The Splintered Moon

 

The splintered moon

Leans on our bedroom window

Asking to be let in

Our local fox looks up

Begins to howl

His relatives

Picking up the sound

Make a chorus

Of strangled throats

Raising the hair on our necks

 

Dark shapes move

On the twisted branches

Of the old tree

Not yet growing new leaves

We huddle together

Under the covers

Pretending we are safe

But the moon, the fox

And the wind say

Otherwise

​

Monday, 4 May 26

 

Ice Dancing in the Kitchen

 

The usual has us moving:

Mixing, washing, baking, frying,

Never bumping at all.

Then it happens, unexpected.

 

The feel of Spring, a touch of green

Light background music, it’s a waltz

We haven’t heard before,

And just the right rhythm playing.

 

My right arm goes around her waist,

My left hand takes her left and lifts

Melting together soft

And feeling it we glide forward.

 

A whirl, a dip, a slight kick, too,

Legs back, legs out, and to the side

Front to front, hip to hip

A perfect match of movement paired.

 

Kitchen to dining to living

And back to the kitchen, we smile

Not bad for amateurs,

We bow: a well-earned 9.8!

 

The end of a long day and line:

Judge Schatz was presiding back then

When we each said “I do,”

Knees trembling, what were we doing?

 

He looked her up and down. Once more.

With a huge smile, the ten minute

Ceremony, not five.

We posed for a self-timed photo.

 

Wedding dinner with both best friends,

From the neighborhood, Mike and Joan,

Floating back to Hyde Park,

Governess again, and working.

 

We had to wait some months apart

Until her contract was over,

Until we found the flat,

Until the dancing could begin.

Saturday, 18 Apr 26

​

Learning to read and write and read

 

Comic books first, until the age of eight or nine,

Mostly horror, not as boring as Superman.

Batman was better, no super powers needed,

Followed by science fiction, heroes imagined

For a few years, sci fi classics, the golden age.

 

Then high school and college, reading at least five books

A week outside of class until way past midnight.

A perfect hobby for an extreme introvert,

Being in the world yet not being in the world,

Bouncing around the library, the dusty shelves.

 

Not sure where to go, just wandering at random,

Choosing books by touch and a paragraph, no more.

Finding the greats without knowing how, all instinct:

Crime and Punishment a jolt of awe on every page,

Reading it a second time right after the first.

 

The wonder of a good poem, the words glowing.

Took to writing it, not gifted but still trying.

One teacher asked me to do something more normal,

Not in the cards, always the rhythm first and best,

Keeping the rhythm no matter how hard it was.

 

Poetry about love, poetry about loss,

The fault of all those romances imprinting me:

If I liked her then I had to love her, the rule.

Marriage or nothing was the choice, a strange belief,

One poem, two or three all saying the same thing.

 

Much later composing real essays of substance:

Policy must be clear, regulations more so,

Persuading the reader, no razzle dazzle please.

Then doing the research, short essays for the blog,

And poetry more flowing than before, more fun.

 

And the reading, the best of times to find new books:

The discovery, the laughs, the surprise, the strange,

The mysteries, the novels, the worlds to explore.

The warmth of getting lost in a wonderful way,

Basking in various places and times and people.

 

The pleasure...

​

Friday, 3 Apr 26

 

A Reuben

​

I had a Reuben for breakfast. Half a Reuben, left over from the day before. A trip to New York to see sister Claire over the weekend would have meant waiting until Monday, when it would be stiff and stale. A strange thing, corned beef mixed with sauerkraut, and thousand island dressing, on marbled rye. All griddled together and warm. No thousand island for me, please, just ketchup.

 

And corned beef, what is that? No corn, and no resemblance to beef. So the corn comes from rock salt clumps, or corns. The beef comes from the pectorals, stringy and tough, which is why it has to be corned, and softened. Four ounces are about 285 calories, plus a lot of salt. Pastrami, on the other hand, is brined, smoked and steamed. Originated in Romania. Four ounces are about 160 calories, plus a lot of salt. Much stronger taste. Not my favorite. But who eats only four ounces?

 

One could say that these common meats in the New York Jewish community are an acquired taste, but count me among the corned beef crowd. Our community grille seems to serve Reubens every other Thursday lunch. Once a month suits me. The nostalgia factor is high, as are the calories and the salt. So take a chance. You only live once. Just not for breakfast.