
in the turning of summer from our spring
when everything becomes lush and greenest green
the grass and leaves
sigh in gentle breeze and rustle in the storms
as cotton ball clouds flower to take new forms
and azure sky turns charcoal-hued
until another day spins by
another day older, children fly
out the door calling good-bye—
chicks and goslings grow so fast,
you hold the thoughts to make them last.
And so, now the days grow slowly darker,
imperceptible at first, no marker
for the shadows cast, till autumn comes
and winter’s darkness cast
but in shadowed darkness the light never disappears—
despite our worries and our fears,
we make another turn round our glowing star–
do we measure it in miles or hours—the journey how far?
Seasons of love, freedom, and glory,
we celebrate each story
in the turning from spring to summer
when the world, despite everything, yet sings
in robin trill and mockingbird song
all night long, and all night long
the dreams drift from sea to shore,
where in the past our children played
and in some world, I think
perhaps still do.
Saturday was Juneteenth. President Biden signed the law making it a federal holiday on Thursday. Fourteen Republicans voted against it. I found this post from several years ago by Henry Louis Gates on the history and relevance of Juneteenth.
Yesterday was Father’s Day. My husband Zoomed with older child as they worked on a woodworking project together. He’ll get together with younger child later this week. It was also the summer solstice, and it was a hot, but beautiful day. I got my husband this Father’s Day t-shirt to add to his collection of nerdy shirts, and we tasted two of the three red wines we still had left from my wine-tasting box. It looks like you have to click on some of the photos to see them properly.
Our anniversary is later in the week, and that’s the time of year we used to take our children to Ocean City, NJ for a summer vacation.
Beneath the blue of wayward sky,
beneath the clouds that wandered by,
like whispered words above the river floated,
just so my cries above the river floated.
Do you remember the day of peaches?
Do you remember the sway of peaches–
their fragrance sweet in the sultry air,
fuzzy-furred and opened inside pink—just there–
the way their juices dripped on our skin and hair—
leaving drops of summer shared—we didn’t care.
Under the peach sun, we laughed and loved.
Under the fruited moon, we moaned, and loved
the summer, loved in the summer, all through the summer,
we loved,
and at the harvest moon, I loved you still, but you were gone
after the summer,
all the peaches were gone,
their sweetness dried and packed away,
and away you stayed.
Now, another year has passed,
another year beneath the sky
beneath the sky, I wonder why—
but I am fine, the past’s gone by
though the scent of peaches still makes me sigh.
Something a bit different from me for dVerse. Laura has asked us to use repetition, specifically, epiphora:
1a. Epiphora (aka Epistrophe or Antistrophe ). The repeat lines should for the most part be consecutive although allowances are made for alternates as well as the use of the repeat word with variance. Employ repetitions with the maxim ‘ too often is too heavy’!
AND those who like an extra challenge might like add in some
1b. Symploce – the combined use of anaphora and epiphora. . .
Fun Fact: Epiphora in medical terms means watery eyes due to excess tear production. So you may like to write a tear-jerker, something sad at least. Its optional!
Also, for Kim’s Tuesday dVerse prompt on fruit.
They buzzed in their dance,
and we watched them, entranced
by the light, while the sway
of the blooms on display
played a waltz for this day
adrift in birdsong phrase,
a soporific daze . . .
we dozed some, but blink, think,
time’s gone with a wink, but
a phase, we forget, and
regret we forgot, yet–
how we swooned to the tune
of dazzling bee-buzzed day–
and yearning crooning moon.
An early dVerse post, where Björn asks us to “Meet the bar waltzing.” Today is also World Bee Day.
Spring comes again, another year,
the ghosts stand here,
but still the flowers bloom and rise.
