Winter of Tomorrows

Winter entered stealthily

When he left abruptly

And leached all colors 

From my todays and tomorrows

Leaving a landscape

Of white and black

And shades of gray.

The road ahead lay

In undulating patterns

Of slate and pewter grays

Of frozen and melted ice,

Scattered with swathes 

The white of snow.

White trunks of birches,

Speckled with black,

Crowded on both sides

In geometric precision

Of perpendiculars

Curving away,

In a perspective drawing

Of charcoal and pencil,

To converge into

A darkening tunnel,

Into the unknown tomorrows.

 

 

 

Memories

Memories are little peepholes

That access glances into our pasts,

Joyful and sad, tumultuous and sedate.

We flush them out,

Often one by one,

Sometimes in clusters.

Oh, there are so many,

Some to be cherished and and nurtured,

Often taken out

To be dusted,

To be polished, 

And to be placed

In a treasure chest.

Unwelcome memories have 

Uncanny urges to escape

To be reopened and to provoke

With pinches and punches,

To be reexamined,

To wipe away the hurts and pains

And, finally,

To be reconciled and embraced

As one more experience

To be placed as  moments

To complete the panorama

Of a life fully lived!

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Puddle Kids*

They were the puddle kids –

One, two and three –

Snow melted;

Rain showered;

Ice gripped in patches;

Sleet slathered over potholes.

After the rain and after the melt,

Puddles pitted sidewalks

And snow mounts lay on the side.

The children hopped down in mirth,

Gleefully tempted,

And my poor coat virtually trembled.

On their way, they jumped

Into the puddles, with both feet,

Splashing muddy brown droplets 

On the unwary walkers,

Streaking hems and coats,

Socks, shoes and boots.

Raucous laughter followed the splashes

And delight and mischief 

Equally brightened their faces of innocence.

What grandmother could resist,

But smile, however irate she was,

Ruefully watching the muddy prints

On her hems and coat, socks and shoes.

 

*Inspired by my grandchildren:Aliyah and  Elijah

(There is one more, but she wants her privacy)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Child in the Basket*

There was a child in the Basket

Who did not know what to do.

He sat for a while inside the big basket

While watching a movie

And looked at all the clothes

Strewn all around waiting to be folded.

He bent his legs to be comfortable,

But could not find a good position.

Meanwhile the movie went on

And his sisters folded their clothes.

The child felt like a victim

And pitied himself.

Yet, he chose no action.

Everyone left the room

And the child stayed behind,

Weeping hot tears that rolled

Down his cheeks,  leaving streaks.

 

What to do, the child wondered.

Reluctant to give in, he persisted

To remain obdurate

Waiting for some miracle

To relieve him from his task.

 

But, soon, the wondrous boy that he was,

He rose to the occasion

And stepped out of the basket

And folded all his clothes.

His dresser drawers proudly displayed

Neatly stacked pants and shirts!

 

*Inspired by my grandson Elijah who provided the first two lines

 

 

 

Fireflies

 

 In the balmy evenings,

When dusk begins to shroud daylight,

Twinkling lights appeared

At random spots

And in random moments.

 

They were like stars

That descended to my surrounds.

It was so tempting to catch them,

To capture my own light!

In my palm, one sat blinking

Like dreams that come and go

Weaving its magic with my desires

That blink out before fulfilment.

 

I chased the fireflies of my life

And they became my captives

Inside the glass  jar of  my wants

To be kept with me for ever

And to dust magic into my days.

 

But, alas, my foolishness!

The light dimmed in the jar

And the fireflies winked out one by one,

Leaving me waiting for the day

I sight more fireflies

And start dreaming more dreams.

 

Lily With Me

Is it a deep sigh

That wafts up to me

In the gentle breeze?

There is sadness

In this breath;

There is mourning

In this puff of air.

Is it a statement

That Lily is no more?

My heart is squeezed

By writhing wires

And is lacerated.

Lily is, surely, gone!

Yet, I feel

Morsels of Lily clinging,

Never letting go.

Oh, such precious links

That still keeps me whole

With dulcet grace

That was Lily!

On earth she walked

In the splendor of goodness;

But she is no more

And we are diminished.

Pressed Between the Pages

Into the gentle silence of rumination,

Leaves shed randomly in little rustle,

Leaving memories helter-skelter.

But one floated up against free fall

To tweak my lost and forsaken dreams-

One memory of a golden childhood

Where flying horses galloped by,

Carpets floated through the air,

Dragons swooped across the sky

And djinns  granted opulent wishes.

It was a dream far from the fantasies,

Treading the realm of science,

Weighing quantities with qualities;

It was a dream to be like Madame Curie,

To trudge among the phials and chemicals,

Discovering elements to benefit mankind.

I grabbed this flustered dream from floating

And, within my poetic pages, pressed it to enshrine.

Gray

Oh, the winter enters so quickly

That one forfeits the sight of color,

Leached away from life and limb

In its gelid cold and frigid hold.

Varied grays enshrouded the sky

With clouds pregnant with dense vapor

Above the gloomy landscape

Of gray-barked,  skeletal trunks

Of leaflets trees with spindly arms.

The slate gray lanes stretched ahead

In never-meeting parallels

Bordered by sepulchral white lines.

Conifers stood sentry in charcoal gray

Speckled with previous flurries.

What is ahead in my road, but Gray

That stole away all vitality?

Or do I see pearly white streaking

Through the gray-mantled sky?

The Tapping Girl of My Days

Into my days, the girl stepped in;

She tapped and tapped

And brought rhythm to my days.

She tapped on Sunday

And the Sun shone brighter.

She tapped on Monday

And the Moon cast silvery light.

She tapped on Tuesday

And kept Tyr from waging war.

She tapped on Wednesday

And the patch-eyed Wodin smiled.

She tapped on Thursday

And Thor flung his hammer.

She tapped on Friday

And Freya came to the house.

She tapped on Saturday

And sent misfortune’s Saturn away.

For the rest of my days,

Let her tap away my days.