Umbrella e sampler

UNDER THE YELLOW UMBRELLA POETRY BY M. G. COHEN

©2015 by M. G. Cohen Cover Photo Credit: M. G. Cohen All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of written reviews.

ISBN 978-1-929878-69-7 First edition

PO Box 5301 San Pedro, CA 90733 www.lummoxpress.com Printed in the United States of America

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Special thanks to Masha Miriam bat Balchu v’ Boaz; my editor and dear friend.

It was my fortune to meet as teens and re-introduced through chance, 50 years later.

“It was just yesterday.”

In Memoriam Our beloved son Brian Jason Cohen (1967 - 1999)

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Barbara My Wife My Life

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Table of Contents The Yellow Umbrella................................... 9 The Children Of Gilboa............................. 10 The Tunnel............................................... 12 Ahava....................................................... 13 Eggshells.................................................. 14 The Game................................................ 15 The Lamp Lady......................................... 17 Hand Squeeze.......................................... 19 It’s Gone................................................... 21 Night Noise............................................... 22 A Matter Of Numbers................................ 23 One More Memory.................................... 25 See Them Run......................................... 26 Pierce’s Deli............................................. 27 Damn Them All......................................... 28 Teeter Totter............................................. 29 The Children Of Newtown......................... 31 The Bad Fades......................................... 33 Triumphant, They Fail............................... 34

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He’s Back................................................. 36 The Wall................................................... 37 Places Of The Heart................................. 38 Rags Ol Iron............................................. 39 The Echoes Of My Mind........................... 41 A Beautiful World...................................... 42 Welcome To The Void............................... 44 Man Down................................................ 45 Wasted Soul............................................. 47 Marbles Of The Mind................................ 48 Closely Held............................................. 49 Drone On.................................................. 50 The A N A C O N D A:.............................. 52 Is Forever, Forever?.................................. 53 When Is Enuf, Enuf?................................. 55 Anniversary Rambles................................ 56 Yet He Loved Her..................................... 58 Changed Forever...................................... 59

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The Yellow Umbrella They played together under the shiny yellow umbrella as the rain softly kissed the ground.

Its broad canopy provided a safe and secure patch.

He protected her as she giggled and enjoyed the moment.

Sophie and Brian were together, as they were most days.

Beyond this slippery, silvery day they shared most things.

On this day Sophie being a few years older, directed a play and assigned roles staged each day.

Closeness brought them together as they shared their food and treats After school, the mood would become festive as they returned home and Sophie helped Brian with his homework assignments.

They then went out and marched . She with her large bright and cheerful yellow umbrella and he with a long twig picked up from the ground of the large wooded area that surrounded their house.

Peering out of the window they shared the moon and the stars. They slept in a trundle bed, starting out separately, but as sure as the light of morning spoke through the blinds, there they were in the same bed.

They sense a sad day when both will be more independent and begin to grow individually. How very rich their memories will be. How enormously close they will always be. All it took was a big bright yellow umbrella and a misty day.

10/4/14 —9—

The Children of Gilboa (Kibbutz Bet Alfa) Their feet cracked and bleeding, They walked on.

Their food supply low and sometimes non - existent, Sharing what morsels they had, They walked on They laid to rest the fallen, the aged, The children, beautiful innocent souls, only recently created And yet they walked on.

As they walked, they dreamt and visualized a land of freedom and opportunity to raise their children in peace; the land of their forefathers, the breast of their mothers.

And they walked on.

Night after night, the chilling winds and darkness of evening posed more difficulties; snakes, and other indigenous desert predators. Pain their daily menu.

And yet they walked on.

Their days, filled with fear, as they hid from the bandits and rapists The dark night their cloak of safety, And yet they walked on.

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The punishing sun drying and burning their faces, They walked on.

Fearfully they buried their dead in the blackness of night and cried the balance of the dark before sunlight.

And yet they walked on.

They walked on knowing they were to be blessed with a decent life, without fear of death or loss of family. A land where they belonged.

A land of smiles.

