Unconditional Cat
Gravity's art
white-water falls
greys and amber.
Sculptured spaces
crystalline
dominant grace.
Unconditionally cat,
you awakened me
in a bracelet of greeting,
a circle of eyes, round
bodies of orange light -
I return your reflection
without conditions.
Eyes like fire closed in my arms
tired like a peaceable infant -
I return your meal of affection
without condition.
Love unnamed
unspoken
you hold me
without condition.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Rosh Hashanah by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
Rosh Hashanah Thoughts
Being Jewish
at Rosh Hashanah
is so different
for a woman like me
part-Jew
part-American
Manhattan-West Side
sophisticate,
or so I think
of myself at times;
wearing cool jeans
in my 50s
self-conscious
know-it-all progressive,
ironed with touches feminine
and naive
In the month of Elul
wind and branch
seem the work of God
and I thank Him
and I add to my charity
and I try to be good
but no longer as a child does,
being differently conscious
of goodness and the knowledge
it brings to us
becoming a perceiver
of G-d’s presence.
Limited things,
the mouth’s sudden
bend, words
cheer me
small mitzvahs,
small donations
but many.
There are many people,
many widows
many orphans,
intellects asleep
on lumpy sidewalk --
for many nights --
my favorite cause
I would say, hovering
about them,
Such chutzpah--
I could be their
favorite charity;
no makeup, body-and-
soul-size questionable,
unclouded, I would speak
of a donation
to their pantry
or lunch, and
they in turn
would teach me
to be fearless,
their small donation.
In Rosh Hashanah,
all are
inscribed--
one brimming book.
Being Jewish
at Rosh Hashanah
is so different
for a woman like me
part-Jew
part-American
Manhattan-West Side
sophisticate,
or so I think
of myself at times;
wearing cool jeans
in my 50s
self-conscious
know-it-all progressive,
ironed with touches feminine
and naive
In the month of Elul
wind and branch
seem the work of God
and I thank Him
and I add to my charity
and I try to be good
but no longer as a child does,
being differently conscious
of goodness and the knowledge
it brings to us
becoming a perceiver
of G-d’s presence.
Limited things,
the mouth’s sudden
bend, words
cheer me
small mitzvahs,
small donations
but many.
There are many people,
many widows
many orphans,
intellects asleep
on lumpy sidewalk --
for many nights --
my favorite cause
I would say, hovering
about them,
Such chutzpah--
I could be their
favorite charity;
no makeup, body-and-
soul-size questionable,
unclouded, I would speak
of a donation
to their pantry
or lunch, and
they in turn
would teach me
to be fearless,
their small donation.
In Rosh Hashanah,
all are
inscribed--
one brimming book.
Long Beach by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
[IN PROGRESS}
Long Beach at Four PM
Silver nitrate
drops of ivory
grey and gold.
Sand plovers walking through
food baskets on our blanket
were white and grey like
the edge of sky,
What colour was the light?
An echo of everything flying and hovering.
Birds flew
and birds walked surely
on legs like stalks.
Puffed body
so pretty.
Silver polished skies
are so many colors
I can’t bear it —
don’t want to leave
for the tall buildings
and cement squares of the city;
though dark blue signs say
we can’t go in the water
today.
Long Beach at Four PM
Silver nitrate
drops of ivory
grey and gold.
Sand plovers walking through
food baskets on our blanket
were white and grey like
the edge of sky,
What colour was the light?
An echo of everything flying and hovering.
Birds flew
and birds walked surely
on legs like stalks.
Puffed body
so pretty.
Silver polished skies
are so many colors
I can’t bear it —
don’t want to leave
for the tall buildings
and cement squares of the city;
though dark blue signs say
we can’t go in the water
today.
Geraniums by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
Waiting for Geraniums
Eight green buds sit
atop a slim stem
like pale ladies
around a table
sipping evening
from warm tea
while I wait
for a red flower
promised by the
season’s passion,
the rose
without thorns.
We together are
holding vigil
at my window,
five leaves and I,
for a geranium
bright as jam
and the long
sitting,
a faithless
wait,
repossesses my
ripening. It is
better
to be born
unprepared,
to reek
of geranium
wine,
red sun
boastful days,
mute dreams,
than to
fold in a
cold hand
of doubt
(though knowing
there will be screams
this summer,
sterile yolks
a few green peaches
broken sleep).
