Hostage to Extremes - Dec 24 2023

 

Hostage to Extremes

Dec 24 2023

I am asked to take sides.

To decide

who's in the right

and who the wrong.

As if judgement

is even possible.

As if the options stop

at only two

and I'm called on to choose.

So what to do

if both sides are wrong?

Both hostage

to the extremists and ideologues,

the true believers

who insist on purity?

Especially when the silent majority

will gladly sacrifice

for peace.

Who are weary of war

the burden of history

the license of victimhood;

the grievances

so faithfully nursed

by the firebrands and demagogues

who piously claim

God as their own.

If only I could turn away,

wash my hands of it,

leave them to their fate.

But time after time

I’m asked to take a stand

proclaim where I belong:

choose my tribe

and justify the cause,

no matter how complicated

or compromised.

As if they've put a price on life

and some are worth more.

As if forgiveness

betrayed the hurt.

As if the middle ground

showed weakness

not strength.

As if it's either victory or defeat;

no muddling through

no grace.

When the real choice

is between the cost of war

and the risk of peace.

Between live and let live

and an-eye-for-an-eye

until no one can see.

Another unwinnable war in the Middle East because both sides are hostage to extremists: the most right wing government in Israel’s history, and the depraved terrorists who control Gaza through fear and force of arms. I don’t mean to imply any equivalence; just that the leadership of both is unrepresentative. And that the mentality of grievance, reprisal, and vendetta leads only to escalation: Israel's draconian measures (all-out war in Gaza; settler violence in the West Bank) simply breed more terrorists; Hamas' genocidal ideology leaves no choice but existential war.

Yet I feel the same compassion for and outrage over the suffering of both Palestinians and Israelis. While my family expects loyalty to my Jewish roots. So, how to choose a side when neither is in the right? Why is one obliged to choose? And why reduce it to a binary choice, to either/or?

Too bad simply throwing up your hands and saying a pox on both your houses feels like a head in the sands cop out. There's a silent majority that isn't being heard. How to give them voice without risking being ostracized, or branded an apologist?

Easily Othered - Dec 22 2023

 

Easily Othered

Dec 22 2023

Life is cheap

the further you get.

Like the law of inverse squares,

   —  light, weakening with distance  —

the suffering

diffuses outward

and loses its intensity.

Easy to avert your eyes.

Dehumanize the stranger

and see only difference.

Miss the singular voice

in the cacophony.

Become inured

to collateral damage

huddled masses

last rites,

dying children

genocide.

After all

it's always been thus.

And forces

more powerful than me

are in motion;

what could I possibly change?

Enough death

and the shock wears off.

You simply step over

the rotting corpses

mangled body parts,

let the dogs have at them.

And the masses

slogging down muddy roads

hauling what little they own

soon gets old;

easily othered

the status quo.

Forgetting

that the accident of birth

is all that's between

them and you

   —   the when and where

and to whom.

It's just luck

a throw of the dice,

there

but for the grace of God.

Because there is no why;

fortune, both good and mis

are undeserved.

But things get worse

the suffering gets closer.

Concern grows

borders close in.

Precious life;

precarious

and priceless.

Women's Work - Dec 21 2023

 

Women's Work

Dec 21 2023



The greeting cards

were store bought

and conventional;

a Christmas wreath

and a corny rhyme

in gold embossed lettering.

Inexpensive

and sentimental

but still sincere.

This was women's work.

My mother,

the convener

connector

family historian,

would sit at the kitchen table

in a pool of light

and compose a personal message

one by one.

Her elegant script

and the green ink she favoured

left no doubt

as to whom it was from.

While we were all in bed

she did her best

to keep in touch.

I thought it clever

how she used a sponge to wet the stamps.

Was impressed

at her prodigious address book,

bursting with college friends

former neighbours

valued acquaintances,

distant relatives

we've never even met.

A life history,

shoe-horned into the margins

of the overflowing pages,

even entered in palimpsest

to keep it alphabetical.

The book looked over-stuffed,

with the worn edges

of some loose pages

sticking out the sides,

elastics holding it shut.

But no one sends cards anymore.

Remembers by heart

all the dates and occasions

that landmark a life.

Or even writes

in the neat schoolgirl cursive

she learned in school.

The lost art

of keeping in touch.

No Hallmark greetings.

No boxes

of old cards

in the back of a closet,

kept just because.

And no address books either.

But still

the women in our lives

who keep the memories alive,

the sun

at the centre

of family and friends.

And the men

who take them for granted.

Who would fly off

like orphaned planets

if it wasn't for them.

Who haven't the sense to give thanks

until after they're gone.

Afraid of Colour - Dec 20 2023

Afraid of Colour

Dec 20 2023

She liked colour.

Hardly a surprise

since nothing about her

was wishy-washy, pastel

off-white;

no, she was all about

bold

incandescent

bright.

Didn't matter if the colours clashed

or she painted outside the lines.

