I spread the sheet out
build my fort for the night,
for the week.
I cuddle under my insecurities,
heavy enough to keep
me shivering through the dark.
Every night at two am
the man in the apartment above mine
sings, his voice muffled through the
pipes and plaster of nyc.
Its been like this for a year.
I drift off to
The sound of resolve
Or is it sorrow?
They come and go
As they wish.
First she walked in with her gong
Shocked us all into respect
or was it awe for the
way she maneuvered
her way around a classroom
full of hearts young enough
to shatter
but full enough to set off
like a gas range left alone.
She set the match to our fumes.
But then she packed up her gong,
traded it in for a cross and a staff
she now leads a flock in spokane.
She walked in like lolz,
omg obvi I'm preggos.
She took the english language
ripped it to shreds in her hands
wrote posts about us
sheltered, naive, ignorant.
Maybe we wouldn't be,
if you had taught us.
We never needed another
babysitter.
She was a backup,
mid year, post trauma.
Regimented essays
drawn out for months,
each indent a cave worth
exploring. There is no beauty
in the way you bore the
words to death.
She walked into a room
where she could provide nothing
but disappointment.
Reprinted prompts
recycled essays
nothing in my mind will ever be new.
You haven't come yet.
I have resigned myself to looking for you.
I'm not sure if you have a gong
or your own set of matches.
But my fingers crave readjustment,
my mind demands something more.
I turned 17 on a subway
as the tracks clatter beneath me
and I crawl closer to
home without moving an
inch.
The species of new york
sleep and listen to their ipods beside me.
Nothing reminds me of the monotony
of routine quite like the subway
commute.
People exist in their minds as their
bodies occupy the germ ridden seats
the rats scurry as if knowing
there is no life here.
I hope the way you turn the clock
at midnight on the day you
were born
seventeen years later
doesn't cast a shadow
on the coming year.
Preface: this piece was inspired by the Hevria post: http://hevria.com/matthue/your-frei-reflection/
As my day walks by me, unaware of my demands, I sometimes wonder what it would be like...if. Occasionally an 'only' tagged on the end: if only.
If only my skirts were pants and my shirts had hems that were a little more forgiving. If only my skin could feel the brush of people against me as we pulsed in a rave, in a club, in a bar. Anywhere "cool", anywhere but here.
But then I feel the pulse of my heart in my wrist as I tug my sleeve with my hand. I feel the whisper of my soul as I turn the pages of the sefer.
And more than any of these feelings, I know. I get it.
So yes, sometimes my mind thinks back on the moment that shlucha stopped my mother in the store because of her hebrew, the kids in the cart unaware of the shift that was beginning.
But, I know that if I wore tank tops and shorts, I wouldn't have enough material to keep my heart from falling out.
They say that in an accident
most of the damage is done
by the slamming of our organs
against the skeleton.
When the velocity inside of us
is too great.
When the very frame meant to hold us in
holds a little too tightly.
I guess thats how I feel now,
in a bus
rolling towards the pieces of me
that I left with people, in places.
In the moments that pulse as a memory.
I feel my skeleton pushing forward
until it catches up with my heart
beating as it pushes its way
back inside.
We're so much more.
we're so much more than
the eight to five.
The rigemented schedule
of nothings until the bell
rings and you are scurried
to the next bout of even less
Nothing.
We are so much more than
answers to questions
on dotted lines
checked, slashed
smart, not so much.
but.
we are so much more than
Complaints.
more than living outside of
where life finds you
we are more than the wishes of
Future.
Then.
If only.
our lives balance on the thread of
a distant reality.
Our bodies sieze at the thought
of what could be ours.
Let our heads rest on our shoulders
Not teeter on the idea of
who we might
Be.
Who we could become.
we are here.
we are now.
let's make it Fabulous.
They saw it there
Spilling
The way their juicebox sometimes would
When the straw poked through
The plastic
No
No
No.
My mothers blood is not
Cheap like juice
It is bitter and stings
As it makes its descent
Too early
Too early
Too early
Your blade does not get
Sharper
With every slice against the skin
Of those who dont deserve it.
The spear contacts one
But a million hearts
Whimper too.
I wonder if they notice
up there in the grey house of
Doom.
