| In the Middle of the Night You
have the urge to write. . . |
My Morning Prayer How
clear is your rising, |
| (For Hershl on our 39th wedding
anniversary) The eighth of January, 1961, The spreading warmth of the sun, With torrid light, Filled our hearts with extreme delight. . . With soft loam you covered flowerers And tenderly kissed them with your fingertips. The sun warmed your flower bed That eagerly waited to be watered. You, who these blossoms planted, Saw that their wish was granted You would sprinkle these flowers, Never leaving the task to others. Paens of praise will meet Your beautiful garden, fresh, airy and neat. Never was bloom indifferently, callously lifted from its bed, But handled with loving, fatherly care, instead. Let but the lovely spring arrive to stay- That will enable you joyously To resume your flowery play. In the awakened early downings- When the spring insinuates its presence, And the dew leaves the grasses silvering In the sunshine, blossoms burst with color and essence; And 'twixt beginning and end of the evening prayer, When the sun will leisurely lower- From the wonder of the blossoming splendor, You will heartily reap benefits grand.... And-will understand! . . . ********************************** The Children 's Orchestra Hey there, prankster, Mischievous youngster, Conductor of the first degree. First you poke your tongue at me- Then you would a musical director be. Your proficient little hands, Fly gracefully as an arrow from a bow, Holding a magic wand.... As strong walls crumble before you now. |
Here you leap high indeed.... Here you swiftly run.... Then, child orchestra you lead- Waving your magic baton. Here and there-a pebble cast, A branch from a tree, you pluck, You wander far into the forest.... Then 'tis difficult to find the way back. The air is rent with great clamor, Every child's instrument in use- And you, young man, mischief-maker, March deeper into the woods. Pitch-dark falls the night, Peril-freighted children weep in fright, And you, without reason, without thought, While anxiety presses on every little heart. Children, loudly lift your voices! Beat your drums, the clatter increase.... Perhaps someone will hear us, And lead us out of the woods. Then listen, children, pranksters young: Let your youthful experience tell you, And let this be a warning How to measure, and where to go. . . So remember, children, years of teaching, Years of learning- How to think, and how to weigh, And how not to be led astray. . . Life tells us quite soon, That there is a time for pranks, or for play; When to sing-or carry on; When people's pathos or joy to assay; When to dream-and how to love.... How to fight, and how march on.... There's a world of freedom to weave, There's a world of justice to be won. Hey you prankster, playful youngster,- You will be the conductor! . . . Here you poke your tongue at me, Then wave your hands so gracefully.... |
| Remembrance On the horizon, the sun dips low, Passing days remind me Of youthful years that long ago Were all filled with gaiety.... How beautiful you are, my world, in spring, The air-refreshing and fragrant. . . Birds twitter, butterflies a-wing. . . Life's renewed-beckoning enchantment.... I'm reminded of exciting, youthful years. . . Of words, like quiet footsteps, falling; Of moon, rainbows and the stars. . . And a heart, with blood that's seething. . . The magic power of spring Drawing you, drawing.... Love's smiles-dream-wise, In the mild glances of your eyes.... Again one is reminded Of life in that long ago- Words from one's memory leap forward Like a reverberating distant echo. You still see the bench in the garden, As we sit-secluded from the street-- In that heartbeat's rhythm, Can one, from that, a poem complete? A song-like a secret whisper, As if in the stillness-a whimper A song without words-throughout. One that may say quite a lot.... On the horizon, the sun dips low, Passing days remind me Of youthful years that long ago Were all filled with gaiety.... *************************** |
In Our Bookcase A book winked, directed at myself- Where long it stood till now, Orphaned on its shelf, Waiting its gifts to bestow. My hand in sudden thrust Reached out and took it from its nook. Wiping away the accumulated dust, I leafed through the long neglected book. A brilliant thought-then a revelation Of a master, was brought to me, Lucid portrayer of our generation In the young twentieth century. Can one exact a penalty Upon one's own person? t seems to me There isn't such a weapon! I scan pages still new- Still uncut- As if a brand new printer's product. Indeed I had found a treasure In our bookcase, long in disuse,- Patiently awaiting our pleasure Its wonders to peruse.... Because I had never found that time of day Until I turned old and gray. Beloved poet, I beg to be forgiven-- The loss, of course, was mine. . . From your riches, so long hidden, I reap the benefits sublime. For your interpretation of life's meaning- How to give thanks, overdue so long- For that great gift of learning,- To express it all in the words of a song. *********************************** |
