Poetry by Betty Farber
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Promenading on a summer’s day Sunny and breezy, I’m taking an airing. Stopped by a lady, well-dressed and gray Who says, “I like what you are wearing. From where I stand, I can easily see That you are a senior just like me.” I smile and am happy to agree… On the city sidewalk, under a tree, She continues the conversation, “Now I’m on youtube where you can see That I could be called a singing sensation. Watch when you have a moment free. I wrote the music and words to this song And I’ll sing it for you right this minute If you have the time, it won’t take long And I’ll put my best performance in it.” I do not move; I do not stir. Standing in my brand new shoes I hear the poet and composer Sing a song called “Senior Blues.” There are people who believe that life In Gotham City is never sweet, Just sad and gritty and filled with strife. But oh the magic you might meet On any New York City street!
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In a dream landscape in Ireland,
On a cobblestone walkway by a river, Time moved in slow motion. I leaned my cane against a metal fence While taking a photo of an old stone church, When my cane, looking for adventure, Flew above the river, slowly falling, Gracefully into the water below. The memory of that cane floating through the air Will be with me always. I’m hoping that As it drifted down the river, it landed Near a cottage with a thatched roof Inhabited by a woman of advanced age Who needed some help with her walking, And thinking it was the work of elves or fairies, Used my cane happily ever after. I’ve always been adept
At taking out the knots That appear mysteriously In shoelaces, yarn and string. It’s truly satisfying To unravel the strands Using my hands and fingers And restore to its proper state That which is in chaos. “It shows that you have patience,” My mother used to say. That may be so. But what makes it intriguing Are the twists and connections, Like a riddle you need to puzzle out. Poetry is like that too. Except instead of hands and fingers You use imagination To unravel the meaning. And a little patience helps too. On the DOWN escalator
In the subway at 59th and Lex I stared at a couple on the UP escalator Kissing as they moved through space, He one step above her She reaching her lips up to his. What awed me most as I held tightly To the moving black bannister Was: how do they keep their balance? LOVE and YOUTH, I answered myself, Stepping nimbly off the escalator steps Using, of course, my indispensible cane. 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. (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 A teenager crosses East 61st Street
With a white butterfly Circling around his head. He opens his hand Palm up, not to catch it But to give the creature A large landing field. A white-haired lady Crossing alongside him Notices the butterfly And smiles at a memory, “Yesterday, one landed on my shoulder and stayed there for an hour.” They both smile in shared wonder At the city’s surprises. Between plastic bags
Piled high for garbage pickup Purple tulips bloom. On the balcony of a cruise ship, I saw
A vision, rising gracefully out of the fog: Lady Liberty blessing New York Harbor, A shadowy grey, with her lamp shining brightly. Is that how she looked a hundred years ago When a little Russian girl, hugging the smokestack Of a different ship, gazed at her? “An inspiration to us all,” I used to say. Not speaking of the statue, But of that little Russian girl who lit my way. Opening the title page
of a book he had given me years ago for my birthday, handwritten words I didn’t remember. We had said our final goodbyes so long ago, I could only assume that a love letter, newly written had traveled through time to me. “I knew you would be even more wonderful at 60 than you were when you were 20. Love, Love, Love, Forever.” So we are still connected through words and memories… This much I have learned-- nothing is final, even goodbye. |
AuthorBetty Farber lives in New York City. She is a great-grandmother of six. Archives
July 2022
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