Didn't matter

if the drips and splatters

were left to dry

where they fell.

And while fine

with satin, eggshell, flat

she preferred high gloss;

which, like her

catches the eye

and shows all its flaws.

Yes, a ramshackle house

but it suited her.

The imperfection.

The busy colours

that were just as restless.

The uneven floors

and doors that stick,

the chilly draft

wonky windows let in.

And since she mixed and matched

the half-used cans

the place looked as unique

as I remember her.

While as for me, I'm afraid of colour.

All my rooms

are the same flat beige.

The furniture matches

and the walls are straight,

the decor spare

and nothing's out of place.

So when she breezed in

like a blast of mountain air

wanting to splash paint everywhere

I demurred.

No wonder she rarely returned.

Or that, while she lived fast

it wasn’t for long.

The house, too, is gone.

So I'm thinking of painting a room

to honour her.

Cobalt blue and fire red

with royal purple trim.

A neon green door

that never gets closed;

so the colour pops

and her light shines,

inviting in

all who happen by.

Painting the Bridge - Dec 18 2023

 

Painting the Bridge

Dec 18 2023

They never finish painting the bridge.

The unforgiving weather

and sharp salt air

work away at it.

Rust,

consuming its steel

and sapping its strength;

an invisible fire

smouldering under the skin.

So when one end is done

they begin at the other

then circle back again.

The forces of decay

that will turn us all to dust.

Which even steel can't resist,

let alone

flesh and blood.

Always there, as I pass,

dark specks

high overhead

framed against the sky.

They are tightrope walkers,

toeing the line of its rails,

straddling the cables

of thickly braided wire.

Working men,

who balance on scaffolds

and dangle from ropes,

shimmy-up its massive piles.

A steady wage,

and just another day at work.

The bridge

sways in the wind

contracts in the cold.

If only I were so supple.

If only a coat of paint

could hold off old age

and make me new again.

But this, of course, is impossible;

the battle against decay

is a constant one

and always lost.

A new bridge

that's bigger and better

will replace the old,

a new generation

take my place.

Like the men

beavering away on the high steel,

beginnings and ends

all at once.

Put to Rest - Dec 17 2023

 

Put to Rest

Dec 17 2023

Sometimes, heads are covered in prayer.

While others doff their hats

bow respectfully.

The congregation, standing as one,

or the believer

prostrating himself

arms outstretched;

a humble supplicant

before whatever;

the holy Father,

sacred idol,

pantheon.

But however it's expressed

does anyone keep track

of the absent signs

unanswered prayers?

The inscrutable gods,

whose mysterious ways

are beyond understanding.

And anyway

must it be transactional?

Isn't the offering itself

comfort enough?

The unburdening

of sharing your sorrows, being heard;

the reassurance

of feeling held

by a power greater than yourself?

While we non-believers

do not stand as one

or bow in unison.

Have no prayers

we know by heart,

no ritual

to make a frightening world

seem less so.

Atheists

must cope alone

and contend with our sins.

If only comfort was enough.

If only received wisdom

and holy writ

could still the mind

and mollify the skeptic.

Still, I mouth the words,

stand

when the congregation rises,

even if a little behind.

They seem so sure

of the meaning of life

and what comes after,

so comforted

by the covenant

of hope and care.

I envy this certainty.

And also recognized their doubts.

Yes, doubts,

because I know faith is hard,

especially in the dark of night

in the wee hours

when you feel most alone.

But still

I find belief impossible.

It's not in me

to a be follower

devoted acolyte.

If only ritual

could satisfy.

If only tradition

answered.

If only comfort was enough

to still my mind

and give me heart.

If only I could surrender;

all this tortured questioning

put to rest.

Cash Only, No Returns - Dec 14 2023

 

Cash Only, No Returns

Dec 14 2023

The vacant lot

was surrounded on 4 sides

by Christmas lights

strung on sagging lines.

The old-fashioned kind,

with big filament bulbs

and lifeless colours.

The burnt-out ones

looking like missing teeth

in a strained smile;

the kind where the eyes

are dead giveaways.

The rest were dull with grime,

emitting

more heat than light.

Trees for sale

at the pop-up store

in the abandoned lot

the neighbours called an eyesore.

That every winter

seemed to materialize overnight;

a rough warming hut,

the same bleak mishmash

of multi-coloured lights.

Dirty snow

shovelled to the sides,

frozen

into hard irregular mounds.

Evergreens

wrapped tight enough to conceal

the broken branches

and bare spots.

Some already shedding needles

and turning to firewood.

A twitchy man

with a 5 o’clock shadow

and tobacco-stained teeth

is anxious to sell.

Cash only,

no returns.

He paces nervously.

Tugs his black woollen hat

down even tighter.

Steam rises

in the bone-chilling damp

as he tries to stay warm,

stomping his feet

and blowing on his hands.

Another man

is towing a small kid

too excited to stay still.

