The next thing always belongs

Now that I have aged,

And the noise around me subsides,

I look around, perplexed

Old habits leak through the cracks,

 Create disturbances in the seamless shield.

Maps of discovery, I once labored upon,

Are coiled, ends ripped, forgotten.

What is waiting at the end of

The road yet undiscovered?

Is it false all the same?

In reality was I always alone.

Those who could tell me

No longer alive,

Maybe a way of survival,

Wrapped neatly  in a dream,

Breathing- in the right to exist,

Standing up for my place in the universe

Yet robbed of my roots,

Denied any relations to a past,

 To which I will always belong.

Hymn to The muse still guiding my hand,

To serve the music in my mind.

Morning traffic murmurs like an ocean

Behind the closed doors,

of my daughter’s eleven floor

 home, the morning traffic

 Murmurs like an ocean.

From her balcony,

with my warm coffee

and a fresh bun,

the squeal of horns

 tears the constant hum,

 as if a ship is calling

 out from the fog.

Rising, and falling,

 the waves of cars

move between the lights,

red and green, and red.

Vessels watching for buoys

 in the rough seas.

And I, from above

watching the unfolding tapestry,

listening to the town harmony,

yielding for the ocean calm. 

The Papers Say the Heat is Here to Stay

The papers say the heat is here to stay

At night, the moon, a perfect sphere of red

Hanged over the dense wall of Cedars

in the back yard, as if too tired to rise.

At dawn the burning sky gave way to merciless sun,

By noon the flattened shadows left no place to hide

 under the old oak tree, in the front yard.

The heat, a fire- breathing dragon,

 loomed over our door- steps,

hammered our windows and doors.

 We lay stretched on our beds inside,

Measuring each breath so not to exert,

Staying still, listening to every gasp,

hanging on to every whiff of wind,

waiting for an enchanted hero.

 But in the evening the moon ascended red as blood,

And the papers said the heat is here to stay,

The Blog name is taken from this quote by Ester Kal

“…And for a moment I better understand the one who draws, and the one who takes pictures, or writes. That he needs to carve out a sliver of infinity from the constant flow and transformations and fix it in a frame for keepsake. To incise a picture from it, to engrave a chord, or an ache, so it will become a tiny piece of eternity in of in itself that he will be able to wrap around himself in the years of want and scarcity.” Ester Kal (my translation from Hebrew)