Please joing me in welcoming the poets featured on this, our second week of Open Forum here on JWorld Cafe. Next week we'll resume regular posts with our guest bloggers. - Linda Pressman, Blog Editor.

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Ina G. Perlmuter

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Shiva for a Mother

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Words of encouragement

came from unexpected sources

They came to console me

They spoke of her inner beauty

how she had impacted on their lives

They mentioned her love of family

her steadfastness in commitment to others

The rabbi mentioned her exquisite care

and selflessness in caring for her parents

the respect she lavished on her husband

understanding the many roles

of her children and grandchildren

They were right, all of them

Yes, they all spoke the truth

part of what made saying good bye so painful

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Choices

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The office, mahogany majestic, with pomp and sense of medical history oozed with

Frank Lloyd Wrightian lines and musty leather bound chronicles of neurological surgical

artistry. Descriptions of handiwork by skilled medical wizards who collaborate in

God’s work. Repairers of brains but not their thoughts. Repairers of spinal injuries

short circuited in falls or punctured by man’s malicious inclinations.

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And there, in the exhausting silence which followed the prognosis by the surgeon,

a gentle man, and a giant in his field, came a blindingly clear whisper from the

elderly patient who had spoken hardly a word for months.

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She sat regally and suddenly words, her words filled the whole room.

Her words bringing a sudden rush of tears from the children who had accompanied

her to this consultation. “now please listen to me,” this bride of fifty seven

years haltingly articulated, “I have had the sweetest of marriage, a wonderful husband,

and I my children found their life’s partners,” and as tears burned rivulets

down her children’s cheeks and tears welled in the surgeons eyes she announced in

an oh so final tone, “I do not want this or any procedure done”.

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It could have and maybe should have rested there but it was our Father’s hope that

the proposed surgery would enhance our Mother’s life. It was this hope which made us

forget how wise Mother had always been. The illness of a parent has this tendency.

In consultation with us, our Father’s decision was to go ahead with the proposed

protocol.

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In the end we children saw no improvement. Our Father on the other hand

was more positive. He reassured us that making choices is never easy, one must

look at two equal options when making choices.

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On a positive note, our dear mother lived out her life in her own home with a husband

who still referred to her as his bride, her devoted children, grandchildren and great

grandchildren and two wonderful caregivers in the surroundings she cherished

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Like in Ramallah

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Elaine Rosenberg Miller

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In the dark, the guiltless, moonless night

They made their way along the walls of the modest house, along the stuccoed walls

Soundless, sightless

On they crept, swiftly, stopping to listen for restlessness, recognition, awareness, life

Soon to be dawn, soon to be day, they hurried on

Soon, blood, glistening blood, molten blood, then darkening blood, stiffening blood, streaking blood

As in Ramallah

In Ramallah, the young man raised his hands, palms up, his fingers splayed

On his hands, his scarlet hands, death

In Ramallah, in Ramallah, one man's blood painted another man's upraised hands

Blood!

Blood coursing through the body

To the heart, to the brain

Bringing warmth

The child fell back on his bed

A single thin mattress

He fell

And his blood pulsed onto the mattress

They slit the neck of the baby, the dewy folds offered no resistance

They killed the parents.

Young parents

And when they were done, they fled into the darkness, softly, softly, the ancient stones recoiling in horror under their feet

And when they returned to their children, their parents, their neighbors, the blood of the family was on their hands

Garments

Faces

Souls

Like in Ramallah

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My Broken Soul

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Jennifer Alderson

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My soul is fragmented just like

the jagged edges which are glass

the shards of universes streaked

with bleeding like a suicide’s

wrists near her own closed fisted palms

the holy vessels cutting in

like knives which piece the wick which would

bring forth the light God gives to us.

How can a suffering soul heal

and when will the Lord redeem us?

Do children suffer by the word

of the Lord above looking down

on those who pray, “If not now, when?”

