Charlotte Cohen, Honey Gluckman, Rodney Mazinter
On certain nights
the hills of Jerusalem
stop singing.
The evening cups the ears
of all who sleep –and God sits
on the hills
surrounded
by the whisper
of small wings.
On that night
the secret notes
in the Western Wall
turn to doves.
All the notes
except mine.
Instead of wishing
I wrote my fears….
Honey Gluckman
Too Much, Too Fast
(Information Overload Syndrome)
Smart-phones, laptops, Whats-App, T.V.
Internet, E-mails, downloading the P.C.
Folders, letters, deadlines, data
electronic communications
Memos, messages, magazines, meetings,
lectures, notifications
Pamphlets, schedules, booklets, brochures
rules and regulations
Data, questionnaires, newspapers, lists,
forms and configurations
So much to assimilate and digest
and assemble and see
A bombardment on the strings
of one’s sanity –
Telling us what we should do
and where we should buy
and how we should think
and asking us why
and where we should stay
and when we should go
and how to improve
and what we should know …
With my cheek pressed softly against his chest
I listened to the tales that they knew best
No prescriptive persuasions
No information still to file
The words were simple
The time spent worthwhile
My mind needs a rest
to perform at its best
It’s too much
It’s a strain
It taxes my brain
Charlotte Cohen
Recollections of Jerusalem
Garbed flesh firm pressed against the seat,
Beyond the wind, great engine’s song.
Ranked poles flash swiftly in retreat;
The hov’ring moon slow, sweeps along.
Tel Aviv magnet-like draws me far away
from Temple Mount.
Yet, I’m content, for there I saw, and there
I drank at beauty’s fount.
The humming tyres revive the beat on
which that week my soul had dined,
Recalling early, bustling feet — in primal
caverns of my mind,
Conjured a temple’s fine wrought column
Still Overseeing Jerusalem.
Resting firm in Jewish pride, wide,
whitewashed walls reflecting hues
Of colours splashed by spot and flood –
A riot of reds twixt boldfaced blues.
A paean to life – music, song – passion stirs
the roiling blood;
Amidst the heady herbal scent, Semitic
smells perfume the soul.
Strong sounds find solace in the dust stirred
in that sublunary bowl.
A heav’nly place ‘neath northern skies, built
on dry, Judaic soil,
Jews praying in wondrous guise that ancient
customs disembroil.
What Godlike spell was put in train
To forge this endless Jewish chain?
Rodney Mazinter
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