Some Folks

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Some Folks

Some folks enjoy
Taping mice to fireworks
Constructing planks with nails
For the roadways.

At the Music of Eurovision
Some folks don’t wish to allow
The Israelis to sing
One very small swipe
Since the October massacre
That unleashed & legitimized
The gluttonous devour of flesh.

Not enough headless corpses
To feed the gnawing lust
For some folks
From the Netherlands from Ireland
From Spain from Slovenia
From Tlaib from Tucker
They must condemn defiance--

That stubborn resistance to erasure by
Those partisans in tatters
From the ghettos, from Sobibor, Warsaw, Bialystok.
From Netanya, Kiryat Shmona, from Haifa.

For some folks
The Jew is most despised
When fighting back.

New Poems

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Hi All,

Below are some recent poems that I wanted to share. Thanks for reading. And wishing you all a lovely entry into Fall.

x
Judy

FATHER’S DAY POEM

My father smoked Camels, two packs a day.
He wore a fedora, worked like crazy,
and believed he was lucky,
that his life was better than his father’s.
They’re not as hard on the Jews now—
I heard him tell my Uncle Dave, many times.
Actually, they discussed how good or bad things
were for the Jews for forty years.
And who the enemies were, which
ones were worse than the others,
and the Pirates, the poor Pirates,
always in the cellar, year after year.  

HEAVEN

I hope to kiss both my grandmothers, 
who I have missed all my life,
to have them cradle & comfort me, 
as curled in their arms 
and no longer numb, I cry.

I cry as I am rocked back & forth
and passed between them;
my grandmothers’ hands stroke my skin 
until the ravages of life
that have branded me,  
are healed & I am pink & tender
& new as first wildflowers.

Then my grandmothers croon
the truth, a cadence sweet & simple,
and at once the onionskin layers 
of mind-papering are peeled away 
and the confusion that reigned 
shoots high & away & scatters~~~ 
buck-shot confetti swirling in ice blue air.

At last, unscarred & clean, I understand.
I know why one soul was born---lean & blessed, 
supple & strong: Joe DiMaggio!--- 
& sent to this earth on the exact same day 
as Jimmy Jones, who I remember
at our door each June, blind and nodding
in unmatched plaids, 
come to tune the old player piano.

Everything is explained: my grandmothers
tenderly place each note of precious truth
in a hollowed green melon, carved into a basket 
I can carry, and we are blown home, completely; 
and all is just as it should be
and never, until this moment, was.

MAIDEN AUNT ESCAPES

1


She of gentle home-bound feet
-not by clay but cloth-
recasts black & white & technicolor
threads into
the exotic wildland of dreams:
star-strung
galaxies to fly through

whole and to return,
skimming waterways, fabled
granite cities—le Seine, Paris
in the Twenties, the famous 1939
at Hollywood & Vine.


2

Bits of Lillian’s sadness:
only her own hands
to soothe peach-scented cream
on thinning skin; the left hand
that trembles, the skin brown
& dotted as an owl’s wing.

A photograph kept under starched sheets,
Clark Gable, his dazzling, crooked smile,
hidden from the sight of sister Ruth;

and next to Clark rests Lillian
in sepia, at eighteen, looking dreamy,
up and away from the camera, ready
to begin the life that never comes.

3

Only fantasy is treasure, the careful
gift she never shares, but unlocks
in the great darkness
so as not to grieve too long,
to welcome the deeper sleep that comes.

SCREAM

♡

after Edvard Munch

Layer upon layer waiting til
the pump that beats
falls still and stops.

Give me ground a stone a stalk
a place firm enough
to stack this

wild Grief
that swallows hard
splits the rib cage

open edges raw red
blood blackens crusts the soft core
where Hope used to sit.

Witless Hope spread
her naiveté eagerly as a child
butters bread.

God help me.
It is hard to stay here where
trees blood & eyes are so weary
so scrutable.

This may be about having had enough.

This may be about wanting
the world to come.

LIKE LEVANA , JEWESS OF CORDOBA


I feel it with me,
dwelling near my face,
above my throat,
humming there,
blessed there.

My soul and I know
the earth
as home for now;
we sway to the rhythm
of festival harps.