Who will choose the tree this year,

and was looking eagerly

for the biggest, of course.

Which won't fit

under the low ceiling

of the small house they rent.

Nevertheless, the man will buy it,

dragging it home

in the early winter darkness

through the sidewalk slush,

his impatient son

doing his best to help.

Couple feet off-the-top

and it'll be perfect

says the father to himself.

Turn the bare spot toward the wall, is all,

hang a bauble

on the broken branch.

And here's hoping

too many needles don’t drop

before the big day.

I can see how this might seem closer to a short story than a poem! Which is not the sort of thing the gate-keepers of academic poetry approve of. (They think it only qualifies if it hurts your head to read!)

I'm not sure what makes it a poem. The line breaks? The word choice? A certain distillation and compression? Perhaps that there's no fat, no unnecessary words. (Or is and are there?!!)

Or maybe just that I choose to call it a poem   . . . and that's good enough.

A Good Life - Dec 12 2023

 

A Good Life

Dec 12 2023

I didn't hear it fall.

Crashing

through the branches of its neighbours.

The flutter of wings

as nesting birds

exploded into the air.

And the hollow thud

as it hit hard

and bounced a couple of times,

before rocking to a heavy stop

and finally settling.

Followed by silence

as the chattering squirrels

stopped cold

and alarmed animals froze,

pricking up their ears

and narrowing their eyes.

It must have been at least a 100, that tree.

I should have known

it was rotting from the inside;

the stunted leaves, turning prematurely,

all the holes

from busy insects

boring into soft punky wood.

It was a stately tree,

generous with its shade

and higher than the rest.

One I thought would always be there;

as permanent as bedrock,

as determined as the river

that even in winter

never stops running.

How I'll miss it.

My entire life

spent with that tree,

taken for granted

until it was gone.

We counted the rings

on the shattered trunk

as best we could;

the narrow ones for hard years

that make the densest wood,

and the wide ones

when springs were wet and summers long.

Turns out, we were wrong.

The 100-year tree

was really 150.

A good life,

longer

than any man could hope for.

And now, dead

it will return to the soil,

saplings will grow

in the opening

and flourish in the light.

A useful end,

and a worthy one

for such a dearly loved tree.

I can only hope

to be as well remembered.

To leave behind

as fine a legacy.

Waiting Room - Dec 11 2023

 

Waiting Room

Dec 11 2023

The waiting room

had an antiseptic smell,

bruised yellow paint,

and black vinyl chairs

with heavy steel frames

that had seen better days,

and clearly

weren't made for comfort.

People slouched, slept, paced.

Old magazines

were thumbed and thumbed again.

A vending machine

dispensed stale sandwiches

and over-priced snacks.

Occasionally

a brisk doctor

or sympathetic nurse appeared,

commiserating

or delivering updates.

A prognosis, perhaps , for anxious loved ones;

maybe how many years,

sometimes how many months.

Just as walls absorb smoke

   —   cigarettes, thick with tar

a cigar's heady smell   —

the paint and plaster soaked up stress.

The space

seemed charged with it;

accumulating over the years

from tense bodies and scattered minds

confined

to its over-heated air

and mean furnishings.

I was there most of the night

waiting;

a room

intended for just that.

But an afterthought, it seemed to me.

As if bad things never happen.

As if loved ones are a bother,

better off at home

waiting by the phone.

Before the new

state-of-the-art hospital.

Before the old General was torn down,

turned to rubble

in a vacant field

under a dusting of snow.

Before the yellow paint

and porous plaster

were carted-off and land-filled,

bulldozed under tons

of ripe and rotting garbage.

Interred

unceremoniously

with no mourners looking on.

But before that

had their moment in the sun;

a brief chance

to bask in fresh cleansing air

and feel spring come alive.

Back and Forth - Dec 10 2023

 

Back and Forth

Dec 10 2023

I was surprised by the yellow-tinged fur.

Aren't these noble creatures white?

And the glazed look in its eyes

as it paced back and forth

in its ersatz enclosure.

A crowd watched.

Small children squealed,

tired parents sagged,

and the few teenaged boys

intent on cool

looked suitably bored.

The polar bear was born here.

Never knew

the ascetic beauty

and stunning vastness

of the far north.

Never swam in the sea

hunted for food

won a mate.

It was a warm spring day.

The coat had thinned

and I could see the black skin underneath.

I felt unworthy

gawking at this captive animal

there only for our pleasure.

Who continued to walk

back and forth

along the same well-worn path,

like a catatonic inmate

confined to the asylum.

Continued to hold

its thousand-mile stare,

the way you can look

and still not see.

Continued to think

polar bear thoughts

and feel who-knows-what;

the mind

of a sentient creature

I can only guess at.

Lots of articles in the weekend Globe about animal welfare.

This was particularly inspired by one about “conservation-washing” in the zoo industry and the moral case against captive animals.

I'm really pleased how this first draft turned out. Again, the conversational style that works best for me.