Abie’s Poetry

The Celestial Dandelion You, delicate orb Of distilled beauty, That is gone by dusk, Or a careless step. Wordless you hold In your dainty globe, More wisdom than A million tomes. You beam at those Three score and tens Who

April Showers Shoots sprout through, lancing The winter-hardened earth, Sodden by spring rains. Suppressed remorses breach The stout retaining walls, And rivulets seep down. April was Eliot’s cruellest month – Now I know why. © Abie Alexander Greenbelt, MD      

My Window on the World As I part the curtains, There you are, Amongst the treetops, Golden, warm, and bright. Butterflies flit about, As bird calls And insect chirps Dim the fluorescent hum. This window Is my morning news –

This virus can kill– Not just at arm’s length, But in the next town too, And even across the seas. The days, weeks, and months Roll on relentless, crushing Hopes of a new rendezvous, And last year’s memories. Or, stifled

For Carolyne Virginia Ashton Garden roses, Peruvian lilies, And hydrangeas– All meld together, In one mosaic. Wonder what they Call themselves, And each other– Red, pink, blue, And yellow? After the black, white, Yellow, brown Of humanity, Who see the

There was a time, long gone, When persona meant Both a person and a mask, And lineage was traced Through death masks Kept in family shrines. There have always been masks. Egyptian mummy masks; African ritual masks; The voodoo masks

Love’s A Leap Love is letting go Of familiar places– The corner store And the hairdresser. The habitual route To work and back. The park, the lake, And the avenue. Love is letting go Of the rope at the well.

The world stops with death, The living say. But only for a while, really, Before it cranks up again To full spin and throttle, Even for the beloved, Save the anniversaries. This now is purgatory, But with no heaven –

Gasping for Love The miles haven’t lengthened; But with this darned virus, It’s no more the distance That’s galling. Sequestered in separate rooms, Bonded only by the Net, Continents apart, We pine. Strange though it might seem, The next rendezvous,