Adorned in
colored stones, skin
polished with precious oils,
we press lips to pages
of sacred text.

We lap up the world like wine,
and do not foresee an empty glass.

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere a chestnut horse
plods along a leafy trail.

His steady rider
also nods. They move as one

one bent unit
rolling like a song

up and down the shifting rays.

They are off
to find another place,
humming, easy as summer.

It may seem
they 've left me here,
amid the noise and street-scapes

but in the airborne scatter of the song
I am riding with them.

When we get there,
there will be

apple trees in hot September
shedding for us-the horse, the rider and for me.

The juice will slake our thirst.
The drenching sun

will slide to four o'clock
as quick with joy and sweat

we three mount up
and find the trail again.

TWO

Two fell asleep listening to Gregorian chants.

Two occasionally babysat for little money.

Two learned to merengue at the Arthur Murray Studio.

Two hired a woman named Carol for rides to the airport.

Two drank so much Little Sumpin’ beer they passed out.

Two rode uninsured horses in Massachusetts. 

Two wore Grouch Marx masks when visiting someone in a hospital.

Two snuggled in a booth at El Floridita, Havana.

Two angled for salary increases at UPMC.

Two sometimes inquired of one another “How’s my breath?”

Two dosed on Zen drops for stress relief. 

Two disagreed about politics.

Two finally decided to never speak about politics but

Two never voted for the same presidential candidate.

Two listened to Adagio for Strings and dissolved into tears.

Two penned a fan letter to the composer, Samuel Barber. 

Two mistrusted the news media.

Two walked across the Carcross Desert in the Yukon.

Two flipped over in a Range Rover.

Two raised a wonderful son.

Two sold self-published books from the trunk of a Chevy.

Two got stinking drunk at a cousin’s retirement party.

Two made love on the grass in a neighborhood park.

Two made love in a conference room at work.

Two sang “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” at a country club party.

Two tried living off grid on a tropical island.

Two read out loud in bed.

Two preferred Southern Gothic writers: O’Connor, Faulkner, McCullers.

Two photographed mudslides on coastal highway 1.

Two rescued a dog with the mark of a black heart on his flank.

Two once carried this dog down a subterranean tunnel. 

Two were the  chummy  sum  of  one  plus  one.

A PRIEST’S TALE

The kindly priest was drawn to Sweet Tranquility. 

Still lithe despite his sixty years

he chased her past pink wildflowers 

whose trembling petals reminded him of her. 

He knew she was not human but he did not care.

He was hungry for her.

He long searched before realizing 

she was hiding from the world, including him. 

When he came upon her nest he found a perfumed note.

It said she had to return to a star 

where all lived on sweet soup and cherry wine.  

She promised to stay accessible to him. 

“Realize, I will always come to you in dreams.  It is all I can do.”

He remained by her nest

and wept to Sol, the setting sun:

Where has Sweet Tranquility gone 

and shrouded her face?

And the sun could only guess:

In clouds swollen with sorrow…

Piteously, the priest cried out again and again

but Sol, deafened, streaking gold and red,

drew down and disappeared

bearing the light, the nest, the wildflowers, 

and all that had been revealed, away.

SKINLESS AND BONELESS

for Dora Iwler

Skinless and Boneless

is how they wanted you.

Heartless and Gutless 

is how they were.

To gorge themselves 

on the flesh of your people 

Was the method they used 

to feed their rage.

Vilified victim, 

chosen again, 

you chose survival.

Butchering, baking, 

bearing corpses and ashes 

they have goosestepped 

into history.

Skin, bones, brain 

and screaming soul, 

you are still here.

ISRAEL IWLER AND HIS PEACEFUL COW

After seven hundred

days of night

he emerged,

a stunned Jew-bird

on bleeding 

hands and knees,

light-blinded by

the years in his 

deep cave home.

He came into

the presence of

the green-sprung

world again,

and remembered:

a sun, a moon,

the roof of stars.

It was when

he saw his own

cow, dumb, peaceful,

and not frightened

in the quiet field,

that he fell down 

and howled; 

savage

beneath a drift of

wind and heedless blossoms

he clawed 

and wept

and tore apart 

the abundant ground.