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Father Narcissus: A Testimonial

The ego-less man acquires peace

it’s said in other religions;

and Martin Buber describes us

in relationships of blockage in

how we view others; absorbed in

the egocentric relationship

we fail to see the ‘other,’ with

their wants and needs made separate

from us by our own paradigms.

I learned all this to find that I

am immersed in self-absorption

with little real feel for the thoughts

of others, despite my wish to

know what their feelings are up close.

How do I experience the real—

not just in regards to God but

in other human beings, too?

My walk through life is tunneled as

though I was in a train traveling

through underneath a bridge with views

both frontal and then backwards, too,

but not to the sides as I look.

I am the Narcissus who looks

at himself but no one else and

hears only Echo calling him—

his own voice resonating back.

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the joys of being alive

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Jeff Goodman

the poet suggests that "we walk

on air

against your better judgment"

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and as the pressure of the

past was mounting and truth

be told, old age rapidly

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advancing, chopping off one

hydra's head only for it to

sprout another two and so on

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slowly but surely we saw ourselves

drawn to a light, elevated

towards greater heights

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floating in air above cities and towns

barns and farms, soaring above

petty grievances and what had

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seemed to be from below, threatening

strife. the stewardess offered peanuts

and orange juice

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"we're all out of tomato juice" she said

and just as the plane

was approaching Toscana

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the "fasten your seat belt light" came on,

the pilot's voice came over the intercom:

"please be seated folks, we’re encountering -"

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"a little turbulence" was what he had meant to say,

but the end had

arrived; a giant purple - red fiery

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fire sprouting dragon in the sky had

swallowed up the plane, it's stomach juices

almost drowning us all, in vile liquid

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"wake up wake up" its time to wake

up, "put on your boots.

and be outside in three minutes."

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the red headed corporal was awakening

the troops, today was a Friday,

time to clean up the camp. 'fore going home

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for Shabbat.

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Full Circle

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Frieda Landau

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His great grandfather arrived with little

English and less dollars to make a new life

At the sewing machine and the cutting table

Or the pushcarts which grumbled and groaned

On the cobblestones, never gliding gently.

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His grandfather escaped to the open spaces of

The Bronx and Brooklyn, to give his children

The life he never had, of leisure to learn

And forget the old tongue and the old ways

That were his secret shame when he was young.

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His lawyer father – Columbia and Yale law -

Moved to the manicured homes of Connecticut

And tried to pretend he was old money

Never hearing the laughter behind his back

At the upstart immigrant's grandson.

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He returned to the old neighborhood

Where the once mean cold water walk up

Is now a flat with character - and elevators and hot water

Where his rent is more per month than his

Great grandfather ever dreamed of making in a year.

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The following two selections are collaborations between two poets, Avril Meallam and Shernaz Wadia, in which they pick a topic, each write a poem on it and then weave the poem together in what they’ve come to call Tapestry. They met virtually through one of the first weeks of Open Forum we had on Poetica two years ago.

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Beneath the waves

(by Shernaz)

Under the rippling surface off which,

glint moments of mundane existence

a deep stillness belies the agitation

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I dive into the tranquility, effortless,

seeking out from recondite beds

exquisite pearls of ancient wisdom

secreted by the oysters of experience

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sometimes I pry them open a tad too soon

at times I chance upon the rarest of gems.

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(by Avril)

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A deep, silent tranquility

obscured by a raging sea.

My own inner world

cradled from the storms around me.

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As I enter this space

and merge with the peace

of my innermost being

I connect to my Source

hidden beneath the waves.

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Beneath the waves

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I sense a deep quietude

as dive into the tranquility

under the rippling surface

of the raging sea

of mundane existence

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As I enter this space

the stillness that belies the agitation

cradles my inner world

from the storms around me

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I seek out, from recondite beds

hidden beneath the waves,

exquisite pearls of ancient wisdom

secreted by oysters of experience

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Sometimes I pry them open a tad too soon

but when I connect to my Source

I chance upon the rarest of gems

and merge with the peace

of my innermost being

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When the gate opens

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(by Shernaz)

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Often overpowered

by neglected shadows of life,

I cower in dread…will they lead me

into dungeons unknown?

