Breaking the Mold


I was sick in bed yesterday - a nasty cold.  Mike June, husband extraordinaire brought me hot green tea, cookies, bananas, elderberry syrup & a stack of books, including "Electric Light" by the poet Seamus Heaney.  

I have no ambitions to be a poet myself - can't even imagine the focus it takes to craft words so they sit perfectly on a page.  But in writing my piece "Chicken Soup" after my grandparents' Jewish cemetery was vandalized, and then performing it over the last few months, I feel more tuned into the power strictly of speaking words without melody.

I felt inspired yesterday to write this, maybe soon to be heard at a show of mine.

Breaking the Mold


He teases me

How bad I'd be

At traditional wife-life

He doesn't know

That freedom still feels

Like I'm getting away with something

And forward focus 

Takes fire

Double meaning 

A wire between tall buildings

Sometimes my pinky is all that's holding

Sometimes the vision of young women dancing


But if I fell

Would I find

The ground was soft the entire time? 

The buildings weren't mine

And that was fine? 


I will just be me

When this day turns to night

When the shades go dark

I'll just be light

And sail through the sky, a child's kite


So when he chides me

How I'd never fit in the days of old

Because of my need to break the mold

I hold him close

Nuzzle his neck

Stretch my lips sideways for a peck

And whisper

"You're right."