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JGuberman Aug 2016
Before I could be taken to Mount Moriah
before a ram could be found to replace me
before I was a redeemed first born
the ram was left unsacrificed
the redeemed was lost
and the first born
became the last.

And all the martyrs who were lost before my birth,
are still lost despite it.
I have become a singularity
a new word in an old Darwinian lexicon
an irregular verb
without plural
or future tense
unique in every respect and definition
save all who would follow after
and not be of me
or ever could.
JGuberman Aug 2016
The young seeds unsown
buried beneath
long forgotten granite reasons
a waste of stone
and otherwise arable soil
which now lies fallow and barren
like the ancient womb
from which they were given way
unsafely into the world
of parks and laughter
of tears and monumental alibis
for another's selfish desire
to raise a flag upon a distant hill
and bury beneath it
like supporting struts
the very bones of our future.
after Academy Hill, Stratford
JGuberman Aug 2016
Tell me mother
as you kiss your baby
that no one died today,
that no one was a martyr
or a hero,
and that all who now sleep will awake,
and that the sirens that now sound
will be the only death recorded,
and that the drivers without cars,
and the cars without drivers,
will each find a partner
for as long as they need,
like the Palm Doves in the park.

Tell me mother,
that as long as you
love your baby
all mothers will love theirs
and no mother will again mourn
the foreheads without a kiss
and the kiss that has no forehead
to receive it.
written on a bus in Herzliya, Israel 22 April 1990 (Holocaust Memorial Day).  On this day air raid sirens ring out across Israel at which point all traffic comes to a halt for a couple minutes. Drivers exit and stand next to their cars and pedestrians stop in their tracks and stand at attention while the sirens wail.

It should be noted that this poem had originally been written as a piece for Holocaust Memorial Day, though as the 20th Century bled into the 21st, it is clear that mothers and children all over our world are suffering untold miseries be they refugees escaping tyranny or victims of civil strife or war. This therefore is dedicated to all mothers and children.
JGuberman Aug 2016
Between the songs of the Nighthawk
and the Mourning Dove
the sound of apples beneath us
and sirens rushing  between
life and death,
we lay together in the darkness
like two blind people reading love poetry.
JGuberman Aug 2016
I expect the Messiah
and though he is tarrying,
I still believe----
But when I am expected,
I am never late,
and thus there are those
who have faith in me.
JGuberman Aug 2016
The flower of womanhood.

You are like no flower,
you are a snake.

A cobra
with your head *****,

ready to strike.
And stricken was I.

The apple of my eye.

Out of reach,
bittersweet

Like the honey-apple
I've never tasted.

But when in reach
you are still no joy,

for your taste is forbidden,
and cast from the Garden

was I.
JGuberman Aug 2016
She said a prayer
to which I was not an answer
and yet I burned
until I burned myself out
like a candle on Shabbat.

And the words of her prayer ceased
and her lips were still
like the surface of the salt sea,
and yet I still burn
like a wound exposed below
the surface.

And the words of her prayer
went unanswered
like the cries of my martyred dead
and yet I still burn
like the silence of a candle remembering them.
En Gedi, Israel 1987
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