Morning brought
the first streak of pink
and one yellowing leaf,
my dreams fervent
but blank to me
as a white plate.
Turn from
the window,
my scarce heart,
before impatience
decreases you;
the clay will keep
as the pot will be sweetened.
Rhea Lewin Geberer
Eight green buds sit
atop a slim stem
like pale ladies
around a table
sipping evening
from warm tea
while I wait
for a red flower
promised by the
season’s passion,
the rose
without thorns.
We together are
holding vigil
at my window,
five leaves and I,
for a geranium
bright as jam
and the long
sitting,
a faithless
wait,
repossesses my
ripening. It is
better
to be born
unprepared,
to reek
of geranium
wine,
red sun
boastful days,
mute dreams,
than to
fold in a
cold hand
of doubt
(though knowing
there will be screams
this summer,
sterile yolks
a few green peaches
broken sleep).
Morning brought
the first streak of pink
and one yellowing leaf,
my dreams fervent
but blank to me
as a white plate.
Turn from
the window,
my scarce heart,
before impatience
decreases you;
the clay will keep
as the pot will be sweetened.
Rhea Lewin Geberer
About My Father by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
About My Father
My face is flushed
with talk and my father --
Israel and Jewish life
before Israel
have made me heady.
The talk is so close
to my heart of all nations,
to the heart not mine
but universal;
all peoples are counted
all persons are me;
I swim like an arrow
through dark blue waves.
I need to cool down
like I need the heat of
my soul deepening.
My face is flushed
with talk and my father --
Israel and Jewish life
before Israel
have made me heady.
The talk is so close
to my heart of all nations,
to the heart not mine
but universal;
all peoples are counted
all persons are me;
I swim like an arrow
through dark blue waves.
I need to cool down
like I need the heat of
my soul deepening.
My Cat of One by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
My Cat of One
As I approach
and her arm
expands
towards me
(her foreleg really
though hard not
to see a hand
reaching),
she is suddenly
the child I never
had, the one-year old
whose mother opens
the bedroom door
to eyes lit by
knowledge beyond
days and years
to a face fired
by fragrances,
an ingathering
of my desserts.
I am not
a goddess
and neither is
my cat a pilgrim,
but to her
I swim in air,
tango as
a dream. She,
though, is real:
a refining of
non-combatant
passion
an Other
smelling of salt
small needs
a clinging seal.
God, how opulent
for my old years
of loyalty
and stone --
the sound of round body
I have wanted
for these arms
of drying rock!
As I approach
and her arm
expands
towards me
(her foreleg really
though hard not
to see a hand
reaching),
she is suddenly
the child I never
had, the one-year old
whose mother opens
the bedroom door
to eyes lit by
knowledge beyond
days and years
to a face fired
by fragrances,
an ingathering
of my desserts.
I am not
a goddess
and neither is
my cat a pilgrim,
but to her
I swim in air,
tango as
a dream. She,
though, is real:
a refining of
non-combatant
passion
an Other
smelling of salt
small needs
a clinging seal.
God, how opulent
for my old years
of loyalty
and stone --
the sound of round body
I have wanted
for these arms
of drying rock!
Remembrance by Rhea Lewin Geberer (wife)
Remembrance
My white trees
are here again
prom dress
wedding skirt
young trees
whirling
round and again
in flower time
letting sun
into ticklish
secret lace
of hearts.
The green summer
will forget
these touchstone
teenage blossoms;
To be human is to remember--
collecting my pink lit
and discolored roses
from their earth,
recollecting the old ground
in truth and shifting prisms,
a blooming spring
my silken walking stick.
RLG
4/13/97
My white trees
are here again
prom dress
wedding skirt
young trees
whirling
round and again
in flower time
letting sun
into ticklish
secret lace
of hearts.
The green summer
will forget
these touchstone
teenage blossoms;
To be human is to remember--
collecting my pink lit
and discolored roses
from their earth,
recollecting the old ground
in truth and shifting prisms,
a blooming spring
my silken walking stick.
RLG
4/13/97
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