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Can they?

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When you lift the latch

all my fears will drown

in the surging force

of Your kindly light

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(by Avril)

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When the gate opens

will I be ready

to catch a glimpse of the Divine?

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Or will my eyes be looking backwards

glued to the familiar

that I perceive as the truth?

Unable to get out of my box

to flow with the tide of change

towards peace and harmony

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When The Gate Opens — Tapestry

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when You lift the latch

and the gate opens,

can I, overpowered

by the shadows of life,

be ready to catch

a glimpse of the Divine

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would I cower

in dungeons unknown

look backwards in dread

unable to get out of my box

or

would my eyes lead me

to perceive the truth

drowning my fears

in Your kindly Light

as I flow

towards harmony and peace

in the surging tide of change

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Thanks for visiting JWorld Cafe, the Poetica Magazine Blog and reading the work of our Open Forum Poets - Linda Pressman, Blog Editor

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Frieda Landau is a writer and a photographer, specializing in military topics. Landau was born during a postwar pogrom in Poland to Holocaust survivor parents. She writes poetry as a way to deal with her family history. Her work has appeared in Poetica Magazine and has been anthologized in Poetica’s Holocaust Anthology. Her website: http://www.freewebs.com/listgoddess/ . Her poetry collection, In the Shadow of the Shoah, will be published by Poetica Publishing in the fall of 2011.

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Ina Perlmuter is a wife, mother and grandmother who has published her poetry through ISPS and Poetica, and participated in a reading at the Brewed Awakening Coffee House in Westmont, Illinois. Work is forthcoming in the ISPS Anthology.

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Jeff Goodman lives in Yerucham, Israel with his wife and children. He is the Deputy legal advisor for Beer Sheva Municipality and writes a weekly column, “Elu Devarim” by email. He was born in Columbus, Ohio in 1957 and made aliyah with his family in 1969. From 1976 to 1979 he served in the Golani Brigade, following a volunteer year in Dimona. He attended Law School at Bar Ilan University, and further Jewish Studies in Jerusalem and Har Etzion.

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Jennifer Alderson is a writer and poet whose work has been published in Poetica Magazine and Mim'amakim. She is presently working on her book, The Bible According to Eve.

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Elaine Rosenberg Miller is an attorney in Palm Beach, FL. Her essays, memoirs, poems and short stories have appeared in many literary journals, including AllGenerations; Jewish Magazine; Lit Up Magazine; Miranda Literary Magazine; The Brooklyn Voice; The Forward; The Jewish Woman; The Writing Room Literary Anthology; Wilderness House Literary Review; Women and The Holocaust; Women In Judaism: A Multidisciplinary Journal (University of Toronto) and Writing Raw.

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Avril Meallem has had work published in journals in Israel and abroad including Voices, H2E, the Yated newspaper, The Doronda Review, Leaves in India and on the Poetica forum. She is a regular contributor in the “Your Space” section of Muse India literary e-journal and together with Shernaz has won two first prizes and two honorable mentions for their Tapestry poems in the monthly competitions. She is the author of a book of poetry, Dancing With The Wind and is presently working on a second collection. You may reach her at aemeallem@gmail.com.

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Shernaz Wadia is a retired teacher and homemaker living in Pune, India. Her poems have been published in e-journals such as boloji.com, Poets International (electronic and print), Pondering Moments, Poets India, Enchanting Verses International, kritya.in, MuseIndia, Autumn Leaves, Ribbons (a journal of Tanka), and anthologized in the book, Posy of Poesy. Her poem on Alzheimer’s has been selected for an anthology, Caring Moments, brought out by the website Life’s Inspirational Moments, Australia. She also writes on the blog writespace4iw.wordpress.com.

