Here we are again

What My Ears See (1980)

Wendy W. Blumberg

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the telephone rings

I answer     hello?

Small child says hello back

In a patient mother voice

I ask

 

Who are you calling?

Who do you want?

 

Child’s garble forces me to attention

More questions

 

What is your name?

How old are you?

 

Child says she is Yvonne

She is four years old

Behind her voice

I hear raucous noise

From a television

It makes me think

Of a Jackson Pollock painting

A wild canvas of colors

With this child

In the middle of it

 

Where are you Yvonne?

 

I push my voice into the wires

Shove it against the TV racket

The tangle of colors

Into her ears

 

What city do you live in?

What street     what house?

 

I’m at …

 

Her words disappear into the shrillness

Of the TV

Swallowed up     unknown     unheard

Then clear as a piece of Lalique glass

She says

 

Are you coming to me?

 

A feeling of sadness begins

As I answer her

 

I don’t know where you are

Yvonne

Where are you?

Who is with you?

 

The chaos behind her becomes louder

The colors wilder     more violent

I raise my voice asking her

Again

 

Yvonne     who is with you?

 

She pushes her voice into the telephone

Away from the clamor

Tells me

 

No one

 

Hangs up

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Why

Wendy W. Blumberg

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is tragedy

In this world

Devastation upon devastation

I cannot begin to describe it

I will not try

Enough to tell

My heart’s sadness

My mind’s despair

My feelings of being

On obsolete sidelines

Watching in the modern age

Of television

Exhausting struggles

Of those in its midst

The ravages of this

Pandemic

Its havoc     destruction

The heartbreak

 

A question     this question

Sticks like glue

To every part of my being

There are far far too

Many

I would ask of it

Why     Why     no vaccine

Why

It is like a serving

Of a specially loved

Food

Any kind

They partake of

But they turn away

Tho their stomach growls

From hunger pangs

 

In the year

1351

Half the population

In the known world

Died from Bubonic Plague

Called the Black Death

No vaccine     no vaccine

To save them

Some who could

Escaped to the

Countryside

In cities     small towns

Carts were pulled

Up and down

The crowded filth laden

Cobblestone streets     lanes

Alleyways

The call     Bring out your dead

Bring out your dead

Echoes into this modern

Time

There is a difference

A huge difference

It does not have to be

This way

It doesn’t have to

Be

 

There is a gift     a blessed

Solution

In this     the twenty-first

Century

I am grateful for it

This miracle     this one word

Vaccine

photo credit

Still …

Wendy W. Blumberg

“It was the best of times

It was the worst of times”

Words Charles Dickens wrote

To begin

“A Tale of Two Cities”

It is the worst of times

In the multitude of cities

That fill the map of the

United States of America

A pandemic clogs the

Arteries

Of our country’s life

Even the word     pandemic

Brings feelings of panic

Disbelief

An avalanche

Sweeping swiftly

In and through

Every corner of our

Existence

To leave some of us

Still standing

Lives of too many

Others

Snuffed out

 

Oh my children

Never would I have

Imagined

Your world turned so

Completely

Against itself

It is difficult

So difficult

To accept the reality

Of this turmoil

 

Still—in its midst

I hear the mourning dove

Calling     calling

Still—I watch the phoebe bird

Erratically flit here     there

Catching bugs on the

Wing

The sun rises after every

Dawn

Casts a muted glow

Against my closed window

Shutters

And every late afternoon

Still—I am aware

Of a slow darkening

Sky

The Natural World

Follows its own path

 

Oh my children

Listen only to those

Who speak Truth

Follow the Light

Of your own inner

Guidance

And know with certainty

You will remain safe

And

Never led astray

 

Riot (1968)

Wendy W. Blumberg

 

 

 

We’ll weep, Black Sister, we’ll weep together

For her whose home is dust.

Charcoaled ashes from riot weather,

A bitter wind of mistrust.

Hatred lies smoldering, pungent, and deep,

Shifting like sand.

Will she have a memory to keep

In this abounding land?

Must we, like Antigone, daughter of despair,

Live without sweet reconciliation

And beyond deeds of repair?

They’ve forgotten, those men of the law’s creation,

Whom the law should heed.

They’re not for you, Sister, so we must weep.

*from Poets are the Bravest, written 1968