OLD LOVES

The twin of myself 

that I am in my mind

never parted from them,

those old loves;

we spend our days

walking through the home-town 

places we knew,

the green streets where we played,

under buckeye trees that

shed for us when we

were the tiny and masterful 

collectors. 

We scale the blueberry hills

under the same hot sun, bodies in joyous sweat;

above rise the elephant clouds,

close by the rocks and carved markers 

we learned not to fear.

Mother calls and the sharp-edged

hour ends in a hush. 

So this is an afterlife: 

a pause without 

and not without them,

a time to abide 

not entirely lone 

yet alone, 

but not to dream; no,

our souls wait quietly,

a pile of tiny stones

closely crowded

on either side of this fluttering

opaqueness, this thin blue curtain,

and they know.

They know that I am coming.   

JANUARY

Beyond the window

wind driven snow,

down from Canada.

Trees like bones,

old black skeletons

shaking in pain.

I am alone and ill,

hiding here; 

just a cold but I like

to say I never get them.

On my daughter’s wall

Aunt Lil’s petit point

little girl sits with her bunny

in a country field 

while Aunt Lil herself

lies in a grave

I cannot find

somewhere out in Shaler;

my daughter’s grown,

a woman now 

making her life, tentatively, 

but still

on her own.

Aunt Lil had a narrow life

but left these 

vestiges in yarn: the little girl,

the tulips, the talit bag. Pieces of

herself for the children

who never look at them.

All is heat 

the man of science said.

A mere moment’s heat, at that.

The bunny in the field 

is made of thread.

The little girl has gone away.

Try to stop smoking.

Take care of the cold.     

WAYS AND MEANS FOR VIVIAN

When she wants to be kissed and petted

she tells kindly lies that stretch 

like clothes-pinned laundry angled 

to grab up sunlight. Yesterday’s soiled

underthings flap bright and new.

If the day is clean and the wind is right

she lies and the garments lie and both are considered

if not entirely lovable at least good enough.

When she wants to be loved without condition

she whispers kindly promises. These rise in the air

like coveys of tiny birds determined to fly south 

although the way is fraught with shearing wind

and raging night-storms. 

And if the man is full-hearted 

and fresh enough, love is offered like sweet 

coffee in the morning, just as the first cool updraft 

arrives and a whole new universe of birds takes off.

TO CIVILITY

Blessed is he who expects nothing,

for he shall never be disappointed.

                            --Alexander Pope

Clouds, shaded soft

as dove’s wings, 

yield most days 

to showers, sometimes sweet, 

but often harsh 

as the first days of mourning,

as when spring 

rains moisture 

upon the cold earth, 

heaps wetness

on us all, lies heavy 

in the chilled trees, 

as well as on the children;

mists them 

green-barked and thick-skinned 

forcing growth along sloping streets,

streets of bricks and poles and wires

without the steady

sun of other places;

perhaps this is why

the hardy sprouts never hide 

from unsparing light:

they learn early to stretch, 

to climb, to bob high, 

to forgive and love each other.                                                                              

THE GREAT GOD OF CHILDHOOD

spoke out loud to Noah 

on Little Golden pages: 

Collect all animal pairs! 

Come, dumb, beloved creatures--- 

the best thing

about the world is not the world;

the best thing about the world is you. 

Colossal rains

washed the earth, 

dazzling as the sun 

on puddles 

where we splashed our feet. 

He saw every rippling circle 

we made move, 

as He had moved 

the Ark and moon and stars.

He dwelt in green trees and blue waters;

bright leaves and ladybugs and buckeyes

He sent for us, the little collectors.

But the earth began 

to turn on its own axis 

the stars were mapped drifting 

millions of light years away.

I never stopped peering

into clouds for Him

until the moment you left 

me sunk thick in fog, alone

I called out to you: 

Vaulter! and again: Vaulter! 

In a dream you scaled 

the hills and catapulted steeples

skyward, to Him. 

You flew away with the night 

that would open into any other 

stretch of golden sunlight. 

Dinner Date

The man was justified, I admitted,

because he had served there.

I gave him that, anyway.

