Thursday, June 17, 2021

Monday, May 3, 2021

The 'Ghosts' at Shulem's Table

 



Did you ever see the trail of a (jet) plane left in the sky? Or ripples of water flowing out from one concentric 'plunk' of something 'gone' in the middle? That is how life is. People who have passed leave these trails behind. The memories we hold, the recollection of the tendencies we recall (that our deceased loved ones had) and the profound and lasting influences these people had on our lives are at play in our current lives. Our Grandmother's hand on our shoulder. The spot where our Grandfather sat on the couch. Memories of sewing around a dinner table at our Grandmother's house with her nearby. Our memories---the delightful thing about them is we can conjure them up at virtually any time in our own mind. And they might still influence our behavior and certainly our emotions today. Our loved ones or even people we simply met who left an albeit brief but indelible mark influence us from beyond the grave. They are, in a sense, ghosts at our table. They remind us of where we came from and who we are. This is a comfort to those left living.

[My commentary on the 'Ghosts at Shulem's Table;' final scene from "Shtisel" (Netflix, 2018.)]




Thursday, April 8, 2021

For the Likes of Me!

 


He broke his stride for me

He threw me a rope

I

threw a rock

at his head

 

He was generous

It was his nature

 

I pushed (ahead)

I fought

 

I unbraided

the hair,

the hair

that was arranged hair by hair for me

 

I tore

at the clothes

so precisely sewn-

the fabric of life

I tore out

its eyes

I gouged them my doll

Pretty doll

my eyes

me


I fought

I screamed

I pushed

I ran, I ran,

and then I ran far away

and then I

hopped left

when he went right

 

I was taken aback

when he

leaned in

(Just) why

would He do it?

 

(For the likes

of me.)

He stayed. 

 

(My Biggest) Fault

 

Even so

My left hand rushes to finish

What my right hand has not completed

And my knees hold

What my hands cannot

Impatience.




©K Annie Powell




Mine

 

Thinking back

…I behold once more

the day

the hour

the time

My beloved’s twisted hands held me

close

as I sat perched

upon the long thick gnarled tree

Its limb a bench

a home

a niche of quiet

solitude

A place of rest

Leg’s dangling-

10 or so

 

It was any hour

It was

my hour

 

50 years later

I go there in my mind

to stop

and to ponder

what lies ahead

I examine dreams that are

now behind

me on the limb

I hold fast to

the quiet

I find

alone

and it is mine

 

 

                                                                                                   Happy Birthday Dad; April 8, 2021 



©K Annie Powell


 

 

On time arrival

  'Becoming' isn't a destination---it's a process.