The world is ever broken
and lies are widespread and spoken–
but there is light in the skies,
where geese honk and crows call,
they find their mates, and above all,
the songs of robin and mockingbird fly
ever as March winds wail and gust—
ashes to ashes, dust to dust—
the moon hums, so wise
is she, she sees beyond
what has been spawned,
duplicity and disease, the whys
of our existence. Yet hope
comes on those wings, that trope
clichéd, but all the same it cries
the truth—light in flight—
longer days, golden bright
flowers–each day a surprise
in bloom. And now, we vaccinate,
for some, it’s come too late,
and there’s no way to minimize
the loss and despair. Another year,
the ghosts stand here,
but still the flowers bloom and rise.
The wind is gusting this morning! Last year, Passover was at the beginning of April. We did a Zoom Passover with our daughters, and then near the end of Passover on a Monday, our Mickey cat died. The following Saturday, my mom died of Covid. This year, no one really was up for doing a Zoom Passover. I cooked some of the usual foods though, and my husband and I did our own Seder on the second night, as I was recovering from getting my second vaccine on the first night. Our daughters made the matzah covers when they were very little, and I cherish them. There is definitely hope in the air with spring and vaccines. And we are looking forward to getting together with other vaccinated family members soon.
No movies this week, but we’re on the second season of Shtisel (Netflix), and I really am so caught up with this family! I also listened to a radio play—a play we had seen in production at the Arden Theater that was reworked as a radio play, 74 Seconds to Judgement. It was very well done, and I enjoyed hearing it. I also read Klara and the Sun I highly recommend it. The book has been reviewed all over the place.
In early America, neighbors eavesdropped
from other rooms, behind the shed, from a bed.
Now, the surveillance is also electronic
from devices, lovers (or friends platonic),
scammers and crooks hear what you say—
the powers-that-be, also may—
hear all. Who knows
where conversations go?
Kim is hosting dVerse, and she has asked us to use the word eavesdrop in a quadrille. My dissertation/first book was on marital discord in eighteenth and early nineteenth-century Pennsylvania. Court papers and divorce depositions often included the testimony of neighbors or people living in or visiting the household. And yes, sometimes listening to a sexual encounter while lying in the same bed.
“History is all about ‘what ifs’”
“It was a long time ago now. And it was yesterday.”
Kate Atkinson, Life After Life
“And while we are playing
The candles are burning low
One for each night, they shed a sweet light
To remind us of days long ago
One for each night, they shed a sweet light
To remind us of days long ago”From the song, “Hanukkah oh Hanukkah” Traditional
And so, again, we celebrate Hanukkah
as the nights grow longer
the days grow colder
I make soup, bake bread,
time passes, a thread
connecting me to the past
I think of ancestors, steadfast
(I wonder) in determination
to leave the past, a cessation
of persecution, a new life.
We watch Mrs. Maisel, no longer wife
laugh, but still I think of the past
Borscht Belt and women’s rights, she and cast
moving through Paris, the Catskills, New York City
with dazzling designs and dialogue so witty
each episode a Hanukkah present,
and so it goes, we’re content
to pass the Hanukkah nights
watching the candles burn bright
then I fry latkes again
with daughter remembering when
we grated, stirred with spoons
and listened to these tunes–
the maidel with the ladle—
I am happy we’re still able
to be together, to cook
to discuss friends, life, a book
and dance, sing, drink some wine,
eat some donuts, the company is fine–
as are the pets–
an asset to any set,
with tails wagging
they brighten moods flagging,
hers look for scraps on the floor
and bark at any noise at the door,
while mine watch the candles bright
and play with the dreidel in the light.
Generations, birthright, hindsight–
generations, frying latkes in the night
hoping for a miracle and promised lands–
my hands—
reach forward,
toward the unknown, hold present close,
but touch the past.
Still life goes on
as we remember days long ago,
time moves fast, or it goes so slow,
circling, dashing, we travel, with it flow.
We’re watching Season Two of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (Amazon Prime). Here’s the Season 2 Trailer. For years my daughters and I have listened to an album, A Child’s Hanukkah by the Jewish Wedding Band. Here’s the first song, which includes the phrase “kiss the maidel with the ladle.”
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