And they will walk no more…

12/1/13 In honor of my teacher, Noam Savion

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The Tunnel Too late to try to comfort him as he lays in bed with his mouth askew His eyes confused, asking for understanding where there is none.

Anger swells his chest as metal trays are thrown to gain recognition of his plight.

People stand and gaze upon his half lifeless body hoping his angry glare won’t land on them.

Light conversation is dealt for none wish to be recognized as one who feels too much or maybe too little.

Pros who enter with a non-feeling faces, attempt to ease his time left. This is what they are taught and teach others.

Prostrate for ever more. Games never to be played again.

Follies on the new, thin tube, never to be watched or understood .

Friends come and gaze at what may very well be their future asking for power, never to let this happen to them.

To what end, for what purpose do they open his skin to deposit fluids that won’t bring him back?

It seems like a game of slip and slide as he waivers between light and darkness, fighting entering the final tunnel.

11/6/13 Dedicated to my friend Sy.

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Ahava (Love) If you can see your eyes, you would know, how much I care for you.

Your body shakes when we share the sheets.

Tremors cake our bodies as sweet sweat slips and falls graciously toward the nape of your neck, the back of your knees, the crook of your arm as we fall into unconsciousness together.

Sleeping entangled is just damn nice.

Waking together in heat will be even better.

I didn’t know that you slipped out to get a warmed cloth to wipe the love from my eyes and my body.

This can’t end.

This shouldn’t end.

This will not end.

We can’t let it.

We won’t let it.

10/24/13

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Eggshells Eggshells broken, cracked, mutilated until all are devoid of its yellowy, gluttonous material and extracted from a large bowl, unceremoniously dropped from a ladle until it is scalded by a heat that curls its edges, and leaves its brains intact.

Bacon & Hash brown potato’s are as pieces of flesh, cut, spindled and forgotten until they are dropped into a kettle of odiferous, heart clogging oil and delirious as they are swallowed by yet another pan I do wonder if the pans are related and are aware of this metallic family. Same Mother/Father?

Ham on the other hand or should we say shoulders or buttocks of swine may not know who they are or where they come from. They are chopped, sliced and diced. Cut long and short. Placed on a cold plate or platter for the very last time to be chewed, swallowed and made to go through a disgusting, gastronomical bath of acids, waters and dark sweet liquids. Its end is assured a ceramic portal that goes to the oceans beyond, only to join others to be machine masticated and returned as a plastic bottle to hydrate humans.

Breakfast/Lunch anyone?

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The game : Government -- People All the same.

It’s just a game A game to flame the fires in the bellies of the righteous and the insane.

They change their titles as fouled underwear.

Congressman, Governor, Senator, sometimes even President.

The illness continues, the greed for glory knows no bounds.

They send beautiful young bodies to be blown up or maimed.

Some blessedly killed so the pain exits from their bodies and they can come home to their everlasting rest.

Parents and lovers question the whys and wherefores.

Only to finally understand there are no answers, Hell, there isn’t any questions.

Visiting potentates hold the hands of the crippled, the torn apart, the never to be whole again.. Medallions for their necks, titanium for their legs.

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He gives them Barbeque beef, smiles, and rides the mountain chariots as he tells them they are the bravest of the brave. This silver spooned, craggy faced warrior.

Too simple to be ashamed. Too impressed, with pyramids to his dishonest claims of greatness.

It’s all a game. A game that continues until all the plots on all the hills are filled. While the bloated tell their offspring what wonderful, brave people they are. And they too can become heroes of the game.

6/1/13

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The Lamp Lady She conjures up all sorts of dreams, In 1906 she was introduced to my family through my father. In 1916 my mother was introduced to her, when she sailed across the Big Water,” hoping for a better way to live, to work, to marry, to become a wife and mother and more importantly, an American.

A real American.

My Mother and Father never stood by the side of the ship, wistfully, looking upon, this lovely lamp held maiden.

They were below deck with others that could only afford what was commonly known as steerage.

Later in life, after their marriage and the birth of their 6 children, we often discussed the lamp lady with them.

