Poetry by Betty Farber
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In my meditation session
Our teacher revealed That monks try to simulate dying To understand how it would feel To endure this ultimate experience. I have tried to replicate their endeavors In my leather chair in a deep sleep. I failed. I could not pretend to die Or even imagine Heaven. But when I was in a crowded cafe Attached to an off-Broadway theater With music screaming in my ears And people squeezed like lemons, Talking at the top of their lungs It was like a hint of Hell. Then doors opened for me And the usher took my ticket. Finally, I was able to enter The Heavenly peace of the theater.
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(A visit from my four-year-old, twin great-grandsons)
Looking down from the plane window to count boats in the river? Peeking through a fence to see the excavators digging? Gazing on the museum roof at a crane atop a skyscraper? Eyeing gigantic dinosaurs with teeth like daggers? Admiring graceful skaters at Rockefeller Center? Will they remember the sounds of sirens on the city streets? And their laughter as they rode the carousel in Central Park? They will remember. Because my grown-up granddaughter, Remembers, “When I was five-years-old My family took me to PHANTOM OF THE OPERA I told my grandmother I wanted to be Christine. She said, ‘Of course you can my darling,’ So I studied music and dance, and that’s my life now.” Yes. I think they will remember. 10/18/17 |
AuthorBetty Farber lives in New York City. She is a great-grandmother of six. Archives
July 2022
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