In several recent updates I’ve sent out an open call with my weekly blog updates asking for poetry submissions for an Open Forum to be run on JWorld Café in May. This week’s posting holds some of those submissions. I hope you’ll enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed gathering them. The Poetica Open Forum will continue into next week’s blog posting. Please join me also in welcoming the blog's new visual artist, Marlene Burns, whose work is featured above the blog entries. Please visit one of her websites to see more of her inspiring work.  – Linda Pressman, Blog Editor

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Why Can’t The Gardeners Be More Careful

Ina G. Perlmuter

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And the headstones of row B83 and 84

lean one toward another as though in conversation

slag colored crumbling edges interrupt the walkway

and beyond stiletto heel prints puncture the fresh rolled grass

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My sister and I have come to pay respect to our parents

though we complain to each other

“why can’t the gardeners mow the grass more carefully”

we are glad of this carelessness

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And we painstakingly remove grass shavings from the letters

which form the inscription on our parent’s head stone

grateful that we are able to perform this act of love

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Oh Mother I Wish We Could Talk

Ina G. Perlmuter

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Oh mother, I wish we could talk

I miss you

Mother you instilled by example

seldom threats, never in anger

Mother, I have arrived at a time in my life

I remember you being the age I am now

you seemed more mature,

to have accomplished more

Are my memories selective,

are they colored by time

and seasoned with longing to share

that which is so important to me

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Yes mother, I wish we could talk

You had a way of lessening the hurts of childhood

of reinforcing and encouraging a child’s abilities

How I wish you were here to reassure me

that I am being judicious in my role as parent

a positive influence in my children’s lives

I miss you very much mother, if we could talk

perhaps then you could reveal your secrets of parenting to me

I want to make myself as cherished to my children

as you will always be cherished by me

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Jeff Goodman

Steps

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Who knew that there were steps?

Let alone that they actually lead somewhere.

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Up or down

Towards a heaven or towards a hell.

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So Jacob slept on the ground

And dreamt a dream of a ladder

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With angels going up

And angels going down

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We've all heard the story

Some of us have even seen the movie

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Who knew there was a wall?

Something real and tangible you might

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Actually bump your head against

While ascending albeit unwittingly

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Unknowingly. Let alone gates or even

Those secret passageways

Hidden from the uninitiated

Veiled by fate

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Who knew that there were actually

Princes and paupers, kings and queens

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Banquets being held in really fancy halls

And in rubbish heaps.

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People talk, yeah people talk

Professors speak and monkeys leap

The police along the street

Patrol to keep some kind of peace

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Order is mostly what they seek

So tuck in your shirt and straighten your stance

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The musicians at the ball will never go on strike

They re here to provide the background music

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For Kafka on his flight, from the

City inspectors who all they really want to do

Is give him one more parking ticket

Before they go to sleep.

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Who knew that they were not

As serious as they pretended to be

.

That they would have let him off

If he would only speak

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It would have been enough if

He would have told them one of those

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Parables or paradoxes he was so fond of

In lieu of the cigarette he offered them

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But how was he to know

That they were interested in literature?

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How was he to know that the sky outside

Was really gray, and that the world really was

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Traipsing toward hell, as the musicians

Played and the wealthy danced

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How was he to know that the sirens in the street -

That the message delivered to the wizard's hall

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From out of the deep, was real?

How was he to know all this?

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This commonplace knowledge

Of what actually occurred

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As clear as clear can be, coming vividly

Across the six o clock news

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The gun shot blast to the head

Of the wincing Vietnamese

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Those images embedded in our collective head

Heard and seen by the sensitive, by those who still

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Dream. Laying awake at night

Wondering about all those

.

Steps

They

.

Didn't

See.

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Barry Gonen

What Was, Was (translated from Hebrew)

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I was a clerk and studied civil law,

I was a farmer, teacher, musician, and tour guide galore,

I was a soldier and policeman in green uniform,

I always stayed an optimist inside.

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I was a photographer, gardener and planted new life,

I was an archeologist, and dug to discover the past.

I whistled, I drew, sang, and wrote many words,

I always remained an optimist inside.