He’d been the soldier, and his soldiering

had to mean something. You could see

how much in those tight lips and his fist

squeezing the wine-glass stem, hard.

So I gave him that. 

Then I told him Danny never came home.

I really laid it on: 

24 years old, law school, Penn, his goodness, 

sense of duty. The Navy pilot:  

the way he was raised, how he was the first, 

for me, the first and best,  

and what it was like for us, the lush days 

and the nights, summer after young summer. 

I kept steaming on, juiced with the wine and some

strange rage: the obscenity never seemed

more obscene, this now old man still fighting

his black-hearted shitty military cause. 

It was finally for nothing, I whispered, evilly.

Nothing. Your service, his death. Nothing.

He quit arguing. Shut up.

I felt queasy, like I stepped on something 

and made it stop moving.

SISTER MARDI GRAS

If it keeps on rainin’

levee’s goin to break

and all these people have

no place to stay.

                           ---Memphis Minnie, 1929

Old town never could decide

whether it was soil or water

hot city that celebrated death

hosting jazz funerals

dark place where cemeteries

  now lie under water

swampy land that grew exquisite

scandalous corruption 

violently strangled hostess 

of artists and crawfish and music:

Sister Woman hears your wounded voice, so sweet so hot so sweet

and remembers how you shaped her.

She must sing and dance far, far away from you

far from your watery grave,

                   far from your fat drowned heart. 

SOLOMON AND SHEBA

Cloaked now in myth

Shadowed by anguish

But once a thing of splendor

A matter to remember:

A great ancestral love.

Let this song recall the grandeur

Of Solomon and Sheba

He, the Man, a king    She, the woman-queen

Flesh and spirit   Jew and Black

A song of remembrance,

A paean to a proud fierce love.

Take my hand. 

Your hand is onyx    My hand is pearl

Reach with me

Into the deep warp of time

Storied lives and martyred lives

All layered now within the 

Beautiful

Cold 

Earth itself

Let us seek the reliquary of emeralds

The bloodstone vault.

Let us drape ourselves in the glory

That was. Let us render sweet requiem to 

That blending   

Those majestic lives 

   

That splendid human love.

I Believe In Pittsburgh

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The following is from and for the website, This I Believe.

I believe in Pittsburgh.

I do! I believe in the specialness of the city of my birth, the city where I have spent my entire life—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. And I’ve done plenty of soul-searching about it: is it my illusion that this city is in any way unique, or better, or more anything than any place else? Does it seem this way to me because it’s my hometown? Am I rationalizing because I am stuck here? Or do I just not know any better?

My old friend, poet Gerald Stern, another hometowner, called it “beautiful, filthy Pittsburgh,” and I thank him for the “beautiful,” but let’s face it, Gerry, the “filthy” designation applied long, long ago, when you were a boy. As I am not a kid anymore, either, I too remember when the Mon was coal-colored and putrid but I contend that the reasons for the dirtiness are part of what’s special, part of the uniqueness, part of the legacy.

So what am I talking about? A complex of factors, really, a coming together of history and geography and topography, in a way that favored the the most essential element in the mix–the people who built and lived and still live in this town. Pittsburghers.

And just to keep my credibility, I hasten to add that my city is not perfect: I note that sometimes there is less architectural integrity in evidence here than there should be. There are many examples. The corner of Fifth and Bellefield is hideous, due to a lack of taste and/or planning. So are some of our roadways. Routes 30 and 51 come to mind. We should not have lost the Syria Mosque. Nor should we have lost the Civic Arena, an iconic structure and part of our skyline, to the forces of political/economic/sports cronyism. I believe my Pittsburgh should have been better than that. I comfort myself with the realization that those responsible and benefitting from the destruction will also be remembered for it–their legacy will be that they destroyed the Civic Arena.

There are also problems here in education and transit, for example, but enough criticism. I love this city, with many good reasons…

Where else can a stranger stop and ask directions, and be escorted where he or she needs to go?

What other shot-and-a-beer town can claim one of the world’s greatest symphony orchestras?

What other hard working people dug in and created the armaments that were a decisive element in winning World War 11?

What other city has a history of dynastic families who took, and prospered–but then generously gave back—-so much?