My fathers accent precluded his saying “Statue”…

Yes we laughed a lot at his expense.

So very much was written about this “Lamp Lady”.

The author of the poem, Emma Lazarus, welcomed those fortunate to come to this honeyed land . She won a small honorarium and she was one of ours. A poet. Creating so much in such a short time. An early, undeserved death, for one so very talented.

I wonder what she would say if she could speak or write an additional line or two.

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Perhaps she would write, “Please don’t hurt the people who come here, not from distant shores, but just a hill or valley away. Across wire and sandy beaches. They are not throwaways. Their work ethic, impeccable. Their desires to raise and educate their families commendable. Allow them to breathe, allow them to flourish and we will become a greater, kinder nation endowed by our creator with Liberty and Justice for all.

6/26/13

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Hand Squeeze (signal) From Ma. She took me to downtown Chicago when I was eight years old.

We took a Streetcar and I thought this to be a big bunch of fun.

What took place in a large building down in the basement was surprising and confusing.

There lined up were racks and racks of clothing.

I felt this is a great surprise. Mom shopping for my school clothing for winter. It never entered my mind that this was a charitable group of people that provided young kids, both boys and girls New clothing for school. I didn’t ask for the name of the group and certainly didn’t want to remember this experience.

Woolen pants, scratchy, woolen plaid shirts also scratchy. I wondered then if I would ever stop scratching.

Socks, sometimes colored , sometimes white. White underwear and Sleeveless t-shirts.

Shoes. Let me not forget the shoes. Black with absolutely no style.

2 Pair. One pair would always squeak. It was embarrassing.

In fact the whole damn thing was embarrassing. I never complained because my mother said that these were good people that help the poorer among us. She felt this was a blessing.

After they bundled up my “Treasure,” we left and went to the a Walgreen’s drug store which had a cafeteria downstairs. Yes I enjoyed the escalator. Brand new.

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My Ma would line up and get a Lemon Meringue pie w/ whipped cream. Her favorite “Don’t tell Pa” she secretly and quietly whispered. She allowed me to pick a few items and I was in heaven.

As we sat and talked she told me that I will look nice in my new clothes and people wouldn’t make fun of my old clothing. She was a proud woman and never really told me if she hurt by having me go through this painful experience.

Never forgot it. Don’t want to. This is the first I’ve written about it. It may not be the last, I just don’t know. I think my sisters knew about this, if so kept it a secret.

Leaving Walgreen’s we went to catch the Streetcar and one had to be careful not to get hit by a moving Horse drawn Wagon or a car. She would take my hand and deliver me to the raised medium to wait.

I noticed after a long while that she didn’t let go of my hand. She held it tight and every once in a while gave it a squeeze. I would look at her and she smiled. It was her signal to me that all will be well. This was my first realization that I was loved and she would never let go of me. I was safe.

The Bard of Potomac Avenue.

1/10/14

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It’s Gone. It’s All Gone Where has the horse’s gallop gone?

The beggars have left the street corners.

The birds no longer feed their young, no need.

The Elk have been disposed of their scurry As the hens forget to lay their treasure.

The clowns have lost their smile, The trapeze its swing.

The cleric’s wisdom is filled with lies, The fob from watches rust.

The world has lost its breath And the leaves, their rustle.

The Farmers eat their seed rather than plant them, no need.

The treasures must be buried, but where, and who will be here to find them?

Light and passion are both rationed, The under earth civilization raises its happy head as banks continue to fill their coffers and politicians write laws.

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Author of Do You Take This Woman To Be Your Best Friend?

Chicago born, raised and somewhat educated…I picked up a pencil and paper at age 15 and hid my writing for almost a half century. I served in the U.S. Army, Southwestern Signal School, as a Cryptography Specialist. I also served as Chancellor Commander in an organization called The Knights of Pythias.

We served “Kids at Risk.”

A portion of sales from this book will go to the American Heart Assn., the March of Dimes and the American Cancer Society. Thank you…

M. G. Cohen

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