Humor
The Problem With Books
The problem with books –
whether Wiesel, Agnon, Mishna
or An Anthology of American Literature –
they all have souls
and I can’t toss them out.
I can’t toss out Rashi’s Commentary,
a translation of Baudelaire’s poetry
or the Tales translated by Buber –
they teach, enrich, inspire, uplift
and I can’t let them go.
I must create space
I’ve no room on my shelves.
Oh books, I have no place to keep you
but I can’t live without you.
This poem first appeared in Cyclamens and Swords, December 2012
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A Grandmother’s Joy or Why My Feet Ache
David, I dance with you across the living room.
Holding you, I climb flights of stairs
and down again.
Making up a song, I walk you to and fro.
Rachel, I race after you in the park,
leading you away from the street.
I stand behind you as you climb the ladder’s rungs,
catch you as you come down the slide,
and rock with you on the metal rocking-car.
I follow you when you head home.
Who thought up the misnomer –
babysitting?
This poem first appeared in arc 22 - Humor Issue
Memory
My memory goes for a walk –
it just walked out the door –
together with what’s-his-name’s name.
It happened the other day, too:
I was checking my mail on the computer
and the memory of having put on pasta
for my husband’s supper
took a long stroll.
Not a drop of water was left in the pot,
and only some of the ziti
remained edible by the time my son
came in an hour later
and told me something was burning.
Or was it my daughter?
My memory goes for a walk –
it just walked out the door –
together with what’s-his-name’s name.
It happened the other day, too:
I was checking my mail on the computer
and the memory of having put on pasta
for my husband’s supper
took a long stroll.
Not a drop of water was left in the pot,
and only some of the ziti
remained edible by the time my son
came in an hour later
and told me something was burning.
Or was it my daughter?
This poem first appeared in arc 22 - Humor Issue
Mrs. Noah
The problem with my wife was that
she had no imagination, no curiosity,
no initiative; she meekly sat
at my side, lacking all creativity.
She nodded and smiled at all I said;
obedient, yes, but no ability
to adjust to the ark in which we sailed; instead
she groaned and sighed
as she changed the straw, fed
the cats, the crows, caterpillars and crocodiles, and tied
the ropes with such exaggerated solemnity.
Her day’s work done, she’d disappear and hide
in bed. She fled all festivity –
like the birthdays of our daughters-in-law –
I nudged, “Have you no sense of family or community?”
I’d have given more
than fifty sacks of gold for a wife
with some pizzazz, with whom I could explore
the world, who would ignite my flame, our life
together one of excitement and spontaneity –
still, it was a marriage without strife.
But I wanted a woman of inner strength, with personality
with whom I could share wisdom, wit and wine.
Enough complaints! Who says I need a wife who’d sing duets with me?
This poem first appeared in Poetica Magazine, on-line edition, December 2009
and was reprinted in the print edition of Poetica Magazine, Spring 2011
and was reprinted in the print edition of Poetica Magazine, Spring 2011