Jewish Cemetery Queens, New York

[Bernie01]

The Jewish cemetery is crowded with markers
and visitors sometime stumble over the graves,
the messages once so clear, now calligraphy
I cannot understand though I wipe my glasses.

Among the tatters and unevenly cut grass
I speak to mother and father, it pleases me
to imagine they hear my voice from the bench
where i sit on ramshackle boards with no back.

For burial, father selected his ceremonial jacket,
the raven black coat we saw only at Yom Kippur,
Passover Seder and in wedding pictures. Other times
he wore a white shirt with open collar, the manager
at Murdochi’s Hebrew Books all his life. Quoting
from memory favorite passages of philosophy,
marked books, stacked until tumbling, a signal
of his pacing and pausing through the house.

My mother, finished with the potatoes, or Hadassah,
read the Tahra to understand her own death ritual,
pouring the Nine, Kaddish, ’El Mal’ei Rahamim,
fiercely questioning the Rabbi and bringing books
forgotten by father as you might forget a coffee cup.

Her small face lightly sprinkled with shadow, swaddled
in towels and painted the color of Fall leaves.

Paid sitters on folding chairs during her lying out
so that she would not be alone in the first dozen
hours of death.

[FranktheFrank]

Verbose by your standards Bernie ole bean
I am sure the development of this poem
will improve with age.

The Jewish Cemetery at Queens N.Y.

The cemetery is full, visitors stumble
over broken markers, inscriptions faded,
cannot be read. What does it matter
when all the families are also dead

Among the tatty, rough grass I speak
as if Moeder and Vader can hear me.
I ramble on from an old plank of a bench.
and wish I could have told them then.

and so on and so forth.

[IndianaDP]

A very respectful and peaceful reflection of passing. I find it interesting to consider what images we retain after a death and passage of time. My grandmother passing a plate of her homemade fudge, grandfathers lunchbox, mother’s crippling shyness, etc.

The poem, a plain spoken, straight forward narrative, easily understood, and not to my recollection your usual style. I see plainly the graveyard, especially love that bench. I also appreciate the lesson in Jewish vocabulary, and father and mother’s preparation for death. I saw this with my own parents, father selecting songs for his funeral, scriptures he loved.

The ending, very matter of fact, a telling of what was without drama, relatable, accepting.

[BobBradshaw]

I echo what Dale said... very well written piece that puts me in another place, another culture... very enjoyable and a poignant closing

[Bernie01]

Thanks, guys.

the poem references ’El Mal’ei Rahamim,

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2wth4VQLToc



A blustery, New York day. graveside with a colleague from the office.

A traditional prayer sung at funerals. A prayer for the Departed. Even a restless atheist like myself found comfort in these words.


bernie