adminWhen the rain stops
The western sky is a Carolina blue blotter
water-stained in cobalt, charcoal and
egg shell, pierced with shafts of
ochre and chrome awaiting
gold pots at the end of
a rainbow.
The soft rolling thighs of loess desert
steppes show the jade stubble of a
tired laborer’s two-day old beard,
young pomegranate trees bare
but for misshapen patches
on scrawny branches.
Gone are the fierce gusts that thrash plants
on windowsills and create earthy collages
in quiet corners from leaves till now
still hanging on for dear life.
A winter day I bless for
its life-ensuring wet
yet curse for the chill in my bones.
Dust in My Eyes
Sochi slopes are Martian with fresh snowfall turned salmon from Saharan sand hijacked en route across the continent. In Beersheva other patterns prevail: anemic angel hair and spider web clouds spread across a sky of Delft porcelain paled by a blowtorch sun blurred by a halo of dust. Early springtime heat peaks in late afternoon at the park. Under a circus-sized tent polka-dotted by portholes for air, I sprawl on a bench drifting off like a beached walrus while grandchildren test their limits on playground equipment, an insistent east wind fanning their flushed cheeks. Defying time and space, I find myself elsewhere. My own childhood in a world afar, enveloped in endless green security taken for granted. One of those rare moments of clarity. The blazing eye of a dragon signs off with barely a hesitation before plunging behind soft loess mounds. Red sky at night. A sign of better weather tomorrow?
___________
Born in Chicago, Bob finished graduate work at the University of Chicago before leaving for Israel where he married and settled in Jerusalem, relocating to a kibbutz sometime later. He has three children and nine grandchildren. After spending a lifetime teaching English to Israeli high school and university students, he retired and is now writing for himself. His poems have appeared in anthologies and journals since 2017.