The Literary Review
The Stones in My Heart
after reading two poems by Caleb Nolan
There is no simple way
to honor my dead. I carry
each as a stone. Over
the years their numbers
have grown. They weigh
me down, heavy, heavy.
Yet some days I still
move with a lightness
that comes from them,
from what they seeded
in me that has grown
into what I am, lifts me
though my days.
They are my wings.
- Karen Neuberg
Road
The nearest road
within earshot of my windows
carried (long ago) a lull
between cars and I could imagine the whoosh-whoosh
as waves and I envisioned the waves
were from a calm & constant sea
lit by moon, gulls sleeping on the sand.
Now is now is later, is after
that time gone (it has gone
like those fast legs of mine
that once tapped their way across the linoleum
on the kitchen floor of my parents’
home (door ajar,
I can see it, but it’s gone) (nor is there
any door)) instead, now, the road
(a highway, really) carries endless cars &trucks
(no longer any lull between)
24-hours a day so that when I
close my eyes at night, I picture
the river the the highway runs by,
moon casting on the water a road of silent light
shimmering and bright.
- Karen Neuberg
Solastalgia
floods the floors
of my chambers
with tears of sorrow
different in molecular design
than tears of hope. Many
scenarios lead
to a new beginning
or to an ending.
I don’t know
to which it is we’re headed
but I know too much
is already lost.
- Karen Neuberg
How the topic of death worked itself
into our (festive) gathering
—inspired by Bob Seger’s In Your Time
Redux, this gathering, this group. Of us.
Once intent on, dependent on our youth
and into middle. Now we compare
with our eyes still able to see
who we are is who we were
except for how we’re no longer, quite.
It’s a shame and it’s not. Laughter fills
our glasses even if some of us no longer
imbibe. Plenty of wine & seltzer to go around
along with the usual hummus and pita,
crackers and cheese. Apple cake for dessert
though some of us decline.
Between it all, the paragraphs of talk
and cheer, is the mention of the slide toward
the great unbroken void.. We see it
in each other’s eyes. Take photos
to hold what may no longer be
a next time in our time.
- Karen Neuberg
Color Field
after Mark Rothko, No. 14, 1951, c. 1949-1951, oil on canvas,
Space between & around
ever-so slight, there if I stare
as though slightest
movement apart is occurring
in an almost immeasurable departure
one edge from the other
and the more I look, concentrate
at staying with the looking at
the brighter it becomes
until I can place in it
glory and grace
and still have room for love.
Father
I stand barefoot
on your shoulders, your hands
raised to meet mine
to steady me so I can be
tall enough to see
the nest of baby birds
just hatched.