| My Knees In those years of childish antics, When my knees would freely bend, in races frantic, Who would have thought-on that score- That those knees of mine would bend no more. Suddenly my knee stubbornly conspires- Doesn't permit my leg a step to go.... I think 'twas not too long ago That I pranced as if on a tight wire. . . My flexible knees-you've grown rigid- Act as if rooted to the spot.... I remain-as if undecided-- What's to be done now?-I know not. . . In vain my shaking and protest.... Though my protest be loud indeed! Do you seek your power to test, As if a punishment by heaven decreed? I think, against wrinkles I've a remedy-- It affects me as does last year's snow.... I've lived to earn them rightfully. . . After all, what do I demand of them now? Cataracts may dull my eyes, Perhaps they can be restored.... My hearing is not as before. . . Perhaps a blessing in disguise. No more can I hear the noise Nor listen to the tumult any longer Of the sounds of children's cries In painful hunger. . . Nor the wailing of a mother Heart torn in desolation- On the loss of one and only son In war's devastation. But how about my knees? I seek for them some sort of relief. . . Even when the stomach decrees The need for food-however brief. To the fourth season, it appears, I've somehow found my way.... I will no longer count months and years. . . But will count every week and day. . . Just let my knees, a tiny bit, move along. Cease to plague my years with pain .... Then I would sing a new song- If you would serve me once again! **************************** |
Years and Days Gone By Bygone years and days, Have their well-trodden pathways; They distort toes and fingertips. . . Leave their imprint on skin and hips. Dig deep furrows, that make us grieve. Create havoc-then take leave! Oh, those bygone years and days, Have their well-trodden pathways; Our sharp hearing, they impair. . . And if that is not enough- Cataracts dull our vision, to our despair- Making life worth but a pinch of snuff. No matter how hard we strive. . . They make us shudder-then take leave! Oh, those bygone years and days, Indeed tread out their well-worn pathways; They heighten blood pressure, Shorten breath beyond measure-- Make us gifts of arthritis. . . bursitis. . . And neuritis without end. . . And rheumatics, more than one can believe. . . Create chaos, then take their leave! ***************************** My Restless Tear *********************************** |
| Wrinkles On my skin, so even textured, A minute crease was manifest. At first I paid it scant heed- Then stroked the univited guest. In time, even forgot The tiny line my face begot. . . Until upon my brow, Wrinkles appeared in a horde Like soldiers, all in a row, Which I wanted banished, not ignored! Then with a shake and a shiver, That set my saddened heart a-quiver, I said: "I will not concede To you, arrogant corrugations- At this very moment I'll impede All your manifestations.... " However the visitors of my accumulated years Brashly carried on, as they pleased, Held ranks, sank deeper- And even increased.... So this state of affairs Led me to further despair.... Thereupon my plaints I sent To God in heaven, voicing my displeasure: "Well? What has it meant? All these wrinkles without measure . . . ? " However, an answer came clearly: "To grow incensed, what is the use?" So I sit and muse-- Still those unbidden furrows will come increasingly Which I've got to accept And just treat them good-humoredly.... As I quickly grow older-- And I and 'my friends' grow closer- I tell myself: "Through the years you've acquired Many such friends-so cozy.... Now welcome them as the best Of greatly honored guests! Travel along with them on that smooth lane That you have already for a long time trodden.... ********************************** |
The Spark Is
Unextinguished Need I be prompted? Has all from memory fled?. . . I do not even seek to convey That time upon me heavily lay. The past parades before my eyes- Time has piecemeal my youth shredded. . . Days and years have hastily flown by. . . But somehow the spark glows, unextinguished! Within my heart, loyalty is sealed To youth, to joy-even anguish.... Can such love ever be measured Or described in suitable language? Now I gaze upon life differently- Newly disposed-kneaded to all about me, To the youth-I'm of antiquity. . . To the old-a bird, from a cage newly free! On the way 'twixt youth and the auld- I wouldn't shorten the span one whit. . . For there's a time which brings the weld Between today and yesterday-and this is it. I want to hasten with love to restore, That which was long overlooked through generations. . . To find confidence in life evermore- And hear the valley's reverberations. . . Oh, to see the past before my eyes. . . Youth, which time has shredded.... Years, indeed, have flown by-- But the glow of my spark remains unextinguished. *********************************** |