I wonder if they can feel
the rustling of my dress
against my feet,
the prick of dried grass
beneath me.
I wonder if they can hear
the way my heart beats
ten feet away
perched on a hill
in a little grey house of
Doom.
Thud, skip, thud.
The people next door say
leave, run, hide.
But as I sit on the grass
behind the grey house of
Doom. My courage
packaged neatly with a
ribbon that says
survivor...escapee.
I know.
I know.
I know.
But I can still feel my
heart beating twenty feet
away.
In the grey house of doom,
wrapped in tattered cloth
beside you.
There is a word for
a child who has lost his
parents.
But there is no word for parents
who have lost their child.
I guess the linguists had
too little time
to try to articulate
the cruelties of life.
I guess they realized
there is no room for such
grief in this world.
This is a poem inspired by Sarah Kay's "questions and answers in no particular order" from her book - No Matter The Wreckage.
Questions and answers, in no particular order.
Will it snow tomorrow?
The pieces of a jigsaw.
But when will it happen?
Never, always. Sometime in between.
Does it hurt when I press?
A heart beats slower when it's missing a piece.
Do you know the answer?
Pretending is as good as anything.
How was your day?
The leaves fall only to be crunched.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
The clock is shivering.
Do you believe in G-d?
Relentlessly.
It just came over me.
Us on a bus laughing
hysterics over the butter toffees
and the incredible heat
"I can't feel my fingers!
Can you feel my fingers?
What even are fingers?"
Abs seizing with delight as
resolve dissipated and the bag
tears. One, two, three
sweet butter toffees.
We found those moments so funny,
so inexplicably joyful
as our mouths were filled with
words sneaking out between the
Laughter.
and it just came over me.
Today, as I sat and read my book
alone on the couch.
The simple sweetness of those toffees
and our bus seats side by side
how we tried to stop laughing
how we just couldn't.
I hold those moments near me.
because as time creaks further
and further away
and it does what time
is oft to do.
They say time heals all wounds,
I think,
it cures all love too.
But this morning as my feet curled
from the cold outside my window
I couldn’t help but consider.
Those feelings still steal me
when needed.
For my kindergarten play, I was a tree.
Before you laugh at the short girl with messy hair given the mute role
let me say,
it was the giving tree.
And I? I was the main part.
I balanced on milk cartons with the
brown paper that lines preschool hallways
cascading off my back.
And I stood under a canopy of leaves
that weren’t really mine and
played the part.
The boy came and took what I had,
until I had no more.
But I was happy, because the tree in the story was.
But this means nothing because off the stage,
I look more like the boy sitting on a stump
that was once a tree.
But I met a girl.
I’m telling you if I ever met a giving tree - it was this girl.
She dropped her fruit, spread her leaves,
until they started to saw her branches off.
And suddenly, the sweet story of the tree who gave everything to the boy
doesn’t seem so sweet anymore.
Because the stump at the end of the story was happy,
but you?
I don’t think you are.
And I guess the reason I’m saying all this is,
forget shel silverstein.
forget the boy and the tree
You don’t have to be a stump.
Let’s reinvent a story where giving,
doesn’t mean losing it all too.
I understand those that are torn by the tragedy in France. They've heard news after news report about "isis" in big capital letters, but they've never felt it so close to the cafe they always loved or so near to the tower they always dreamed of.
But we do, we feel it every day when our people are stabbed, shot and threatened every single second the hand on the clock moves.
So when they scream out from the sudden stab to their gut and the harsh shock of reality, we feel the need to shout " haven't you seen us all along?! We've been suffering in anguish and only now once you've been attacked, it hurts?"
And when our very own suddenly speak up when its them and not us, its wrong.
But.
To speak against those fighting terrorism is wrong. Because above all, we must remember that we have a common enemy. And it may require of us to be the bigger person, to be loud when they were quiet, to fight when they did not.
So you don't have to color your face with the French flag, and please don't if it wasn't Israeli first. But, to say that sharing in the pain of other humans is wrong, is simply cruel.
Remember your priorities, honor the lives of our brothers that were just killed and those that are terrorized every day. Then send a kind word to the hundreds that were killed in France but never, ever did I dream of the day I would see Jews speak against people who just couldn't tolerate the terrorism anymore.