Where else can you become such an excellent driver? By learning to drive in Pittsburgh, you master hills, curves, ice and snow, and pothole dodging. You are set up to be able to drive anywhere.

In the 60’s, the tough years of civil rights and anti-war protest, Pittsburgh, unlike Detroit or Watts or Newark, was not burned down. Again, we are certainly not perfect, but I believe that among Pittsburghers there is a higher degree of civility, less tension, and more sincere respect for the rights and dignity of one another than exists in other places.

One of our newspapers, in addition to publishing poetry, has a feaure called “random acts of kindness.”

Yes, Pittsburghers are kind, friendly people.

And…

What other town saw the catastrophe of the collapse of its main industry, and a profound diminishing of population as a result, and followed it up with a vigorous reinvention of itself?

We are home to lively communities of artists, poets, musicians, thespians; we are home to great sports teams and ethnic neighborhoods and universities, theaters and restaurants and museums and libraries.

In the foreword to “Along These Rivers,” a collection of poetry and photography from Pittsburgh, which I co-edited with Michael Wurster in honor of the 250th anniversary of our city, I wrote:

“We know that our region has been blessed with 250 exciting years of history—it is a fact that the history of Pittsburgh profoundly parallels and intersects with so much of the history of America—as well as a richly realized, unique cultural heritage. We are a center of higher learning, as well as a place of ethnic diversity and great energy. Surrounded by rolling hills and filled with interesting culturally diverse neighborhoods, rivers and bridges, we can also lay claim to one of this country’s most beautiful skylines.

We share such abundant blessings in this nurturing little city, not the least of which is our community of artists.”

That was what I wrote then, in 2008. Rereading this, I think I may have written yet another Valentine; well, I suppose that’s what love will do.

Spring News

/

Hi Friends,

A couple small updates from my world:

  • I have a poem featured on Poetry Super Highway as part of the 27th Annual Yom HaShoah Holocaust Remembrance Day Issue. You can check it out here, and/or read the poem below.

  • I was very excited to read my 1st prize poem for the 35th Reuben Rose International competition, 2024. We did it on Sunday, April 27. I will share a video of it very soon. Stay tuned!

Until next time. Stay safe!
Judy

• • •

Wildflowers Cover Everything

for father Patrick Desbois*

And the priest reports
A few villagers,
Aged but still living,
Remember

The festival days.
Mozart was played.
Streudel was served.
And beer.

There will be no towers
Of shoes or dentures,
No photo galleries,
No lampshades or gold teeth.

I write this poem
And Father Desbois does what he can
To survey, to count, to record,
But they were millions.


*Patrick Desbois (born 1955, in Chalon-sur-Saône) is a French Roman Catholic priest, former head of the Commission for Relations with Judaism of the French Bishops’ Conference and consultant to the Vatican. He is the founder of the Yahad-In Unum, an organization dedicated to locating the sites of mass graves of Jewish victims of the Nazi mobile-killing units in the former Soviet Union.

Poem at Poetry Catalog

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Hi Friends,

I wanted to share a poem titled Carl Enelow up at Poetry Catalog. You can read the poem below or check it out at Poetry Catalog here.

Carl Enelow

A solemn rabbi advised young Carl not to
mimic a happy mole, burrowing blind into the black.

Books were musty but filled with wisdom
that was terribly difficult to apply.

Confusion took over and raged through
his consciousness like a virus.

Women were soft but no help
yet he drifted in the aura of the older ones,

perfumed with exotic spices
he came to recognize as cannabis,
ginger, smoky green cardamon.

At least they fed him although few kept kosher.
He no longer cared.

Younger women tended to laugh which also worried him.
What was so funny?

He left by bus when everyone was sleeping.
He wrote one note to Ariel to say goodbye and
not much else.

There was no name for her affliction.

Where was he to go but California ? Could there be
any ground sloths left roaming the Great Plains?

She telephoned him. Whining, she warned that
the town was getting hit by maniacs and their proxies.

He told her he had to go. But what about the Russian
dossiers? The molestation of minors? she demanded.

But all he cared for was truth.

The tax code is too complicated for all of us.
The world doesn’t like it when Jews fight back.
There is sadness in serial numbers and blank pages .
Thousands of black crows thunder above.
Never believe the false narrative. Uppagus has many fans.

