The journey or the destination

He said, any road will get you there,

if you only walk long enough,

and his grin that hanged in the air,

weightless, lit his eyes.

It doesn't matter which way you go,

if you don’t care much.

his smile fastened back to his face,

went with the rest of his body,

when he was gone.

The lure of the open road,

unrolled to where the earth meet the sky.

Unknown encounters waiting to happen,

adventures that flow in my veins.

My eyes teary with delight, almost forgotten,

of a cold winter night, and a bedtime story.

 But at the fork in the road I halt,

like Alice, I hesitate, I ponder,

I search for his smile, now gone.

When he said pick any road, was it

right, maybe left?

Do I much care where I go?

This much I know,

the journey is getting harder and harder to cling on to,

and when the sun descends, and the day is gone,

the lights in the nearby house, the warmth of the fire,

 in the wood-stove,

is what I long for.

Once I had a home in the desert

Once I had a home in the desert,

Overlooking echoing hollow canyons,

Under vast merciless blazing skies

That left no shadows to hide in.

Once when I called the desert home,

I trailed the sketched markings of the land

On the tops of steep canyons falls,

I threw my name into the winds.

Alongside the windows of my desert home

The swirling sands danced every spring,

Trickling into my living room, they settled,

In small pools of golden nuggets on the floors.

In the front of my house I planted a garden every fall,

Tiny specks of green I tended to, infusing life,

But the desert loomed, surrounding me day and night

The howling winds rattling the walls in the dark.

An oasis, a shelter from the elements,

Once I tried to build a home in the desert,

Google earth

I press the button

The Blue Planet fills up the screen,

I inhale, stiff with expectation,

maneuver the curser with care. Where

latitude 37N crisscross longitude 122W

I zoom in.

Barren landscape.

few houses, camouflaged,

claiming existence on a plateau,

hanging onto the edge of a steep cliff.

Over an ocean of rolling hills, and deep canyons.

Any shudder will toss them right into oblivion.

My home, is it still there,

facing the long narrow street,

backing against the deep ravine.

Here I am,

standing next to the large windows,

in the mornings,

watching the flaming hot sphere,

lightning up the browns, into

million shades of orange.

Here I am,

controlling the world,

with a blink of an eye, I am

back to my desk.

Blue and white,

 striped icon, blinking...

Giants

And I am ready, I know,
this time I will see them.
My face pressed against the window,
my eyes following the foaming brook,
running from side to side.
I am riding an angry snake,
twisting from side to side,
hissing and spitting smoke.
Now the trumpet boast,
against the mountains,
breaking into sharp slivers.
I repeat the words like a mantra,
over and over in my head,
The Valley of the Giants.
The valley of giants.
The blaring sound of the horn,
echoing back, giants…giants…gia
the words explode in my head.
Sharp turn thrusts me back into my seat,
We are out,
 Crossing the open fields
The ocean sparkles on the horizon.

For Passover

Dunked in warm milk, or smothered with butter, a treat

when covered with cheese made at home, by my aunt.

An ivory mound, soft to the touch, that once was milk,

now lined with protruding dots, thick slices, on a matzo

in our yearly visit to the farm of my aunt and uncle,

once a year when spring burst into flowers, on Passover.

Never since did I get to experience Passover,

as a concoction of  heavy sweet cream, my special treat,

mixed with aroma of cow manure, drifting off the clothes of my uncle.

In the kitchen, the sizzle of the boiling pot stirred carefully by my aunt,

while my cousin and I crumbled the day old matzo,

for our chicks chirping in the sawdust, we softened the pieces in milk.

Fresh cut green grass, sawdust, cow manure and boiling milk,

whenever I catch a whiff, I know it is the smell of Passover.

Ivory pale cheese, on sprinkled- with- brown- specks- matzo,

we loved to nibble slowly along the dotted lines, a rare treat,

as spending the first days of spring with my favorite aunt,

or from the top of a mountain of cut grass, looking down at my uncle.

There was a bakery, on the ground floor of the house of my other uncle,

who all through the year was kneading flour with milk,

but once a year, when on the second floor, my aunt,

was busy staging her holiday dishes, for Passover.

Chicken soup, meat and potatoes, and her specialty, seven layer cake, an Hungarian treat,

she was the only one who could make it from matzo.

Biting into a square piece of cardboard- like matzo,

I could smell the bread coming from the bakery of my uncle.

Matzo sprinkled with bread scent, what a treat,

as competing with my cousins, who will dip it faster in the milk,

in our visits to their house, in the red sands by the sea, in Passover,

trying to hide matzo crumbs, and sand from my aunt.

Cleaning the house for the holiday it was my aunt’s

hard earned job, doom to failure by broken matzo.

The ancient tale repeated itself every year in Passover,

just like the bread crumbs forever trailing my uncle.

We knew that if we would behave and finish our milk,

he would take us in his sail boat, a thrilling treat.

Cheese made by my aunt with the fresh milk brought in by my uncle,

chewing along the lines, brittle matzo, then dunked in warm milk,

Memories of Passover, I savor them, and long for them, delicious treat.

Halloween Sonnet

Creak, screech, squeak,

whispering sounds at night,

soft tapping footsteps after dark,

faraway laughter makes me halt in fright,

perhaps it is only a silly prank.

Floorboards sighing, humming softly,

a hand on my shoulder, light as a breeze

just a whiff of cold air, wet and musty,

makes the blood in my veins freeze.

The railing cold and slippery under my hand,

the stairs narrow and crooked and damp,

my legs move slowly heavy as lead,

if I’ll hear another noise I am ready to jump.

No one but me and them, voices at the dead of night,

footsteps in the dark, don’t let me go, hold me tight.