Let's remember that in the face of all this tragedy and terror, whats needed more than anything is support.
(I feel this is a bit drastic to add but I couldn't resist - to quiet those who speak against terrorism, no matter if they are terrorizing the French or the Jews, is supporting terrorism. You don't have to blatantly send your well wishes to France but allow those who choose to do so, do it in peace. Leave the cruelty to the men with masks on their faces.)
As for my personal opinion, I am not about to wish the French people all the good in the world, and I will not make my flag French or post anything other than this on the matter because I am first and foremost an Israeli at heart. But I will not silence those who choose to resist terrorism. Be the bigger person.
I want to say something meaningful, something that will comfort the hurt that we are all feeling.
But I've got nothing. Because right now my heart is shattered in a thousand pieces. I'm one post away from deleting facebook and escaping this horrible reality. I read the חדשות that don't seem so new anymore. It's an old, old story. Of hatred and contempt and violence. Its a story I'm so tired of hearing, and so many people are tired of living and dying.
So Gd, you said עשו שונה את יקעב but you also said וזכרתי את בריתי יעקב...הארץ אזכור
You promised G-d.
I sit here with tears streaming and amidst all this fire, I believe you.
I believe you Gd when You say that I'll get to live alongside my brothers and sisters and it won't be on the wrong side of the gun.
I believe You that our land is ours, and we'll live there in harmony. Our enemies but a distant nightmare.
I want to hear a shofar, not another siren.
I sit here clutching to my last strand of hope, praying the next gust of violence won't rip it away.
I believe you Gd when you say we won't have to feel this way anymore.
I believe you Gd, so please.
Please don't let me down.
It's a wonder that still throughout all these ages of Jewish suffering, the first thing we utter when someone passes is "baruch dayan emet". Blessed be the righteous judge. We hear of a murder and the first thing we do is praise the one who orchestrated it.
Because I guess, yes there is a time to be angry and demand the peace we must deserve. After all this, through all this there is no way you could look me in the eye and say we don't deserve peace. I will be angry and I will bang my fists on this table smeared with the blood of my brothers. But. Baruch dayan emet. At the end of the day, He has it figured out. And even if its a scary fact, our lives are dependent on Him. Baruch dayan emet. Because surely, one of these days He will judge us, and it will be righteous.
So at the very least, say it as a prayer, a request. Please G-d, judge us righteously. And we will soar to the city we all belong in, alive and together.
I had my very own marley for me.
I would pull up the little brown stool that wandered around our kitchen, and plop myself down beside you. I would sing songs, convinced that while all those people inside the kitchen were annoying - you would be and were my best friend. I don't know how you didn't bark at the first sounds of me singing. But truth be told, you didn't bark much. When storms came and scared you stiff, you would just cower in the bathroom - hoping it would be over soon.
Oh, you sweet girl.
My sister and I would come to you with our newly gifted plastic medical kits and lift your ear, open your mouth and check your paws. You didn't protest. Not even when we decided you were the next best thing to a donkey.
I would ask about that big black ball that caused your left eye to droop just a few centimeters and the reply was always "Hashem made her like that."
And yes He did. He made you like that.
He made you a sweet puppy who grew into a dog that was nothing short of the younger sibling I never had.
He made you with a coat better than shining armor, your hairs were deep red - forever shedding around the house.
And I remember, sweet girl. I remember how I grew up with you always there and I remember the day that He took you back. I went with Imma to go pick up her sheitel, for it was a Friday afternoon. On the way to the car, we passed Abba and the boys digging your new bed. Your forever bed.
And I came back and I sat by you, laid my hand on your belly and watched it rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall. I watched you breathe heavily until my hand fell with your exhale and didn't rise back up. "Abba!" I called "Taiga isn't breathing". So they picked up what once was you and placed it on our favorite orange sled, one last time we pulled you to the apple tree in our backyard.
I don't remember any ceremony, just dirt filling the space where I first encountered death. Just me placing my favorite toy dog on top of the fresh mound because I decided you needed a companion. And each week, the mound got flatter. And then the apples fell, rotting into the ground. I hope they were sweet, I would feed you my crust if only I still could.