Yeah, but don’t forget this, she said: I’ve seen you naked.

I Believe In Pittsburgh

/

Hi Friends,

The end of summer is already in sight. How can that be? Wishing you all hearty final weeks of summer.

Sharing something I’ve rediscovered from a bit ago and about the city I love.

Until next time,
Judy

• • •

I believe in Pittsburgh.

I do! I believe in the specialness of the city of my birth, the city where I have spent my entire life—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. And I’ve done plenty of soul-searching about it: is it my illusion that this city is in any way unique, or better, or more anything than any place else? Does it seem this way to me because it’s my hometown? Am I rationalizing because I am stuck here? Or do I just not know any better?

My old friend, poet Gerald Stern, another hometowner, called it “beautiful, filthy Pittsburgh,” and I thank him for the “beautiful,” but let’s face it, Gerry, the “filthy” designation applied long, long ago, when you were a boy. As I am not a kid anymore, either, I too remember when the Mon was coal-colored and putrid but I contend that the reasons for the dirtiness are part of what’s special, part of the uniqueness, part of the legacy.

So what am I talking about? A complex of factors, really, a coming together of history and geography and topography, in a way that favored the the most essential element in the mix–the people who built and lived and still live in this town. Pittsburghers.

And just to keep my credibility, I hasten to add that my city is not perfect: I note that sometimes there is less architectural integrity in evidence here than there should be. There are many examples. The corner of Fifth and Bellefield is hideous, due to a lack of taste and/or planning. So are some of our roadways. Routes 30 and 51 come to mind. We should not have lost the Syria Mosque. Nor should we have lost the Civic Arena, an iconic structure and part of our skyline, to the forces of political/economic/sports cronyism. I believe my Pittsburgh should have been better than that. I comfort myself with the realization that those responsible and benefitting from the destruction will also be remembered for it–their legacy will be that they destroyed the Civic Arena.

There are also problems here in education and transit, for example, but enough criticism. I love this city, with many good reasons…

Where else can a stranger stop and ask directions, and be escorted where he or she needs to go?

What other shot-and-a-beer town can claim one of the world’s greatest symphony orchestras?

What other hard working people dug in and created the armaments that were a decisive element in winning World War 11?

What other city has a history of dynastic families who took, and prospered–but then generously gave back—-so much?

Where else can you become such an excellent driver? By learning to drive in Pittsburgh, you master hills, curves, ice and snow, and pothole dodging. You are set up to be able to drive anywhere.

In the 60’s, the tough years of civil rights and anti-war protest, Pittsburgh, unlike Detroit or Watts or Newark, was not burned down. Again, we are certainly not perfect, but I believe that among Pittsburghers there is a higher degree of civility, less tension, and more sincere respect for the rights and dignity of one another than exists in other places.

One of our newspapers, in addition to publishing poetry, has a feaure called “random acts of kindness.”

Yes, Pittsburghers are kind, friendly people.

And…

What other town saw the catastrophe of the collapse of its main industry, and a profound diminishing of population as a result, and followed it up with a vigorous reinvention of itself?

We are home to lively communities of artists, poets, musicians, thespians; we are home to great sports teams and ethnic neighborhoods and universities, theaters and restaurants and museums and libraries.

In the foreword to “Along These Rivers,” a collection of poetry and photography from Pittsburgh, which I co-edited with Michael Wurster in honor of the 250th anniversary of our city, I wrote:

“We know that our region has been blessed with 250 exciting years of history—it is a fact that the history of Pittsburgh profoundly parallels and intersects with so much of the history of America—as well as a richly realized, unique cultural heritage. We are a center of higher learning, as well as a place of ethnic diversity and great energy. Surrounded by rolling hills and filled with interesting culturally diverse neighborhoods, rivers and bridges, we can also lay claim to one of this country’s most beautiful skylines.

We share such abundant blessings in this nurturing little city, not the least of which is our community of artists.”

That was what I wrote then, in 2008. Rereading this, I think I may have written yet another Valentine; well, I suppose that’s what love will do.

