Thursday, May 24, 2018

Sing Love. By Chani Zwibel

What lingers longer  
than rusted metal farm equipment
and cigarette smoke cloaked pages of paper back romances?
The song.
Music connects us to the divine
the way nothing else can.
Prayers sung, and candles lit in stolen quiet moments are
2nd hand smoke
2nd hand Jewishness
Something soaked
Into the matzo ball soup
Something coiled
In the DNA
For curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, olive skin.
They could have disowned my father when he married out,
but love is a song stronger than any dogmatic jingle.
Grandma and Papa never minded me singing “Jesus Loves Me”.
They only heard the happy child’s voice and were pleased.
My grandparents were Jews, but they heard gospel music growing up.
It must have sounded so sweet. Each had their own recollections from youth.
From the little white wooden country church down the dirt path from the farm, attended by the boy who accompanied young Earl rabbit hunting.
Down the block where young Charlotte’s Jamaican maid went to service.
Grandma remembered the joyful swell of praise rising like a lantern made of melody.
(Not out of the same church of the kids who chased her down the street calling her a Christ-killer)
Papa loved bluegrass forever after.
Grandma loved anything uplifting.
The song remains.
Even when the voices are stilled.

Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia, with her husband and their dog. She is an associate editor with Madness Muse Press. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming.

1 comment:

  1. "cigarette smoked cloaked pages..." reminds me of my mother in younger days. I like this a lot.


Drunk Haze by George Gad Economou

swilling down bourbon till the very end of memories,  stumbling my way out of the barroom engirdled by fancy dinner-goers in a bar not for d...