Moran Kornberg
Knitting
The dusty brown envelope
unraveled my mother's talent.
The thread of her childhood hobby
vowed to shed light
on unspoken past.
Days of lying on the grass,
motioned prayer
for silence,
enclose the seed of truth.
Still to come.
Mine to Share
My mother's remark
slices my mood
like the onion
shedding its aroma
straight into my eyes.
I cannot control
my tears, cannot stop
cutting the onion,
cannot stop
loving my mother.
Sonya Soloviov
I sight
Peacefully,
on the ground,
a broken doll.
Between two lanes in
the morning jam.
His shoe thrown aside…
d e t a c h e d from it’s substance
torn from the ankle at the
moment of impact.
His face…
once filled with red blood,
now d
y
i
n
g him brown.
And the rest of him…
scattered.
The driver’s r o a m i n g eyes,
the loneliness of the body,
one glance and your head turns away
his image
fixed
in your mind.
Punks and Pretty Girls
The sun above and a river
of black. Mohawks and ponytails,
army boots, special laces,
polished pumps, tattoos,
close shaven beards,
her daughter’s torn clothes.
All follow the Rabbi in the front
to the sunniest spot.
He doesn’t understand
their connection.
A collection of strays
circles around her.
Their weeping sounds don’t move her…
Her daughter stands above
she – can’t believe it’s real.
Earth closes on her mother
nothing left,
but cry.
Eyal Soffer
A Little Unpale Thing
“It ain’t no one’s fault,”
He heard it echoing inside,
“Things just . . . y’know.”
He kinda wanted to honestly
believe it but
Deep down,
A little unpale thing
Kept bugin’m. Sort of teasing
In a way.
“There is fault in what I did.”
Another message bounced
Between his neurons,
“She didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have
Raised . . .”
And then he pounded his head against the ceiling,
Thinking it would amend her torn
Soul and bruised fate.
The Lonely Search
Inspired by Hopkins’ “On The Portrait Of Two Beautiful Young People”
She was striding on the sand,
Swaying her hand, when she saw
The raw, elevating power,
Kicking havoc through air
Tearing the waves, splashing,
Splitting, and then stand.
Nature was endowed with those
Grinding forces, gushing,
Salt water rising in mid-air,
Gleaming, air and water,
Pale and darker.
Where has he gone?
Her mind was boggled,
And still,
She was striding, thoughts
Fixed on county Kildare,
That brother of her,
Limping.
Lonely did she tread,
Searching his peak, courage bare
Of presence.
He crawled through the small hole,
And peered inside,
“Who dares
Intrude my serene solitude?”
He heard,
Echoing in the vast darkness.
“Are you a knight, a frog or
A little girl, astray, looking
For a rabbit?”
“I am just an honest leaf,
In search,” waywardly.
“Darkness encompasses all searchers.”
The answer shivered the walls.
“Except those who search not, but seek
Waywardly, as a sudden glimpse.”
“But the light, and the wind inside,
Are all speaking, guiding me,” he said.
“Why then, you are not at fault, but
On the path, seeking.”
“Yes, but too many voices,
Calling, pleading, singing, luring.”
“Your seeking is at its best”
And the walls did not quiver.
Avital Tsype
Upon reading “Howl”
Last night I read the knocking in my breast
Tappings of a language I never learned but
Translated to my own delirious system
I heard the howl.
I heard it writhing its way through millions
Of miles and miles of years it was
Distant and animal and I didn’t understand
And it didn’t fit into my schedule. I haven’t
Slept, maybe I slept through my sleep. This
Isn’t about me, it’s too important and embedded
In the collective consciousness that creeps and steals.
You never
Thought that your howl would become
A chorus line, another handled Hallelujah. Maybe you
Did, but it’s not in this translation. I’ve
Changed a few lines and words, turned a few
Screws where it creaked foreign. I hope you don’t
Mind, it sounds better now, my howl is a whimper
I can join too.
Dead at Seventeen
Dead at seventeen
All in between
The paper and paste
The smell and the taste.
A frozen drop
Of carbon slop
Caught in the shrill
Stroke of a kill.
The National Treasure
I am a national treasure.
A guardian of decency, propriety,
Genius of invention and artistry,
Face of youthful sobriety.
I holster the sails of the mother ship
As it sails on the edge of a century
White pelicans circle my maidenhead
Haloed by chestnut
Curls
Straining thoughtlessly
For the earth.
When the brass sound vibrates through
The gash wound that gapes hungry on the sidewalk
Glistening raw under sharp stiletto pumps,
And shakes off the dirty fairy dust
From the powdered wig faces of new,
I am the national treasure
Scattered recklessly on foreign shore.
I twinkle like salt in the sand.