"chuppah" poems
The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.
When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.
A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.
Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.
Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.
The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
My Leah was lovely
in her pearl bedecked dress.
as she circled the chuppah
seven times , not one less.
In the presence of friends
I gave Leah my ring.
That how we were wed,
it's the nature of things.
Our party was loud
and in truth seemed a blur.
My bride filled my vision,
such was my love of her.
At some point, the Steward,
our wine sommelier ,
grew concerned at the drinking-
Running out was a fear.
As we both have large families,
and they like to drink wine.
your supply may run dry
at inopportune times.
Cousin Jesus was there,
with Mary, his Mother,
a studious soul
and devout like few others.
When they heard our plight;
learned the shame we would face.
That's when cousin Jesus
got up from his place.
I don't know what transpired,
I'll just say what I heard-
How he made wine from water
by the strength of his word.
A superior vintage
My palate proclaimed!
The guests were all pleased
and the party was saved.
Even our wine Sommelier
was impressed
He wondered why we
saved the best wine for last.
These three years that followed
filled with sadness, not mirth.
Jesus died on a cross,
Leah died giving birth.
I sit here alone,
as the last of my line.
Now sleep only comes
with the last of the wine.
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 9:37 AM UTC
I am the tiny wine glass
underneath a crisp white cloth
crushed under the wide, leathered
foot of groom under chuppah in a tall
synagogue in colored leaf autumn
in a wedding I'll never have
on a street I'll never see.
I am the dinner plate
being thrown from the edge
of a blue, chipped paint dumpster
on the side of a sparkling parking lot
slick after persistent winter drizzle
that spits angrily from the sky
in a stack of other kitchen
items to be smashed
against pavement.
I am wrist bones of
the minuscule, important variety
in the moment a twig is caught in spokes
and thrown from the bicycle, you make impact
with the brick wall adjacent to the alley
and hear some small cracks
and are unable to lift your
fingers or right hand,
or twist to pull
yourself up.
I am the double-paned
window of a basement apartment
in the summer when hoodlums and homeless
kick glass for fun and seek to scare
innocent movie-watchers as
fireworks pierce and light
the third of July sky.
I am a sad little girl
with sad little eyes that look
out to the future and see something
moving in the distance, a pair of two young
people holding hands, walking on an
Oregon beach in foggy mist,
that blink and realize that
mirages are cruel, and
have no remorse.
I don't remember the strength I earned
though I hear in time, it's relearned.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 1:49 PM UTC