Summer Annoucements

/
 

Hi Friends,

Wishing you a happy summer.

Some news and notes from my desk. FIrstly, happy and proud to have been featured as part of Robert Morris University’s Rune Magazine spotlight. You can find the spotlight here on Instagram.

Also, my painting Orange Courage is featured over at Writer’s Adventure.

And finally, my painting Beach was featured on Persimmon Tree and alongside Saint Natalie of the Too Soon Departed by Terri Watrous Berry.

Sending care until next time,
Judy

New Poem, Rage

/

Hi Friends,

I have a new poem entitled Rage that is published on Mike Maggio’s website. The poem is in response to the events of October 7.

Judy

Rage

(in remembrance of the October 7 Massacre)

It disturbs, this slanting light
yellow & rapturous
and once a part of promise.

Mocking now, and strange
these sighing palms
that stirred with expectation.

How like betrayal
the stillness of desert flowers
quiet, beautiful, unfaded.

I was not an alien here.
I was as one with the light
the palms, the cactus.

Why did the earth I loved
not cry out for me
as my life’s blood
was sought
and taken.

New Poem, Black Scar, at Vox Publica

/

Hi Friends,

I have a new poem entitled Black Scar that is up at Vox Publica. You can see it on their site here, or read down below.

Until soon,
Judy

BLACK SCAR

Scar black scar

the artist’s long

black scar

symbol

in the earth

of the rip

in the body human

payment

in flesh all wars

are economic

the cost

charged the poor

black

the blood of Danny

long since

blackened

dried and caked

oh Danny boy

who is no more

he whom I loved

and he whom they loved

the Ebert’s older son

remember him

he played a drum

the paper boy on Linden

Painting and Poem Part of October 27 Archive

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Friends,

A painting and poem of mine are now included in the October 27 Archive, which documents the local and global impact of the October 27, 2018 attack against three Jewish congregations housed together within a synagogue building in Pittsburgh. It is a living repository, ever-growing to include voices from all over the world bound together in community.

Below is copy from the site which speaks to the work I produced:

Shortly after the October 27 attack, she wrote a memorial poem and accompanying painting for the victims titled, "El Kiddush Hashem; a prayer more than a poem." The painting and the poem later became the centerpiece of an exhibit titled "The Numbers Keep Changing," held at the Holocaust Center of Pittsburgh from April 9 through June 24, 2019. The title of the exhibit referred to ongoing discoveries of new victims of the Holocaust, pushing the number of total victims above the long-established total of 6 million.

You can see the work on the site here. And please explore the link above to see all the important work included in the archive to commemorate all that was lost on that truly sad and horrific day.

Yours,
Judy

I Apologize

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Hi Friends,

It’s been a moment and it’s Fall already. Hope you had nice summers and wishing you good things for the season ahead. In the meantime, my poem, I Apologize, is up at Vox Populi. You can read it here and down below. The poem was first published in 5AM and won the 2011 Reuben Rose Award from Voices Israel.

Until next time…

• • •

I Apologize

to my precious elders;
the valuable ones, 
those thick-fleshed
indestructible Jews
I have known, 
those who 
endured; those who
had the clenched tooth
grit to flee before 
the ovens were lit, 
those –bergs and –steins
and –skis 
those tailors artists bakers
peddlers scholars music-makers
who did not become the incinerated trash of Europe:
My own people, once stalwart as the stars, 
must now weep as we, their stunning progeny,
disappear like shadows 
into the cracked cement of sweet America
our brainless heads sucked under the white foam,
merging, whistling, forgetting, drowning, dancing,
no lessons learned, refusing to keep anything.

Poetry Reading in July

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HI Folks,

Excited to share that I will be participating in a reading in July as part of Hemingway’s Poetry Series. I’ll be in company with some wonderful writers. Information down below and also on the Events page.

Hope you’re all having a good start to Spring. Until next time…

Judy

• • •

HEMINGWAY'S SUMMER POETRY SERIES

Week 7:
Mant¿s,
Bob Pajich,
JudithRobinson,
Meghan Tutolo
Anastasia Walker

July 26
7PM ET
@ White Whale Bookstore

For more information and to RSVP:
whitewnalebookstore.com/events