Into the arid space between earth and sky,
the cracks of the human soul seep. They fill

with hail of stones from the Temple Mount,
the Wafq’s iron door slammed, barring Jews

who wish to pray in small circles of ten,
their blue fringed shawls worth lives

of 69 martyrs — if only the shawls stay
folded, unused and grow drenched

with suicides’ blood. Stones play well
in the press. So come puppet children

and hurl them. My poor little slaves
of hate, make of my Iago a saint.

Note: The Waqf is the body of Muslim clerics to which Israel gave control of the Temple Mount in 1967 out of respect for Muslim belief—although it is Judaism’s holiest site, where the Second Temple stood until its destruction in 70 A.D. The Waqf has long denied access to any minyon—the minimum of ten men required by Jewish law to offer prayers. In May, 2000 it began destroying Second Temple remains as well.

First published in Neovictorian/Cochlea, winter, 2001

All Articles, Poems & Commentaries Copyright © 1971-2021 Alyssa A. Lappen
All Rights Reserved.
Printing is allowed for personal use only | Commercial usage (For Profit) is a copyright violation and written permission must be granted first.

At the portages, few stopped to pick blueberries
clustered tightly by fistfuls in easy reach, the blue
tears in grey pre-rain light; my son and daughter

sang with the yellow finches feasting on wild delight.
We kneeled among bushes aside the trail, worrying
little beads into our open palms and plastic bags.

Small price we paid: a risk of rain, for prayers.

“Blueberries” was first published in ForPoetry.com in 2000. For old publications, please see the original ForPoetry.com archives.

All Articles, Poems & Commentaries Copyright © 1971-2021 Alyssa A. Lappen
All Rights Reserved.
Printing is allowed for personal use only | Commercial usage (For Profit) is a copyright violation and written permission must be granted first.

I have heard the chorus of loons trilling across wild Quebec nights,
Winding into the furls of wind like sleek ribbons of moonlight,
Banking against the neck of the mountains, casting their songs

Into my sleep. The tongues of autumn lace into dawn, golden
Stalks of sun fray the dusk, thread and sew their eerie voice
Into the quilt of day. If I were a lake, I would lie in wait.

This poem first appeared in ForPoetry.com in 2000. For old publications, please see the original ForPoetry.com archives.

All Articles, Poems & Commentaries Copyright © 1971-2021 Alyssa A. Lappen
All Rights Reserved.
Printing is allowed for personal use only | Commercial usage (For Profit) is a copyright violation and written permission must be granted first.