If Walls could talk…

An open doorway, but no door
No one is there.
Just a bright sky - yet so dull.
I see the faces
Or are they souls?
I hear voices
Weeping
Seeping through the stones?
A thousand Kadish chants
Calling me, beckoning
Come back, come back to the walls.
We are your memory,
We saw the life and the joy,
We heard the laughter,
And now all is silence.

In the Shadows of Memory

I walk through the arches
Deeper and deeper
Into the shadows of memory
Each step echoes in my heart
And draws me closer and closer
To a past I did not know
A past that was not mine
And yet embedded in my soul.
It is cold and dark, and I am alone
In the shadows of memory.

Under the Bougainvillea of Time

Planted somewhere, some time
Long, long ago.
Seasons in and seasons out
They bloom and they shine.
I pass under the Bougainvillea
Red, Pink and white,
Bursting with life.
The hand that planted
Is no longer there.
I think of all those
That passed under
Its sheltering color,
I think of those
Taken away
Never to see another
Red, Pink or white,
Never to smell another flower,
Only the bleak and cold grey
Of a hopeless tomorrow.

Looking down from above

Looking up, up the stairs,
Past the doorway,
Into the deep, deep blue sky,
They look down on me
And smile.
I have come home
But they are now gone
There is no one left.
Only stones
Cold, grey stones,
To tell of the love
That could have been,
And would have been mine.
They are there,
Looking down, down the stairs
Looking down from above.

All is not Pink …

Pitter, patter, pitter, patter
Through the arches,
Through the doorways
They came and they went
They ran, they played, they sang
They cried –
They are crying now – somewhere – but where?
Now they are gone
The young, not fully grown.
Only the pink walls remain,
An echo, a hum of small footsteps,
Pitter, patter, pitter, patter…

The Island of Roses

The winding path of memory
Takes me past doorways, past windows
Under the washing lines,
Over ancient cobblestones.
Echoing footsteps
Of lovers,
Hand in hand
Walking towards their dreams.
Past open windows
I smell the blooms,
And I imagine
Bourekas and Pastelis,
Linking me to this little island,
The beautiful island of roses.

Holocaust Tornado

It came suddenly,
It came with furor,
Like a tornado
It swept in
And the next minute
It was gone,
Leaving destruction
Leaving emptiness.
Broken bodies, broken souls
And a deep, deep blue sky.

If Vines Could Tell

If vines could tell
Of a little corner,
In a quaint winding alley,
A wall that was a home,
Two vacant windows remain.
Just a reminder
Of the vanished lives,
The sounds of chitter-chatter,
The laughter of children,
The crying of babies.
Now, only the stones remain,
And one lonely vine
To tell of the families that
Once lived
In this little corner,
At the end of a quaint winding alley.

Kahal Shalom

Over five centuries of history,
From inquisition to Shoa
Stands Kahal Shalom,
A synagogue, a jewel,
Where voices once echoed in prayer,
Where ancient songs flowed
From lofty windows.
On Sabbath, on holidays,
They gathered
For community, for comfort,
For celebration and for prayer,
Crowding at its gate,
Living life’s cycles
With love and with zest.
They all disappeared,
The young and the old
Wrenched by their roots,
Leaving only stones
To tell their stories,
And a long list of names,
A testimony to those that once lived.
And now, the ghosts return
Frequently, mysteriously,
To hover around,
To sigh and remember
Their beloved Kahal Shalom.

Rhodes today

60 years later,
Tourists come and they go,
Through this portal
They stroll
From the ports, to the beaches,
Past the shops and the ”Judeirea”
They do not know the life that was,
The lives that were,
The sounds of joy that overnight
Became the sounds of horror.
They only see the turquoise sea,
The ancient stones,
They feel the Mediterranean sun,
Upon their skins.
They tap to the rhythm of bouzoukis,
Sipping on ice cold ouzos,
Feeling warm and contented
As they savor Rhodes today.