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I composed my emotions in multiple scores,

I expressed my thoughts in poems and songs,

I would only think of positive things,

I tried to remain an optimist inside.

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I didn’t always agree to new directions,

I was not always satisfied with the changes in life,

I didn’t always want to argue with people,

I struggled to remain an optimist inside.

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I am a husband, father, and grandfather to many offspring,

But their future I see not in smiling colors.

I am a little anxious for the world in the future years,

I find it difficult now, to remain, an

Optimist, deep inside.

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New Day

Barry Gonen

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Every new day beckons adventure into realms of the unknown.

Every breath I breathe has hidden hope for the future of the universe.

Every step I take is strengthened by my latent enthusiasm.

Every word I speak has purpose lacking cynicism.

Every thought I would like to think is embodied with optimism

Every sound I hear has enlightening depths of meaning,

Every sight I see, stamps indelible impressions on my mind,

Every person I meet opens doors to fascinating exploration,

For each approaching night, I give thanks for my existence!

Every dream I envision, reinforces my imagination,

Every morning’s awakening enriches my yearning for life.

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When Is?

Barry Gonen

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When is a poet not a poet,

a musician not a musician,

an artist not an artist?

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When their senses are impaired,

When their vision is blurred,

When their thoughts are disturbed,

When they cease to dream,

When they cease to share,

When they give up on themselves,

When they finally cease to care!

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Frieda Landau

No Mind a Whetstone

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No mind a whetstone to my own

Allusions fly past uncaught

Pleasures of the mind

Pleasures of the body

Inextricably intertwined

Buried in your grave

Nothing to fill the now hollow place

Where Logos and Eros once danced with delight

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Night

Frieda Landau

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I go to bed late, later than I should

Finding reasons to stay awake

Watching old movies in black and white

And playing endless solitaire

Or calling unseen friends overseas

Where the new day is almost half done

But friends, however dear, have their own lives

At last, in the grey light before dawn

When sleep overcomes all excuses

I face the desolation of an

Empty bed the rising sun cannot warm

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Kol Nidre

Frieda Landau

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How do you remember the unknown grandmother whose name and face you carry

Grandfathers fading into less than memory

Uncles, aunts, cousins, ghosts dissolving in the mists of time

The prayer for the dead a plea

Remember me when I am gone

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Thanks for visiting JWorld Cafe, the Poetica Magazine Blog and reading the work of our Open Forum Poets - Linda Pressman, Blog Editor

.

Frieda Landau is a writer and a photographer, specializing in military topics. Landau was born during a postwar pogrom in Poland to Holocaust survivors parents. She writes poetry as a way to deal with her family history. Her work has appeared in Poetica Magazine and has been anthologized in Poetica’s Holocaust Anthology. Her website: http://www.freewebs.com/listgoddess/ . Her poetry collection, In the Shadow of the Shoah, will be published by Poetica Publishing in the fall of 2011.

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Barry Gonen was born into a musical family in London in 1947. He left England for Israel in 1971 and has been a member of Kibbutz Negba since 1973. He taught English at Tsafit High School for thirty-two years, mostly in the Special Education department, also fulfilling other duties such as musical and security coordinator for the school. He also served in a Border Police Unit for many years and is still active as Security Officer for the Kibbutz on a voluntary basis. His many songs and voiceovers can be found on Facebook, My Space, Skype and YouTube.

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Ina Perlmuter is a wife, mother and grandmother who has published her poetry through ISPS and Poetica, and participated in a reading at the Brewed Awakening Coffee House in Westmont, Illinois. Work is forthcoming in the ISPS Anthology.

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Jeff Goodman lives in Yerucham, Israel with his wife and children. He is the Deputy legal advisor for Beer Sheva Municipality and writes a weekly column, “Elu Devarim” by email. He was born in Columbus, Ohio in 1957 and made aliyah with his family in 1969. From 1976 to 1979 he served in the Golani Brigade, following a volunteer year in Dimona. He attended Law School at Bar Ilan University, and further Jewish Studies in Jerusalem and Har Etzion.