THE ART STUDIO GALLERY

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POETRY GALLERY

HOPE CHEST By Stanley H. Barkan, © 2003 from Mishpocheh (Cross-Cultural Communications, NY)
FRIDA By Steven Clarke, © 2003
IN THE DARK DARKER THAN A MOVIE By David Gershator, © 2003
SAFE PLACES WITHIN THE NIGHT By Pamela Koeppel, RPT in Training © 2004, Edited by Mia Barkan Clarke
FOURTH OF JULY: ON THE HUDSON By D. H. Melhem, © 1998 from Country: An Organic Poem (Cross-Cultural Communications, NY)
THE REVERSAL By Robert Plath, © 2004
NATASHA By Yona Benyamini, © 2005

HOPE CHEST
By Stanley H. Barkan

In the long cedar chest,
painted green with stencils
of red cherubs & harps & hearts,
she stored all of her hopes
for a future beyond the tenements,
the streets of sweltering summers,
children full of phlegm & flu
in the winters of broken radiators.
Photos in albums of brothers
and parents & a little girl picking
blue berries by the lakeside
in the mountains of grass & trees
cool and dark, full of mystery and hope.
Sheets & napkins & pillow cases,
bronzed baby shoes & small dresses,
birth certificates and ketuba.
Beaded bags & flapper outfits
filled with charlestons & big bands.
It hasn't been open for decades.
It sits under a tole cabinet, waiting.
One day her granddaughter will look
inside and find the dreams & hope
she lost one day in a white room
filled with smells and strangers.
Someday, she will fly on angel's wings
and dance the dance she put away
in the green chest of hope & dreams.

FRIDA
By Steven Clarke

Crippled paintings of graceful color
Pouring tears onto canvas
Pain and beauty
Free as a lost bird
Sputtering into flight
Thinking man's brow
Strong and secure
To thrust through life
Longing for legs
To free her of shackles
Braided black hair
A reminder of twisted organs
Preventing the greatest creation
Of what will never be

IN THE DARK DARKER THAN A MOVIE
By David Gershator

I’m a child
sitting in a bomb shelter
it’s exciting to sit in the dark surrounded by neighbors
known and unknown neighbors
it’s exciting to hear the shushing of air raid wardens
intense last minute whispers
waiting for the sirens waiting for the bombs to fall
an angry neigbor tells another to put out the cigarette
it’s dark its silent the only movie the one in our own heads
we wait nervous edgy until someone
someone whispers
it’s over

we are waiting again
waiting in daylight and in the dark
we’re in the dark and out in the open waiting
hoping for the all clear

we’re waiting out in the open
out in New York, Chicago, L.A., London, Moscow, Paris,
out in Baghdad, Cairo, Jerusalem all over all over
in the dark now
and out in the open

we’re waiting again
the only movie
the one we put together
and try to cut cut cut
in our own heads

SAFE PLACES WITHIN THE NIGHT
By Pamela Koeppel

The walk on the night shore
With the sound of the breeze—cries of parentless children
The wonder of illumination
and peace
I walk around
with terrible fear
Soft shiny stones
People dancing in circles
under the moonlight
Friends holding hands
whispering
soft silences
Unnatural vertical lightning
Snow falls on those lost—a sea grave
I reach out my hand
as sand falls through.
The conch shell I hold onto
is luminous and strong.
Waves caress the shore
as sea gulls fly over head.
The scent of salt water
Permeates my body
cleansing my soul.
A mountain fortress
surrounding the sea
Soon, it will be spring again.

Fourth of July: On the Hudson
By D. H. Melhem

52.

barge-riding gods of fireworks
shoot color into stars stars and a firmament
light breaking over nightwater
over oilslick and striped bass
embankments of children eyebright amazed
their elders assembled smiling rich also
in the generous hues of their garments and faces
raising salutes and sparklers and candles
that burst into the booming center
the riverspace north and south
a joining rejoicing a healing
of peace for these people
poor no more and without rancor embracing

a celebration

THE REVERSAL
By Robert Plath

Sometimes
at night
they crave
the reverse
order of things
they close
their books
they cut
the electricity
they let the stars
suck all their
knowledge
from their brains
they let the moon
make them forget
how to speak
they unlearn
learning
they dumbly
climb beneath
the covers
of their bed
which is like
a dark, silent tank
of unholy water
where they
are unbaptised
whenever they
touch
their bones shrink
and their skin
becomes more
transparent
until they are
like two tiny
seahorses
curled around
one another
rocking in
the dark water

NATASHA
By Yona Benyamini

Beautiful baby Natasha
In raspberry beret
and blueberry eyes.

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