AND THE HEAVENS WEPT

On the wind,

no Children’s voices 

rang, nor sang, 

that Funeral Day

as the deluge whipped

Relentless 

And The Heavens wept,

Repentance

Perhaps to cleanse.

Perhaps to rage.

“Where are the children’s voices?”

the Heavens seemed to grieve.

We need their high pitched

chortle,

we need, we need, we need

We need those children

with us.

We grieve so we may live.

We need solace

in our hearts,

we need laughter on the wind.

On Dec. 14, 2012, a lone gunman shot

and killed 20 children and 6 adults at

Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown.

Torrential rains marked the back to back

funerals of two 6-year-old girls.

A MEMORY OF SANDY HOOK

Cockle shells,

Urn of dark blue hughes,

streaks of sky blue as rain

‘gainst the night sky.

Letters of gold script

carrying your name:

Gracie.

I was there 

when your parents

said “good bye,”

when mourners

gathered by the hundreds,

hearts aching

at your tragic loss.

I wear the purple

wrist band

that bears your name:

Gracie.

You are with me as I

“Practice Aloha,”

as the band requests.

SHE SLEW NOT GOLIATH

The Star of David

sparkled in the snow globe,

Reminding her of the day

she almost bought grape jelly.

Spread on thick,

his accounts of life

gave richness to the day,

Like the jelly,

she almost bought for him

to spread on thick

on peanut butter

sandwiches --

Both would have given

sustenance

to a relationship

still forming.

Hesitant,

she left the globe

on the shelf,

the possibilities

still ajar.

A RIVER CROSSING

Not the Styx,

No,

nor the Xanthos,

No steamboats here,

no sacred burials.

Just a gentle flowing

tributary --

the moon reflecting

as a footpath on its waters

lovers have been known

to cross.

ALICE MADONNA

She is pink

And the baby in her arms

shares the pinkness

of her aura.

She is a mother

first and foremost.

A Madonna of a survivor

Her home,

her friend’s life lost,

Her husband rising 

from the ashes --

Propane had proven
fatal.

Oxygen, by all accounts,
her Elixir

as it passed from hers 

unto her child’s breath.

Her daughter poised
at her breast,
she celebrates renewed hope.

Her husband by her side,

her sons waiting at home --

Her life, at once, complete

and whole again.

A NOD TO INDIA

I dress in Green
and rub kohl ashes
down my face.

I rend the Dark Green
garment,
Beating my breasts
and crying into the wind.

I never saw the face
of my daughter,
Never cradled the head
of my son.

Red was never my color.
I find no solace in White.

In India, colors of a woman’s

sari indicate her stage in life.

Green signals fertility and pregnancy.

Red is worn on her wedding day.

White is a sign of mourning.

TRAVELERS WITH A BIKE

It could have been any of us,

that gentle man who pushed a bike
laden with his belongings,
that angry woman -- toothless, coatless,
who walked in sandals on a winters day.

But few of us have the courage

to face the streets alone.

Frigid nights,

soup kitchen meals,

people's eyes averted

from studying your face.

What ache drove them to the streets?

What events left them so fragile,

so broken

that societal norms were beyond reach?

Did he once sit alone

in silence
in a rented room,

Come face to face with the reality 

that he could no longer 
hold home and hearth together?

Did her money run out?

And with it, the capability of making more?

Did she reach out for help

only to find no help there?

Did he not even reach at all,

too broken to make the effort.

We will never know,

those of us who walked past them

as they sat on vacant storefront steps,

Giving but a nod of acknowledgement

to their presence, their lives, their souls.

 *Written in memory of Paul Rake, who

pushed his bike along the streets of 

New Milford, who died on Oct. 12, 2012.