There are 8 of us, and yet you were each of ours and ours alone.
I hate the fact that I'm the youngest because I got to live with you the least.
And I was little, not more than a 2nd grader. But I remember you, golden girl.
And I miss my Taiga more than makes sense.
We all have those people. God, I hope we all have those people. I hope everybody has people like I do. Because I have some stinkin’ good people.
Those people, for me are the ones i stay up late texting.
Those people are the ones who I discuss the latest absolutely marvelous poem with.
Those people are the ones who send me ted talks that i am obliged to watch
Those people are the ones I send a ted talk back to, because it was completely life changing
Those people roam the aisles of target with me, buying the newest chips over discussions of the pleasures of arguing
Those people are the ones who argue with me because man, its just so fun
Those people embrace my craziness and stand there, despite this messy hair and all
Those people are the ones I laugh with, in the most cliched, side aching way
Those people are my teachers, long after they've left the official position.
Those people are the ones I call crying, with yet another ridiculous fiasco
Those people listen.
Those people offer advice.
Those people are honest with me. In the most beautiful, terrifying and encouraging way.
Those people are even my enemies, who fuel me with the desire to prove what is right
Those people feel like late summer nights.
Those people feel like a deeply satisfying poem.
Those people are my friends.
Those people are my family.
Those people are my rocks.
Those people are
my people.
Please just leave me alone,
Officer
Please just leave me alone.
A man minding his business,
Approached because of the
Complexion of his skin.
Innocent until proven guilty,
Flipped upside down on its very face.
Justice has taken another form
From what I have known it to be.
Standing on a street corner
Is no longer okay
When you're skin is too dark.
The right to exist is not there
When you're judged for who you are.
Guilty until proven innocent,
Never even given the chance.
Slap a badge on it, give it a gun
And all actions are excused.
Since when is living a crime.
Since when is murder not.
Trends are for bowties and skinny jeans,
Not the murder of innocent people.
Today I am ashamed to be white.
Today I am ashamed to be safe.
Today I will stand up for those who no longer can.
Please officer, just leave me alone.
Please officer, just leave me alone.
I was just standing here.
I'm so sick of this.
I can't breathe.
Every week when I was young, on the way to shul we would pass the good shabbos tree.
The process was simple, a few houses down and across the street, the third oak tree from the left was our tree. On saturday mornings and only on saturday mornings not past a certain time (the good shabbos tree wasn't fond of children late to shul) this tree was magic. With a simple "good shabbos, shabbos tree" and a quick {forbidden} hug, the tree would rain down fruit by the foots on us - our treat of choice. I would nudge my father to be out the door before it was too late each and every week, for nothing was worse than when the shabbos tree ignored you.
Sometimes the mysterious tree would appoint a different tree a block or two ahead of it's usual post. This was all rather confusing. So my little mind would consider the various options, maybe the candy was thrown from airplanes in which delighted passengers were so proud of my shul-going activities?
But then I flew on my first flight and the windows didn't open and not much could be seen down below.
Harumph.
But each week I was more pleased with the arrival of candy than the confusion as to it's source. Not much else matters when your mouth is filled with sweetness.
And now sometimes I wonder when the good shabbos tree lost it's magic.
Was it in a moment of carelessness when my father accidentally allowed us to see him throwing the candy up from behind?
Or was it when I realized that trees make leaves, not candy.
Perhaps one day I started stealing candies from the cupboard and no longer needed to venture across the street.
One day, the tree was no longer magical and it's allure wore off.
Sometimes I wonder what it would take to make me feel such mysterious magic again.
A society of juice fasts and diets
Of unplugging and marathon
Training. There is no longer
An in between. The grey area
So off referred to is skipped
Over replaced by harsh black lines
On college ruled paper.
I am right. All else is wrong.
The fear of admitting
There might be something
That none of us know
For sure.
Look up. Look down.
Viral videos, articles posts
Opinions flying without relent
It is not technology
Or obesity
Or health
It is balance.
A lifestyle of extremes is not one
To be lived
So please I implore you
Be Phone off or phone on
Look ahead.
Think on your own
and achieve
the balance in that little gray area
We call life.
