Little Poem For Thursday

Damn. To successfully (i.e. accomplish) my 30 poems in 30 days, I will need to return to the old computer which is slow and more than slow. It’s sick. I need a Geek Squad. Note to self: head to Staples.

And to any new readers who are finding me: yes, I am a consulting astrologer and tarot reader but I’m also in the midst of a little… transition and decided that throughout the month of February I would publish (my old and possible some new) poems on my blog, in addition to the usual 🙂 I was a poet once upon a time and a playwright in more recent years and thought I was totally done with that world but… now I’m not so sure 🙂

I do not post these poems out of pride or… because I think they are good. Often the opposite is true. In my youth, I was able to write a beginning or an ending but less often a full realized poem.

Pluto is now on the cusp of my 5th House (creativity, birth) and Pluto brings intensity, obsession, and deep change where he transits. Sometimes we must publicize the past before we bury and more forward.

Thursday’s Little Poem reflects a period of time when I thought the Jewish Orthodox life was for me. Never found a suitable title for this poem. Let’s call it Untitled. (This poem is 6 years old or so.)



The potatoes in the box are starting to rot.

Every Thursday it shows up,

delivered in secret, after dark, to the poor.

I am one of them.


One week it’s cabbage and a tray of raw chicken.

Another night, tubs of hummos

have greased the cellophane bags of yellow apples in oil.

There are always onions, maybe day-old rye.

Food for the week.


No one is poor on Shabbat,

not here, not in Brooklyn,

where holy men bless the city

from inside their rooms,

beards gazing downwards.




I could give you the quiet you need is what I think to myself

as your mother makes a straight line in the air with her hand,

showing me what you need in a wife: a woman of balance.

Not moody.


This is the first time I’ve met her, although I’ve known you for years.

Reapplying lipstick after lunch, long body like a chorus girl,

a Jewish Annette Bening at 67.

No wonder you are the way you are.


Days ago I sent you love letters by email.

You wrote me, “No. You don’t know me well enough to love me.”




What time is Shabbat? What time will it end?

Where are you eating? How many guests?

Questions like these all morning, Friday morning,

over the buying of lukshun kugel and herring.

How much will it cost me? What price Gan Eden?

Yartzeit candles are bought for the dead.


Mostly I go upstairs to my landlady for the evening meal.

Her husband, a shochet, has been slaughtering chickens

for 25 years. I stare when he breaks the bread.

His eyes are blue and so light.