Category Archives: Poetry

Poetry, Thoughts on Life

Shadows of My Life

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The shadows of my life stream by


The lights and darks of my old ties


Blacks and whites, they seem to last


Beyond the strum and stress and cries.


The pain and triumphs of the past


The house I thought was warm and vast


Now small and simple and so dim


Shadows that are hard to grasp.


These shadows shape my dreams of him


What was true and what was sin


But shadows fade and then unfold


It’s time to let new life begin.


Which shadows should I keep and hold


What stories should I let be told


I grasp the new becoming bold


I grasp the new becoming bold.


Poetry

Who Am I?

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This poem, Who Am I, appears in The House Loved Us…A Collection of Poems about Life and Loss. How do you define yourself? Can you? What if it changes day by day?

I am tough, strong, fierce, powerful, bright,

achieving, that is, I’m that way today.

I work hard, believe in the work ethic, have lots to do, children, grandchildren, bills, worry, writing, and work.

Sometimes I think I’m a writer. I had two rejections. Does that make me a writer?

I am a successful mother, a failure with men.

I am in perpetual motion, but often feel as if I’m standing still.

I’m someone who always worries about money. My worry has nothing to do with how much or how little I have in the bank.

I love ideas, ideas about anything, gardening, meaning, the future of the planet, how to cook asparagus.

I started out being conventional, but somehow it didn’t work for me.

I love newness and hope each day will bring something different.

I’m a professional, believe in professionalism, and try to be professional, even if it kills me.

I’m bright, dull, insecure, confident, smart, not knowing, passionate, distant, anxious, brave, generous, mean, conventional, and daring.

I am a mother, daughter, sister, aunt, grandmother, niece, friend, lover, woman, professor, feminist, humanist.

I’m constantly changing my mind about who I am and where I’m going.

Inside the Book, Poetry

Identity

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I always think I’m
not in the right place
at the right time
doing the right thing
whatever right is.
I always feel that I’m
not wearing the right clothes
no matter how many clothes I buy.
Sheila always seems
perfectly groomed,
informal for informality
tailored for such occasions,
wearing stockings while
I go bare-legged to the theater
feeling gross,
not dressed correctly
not in concert
with my age, status, or place in life.
The next time
I wear stockings
and she looks perfect
in jeans
and a red shirt.
Lucy gets a job
selling insurance
and I think that’s the right thing
even though I hate selling
and hate insurance.
But for one long week
I read the business section
of the New York Times
thinking I should
apply for those jobs.
but I never do.

Inside the Book, Poetry

You’re Right, I am Contentious

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I wouldn’t say I feel like this all the time. But there are moments. I wanted to share this poem because I feel it’s something a lot of people can relate to. This poem is from The House Loved Us, available on Amazon.

When you give me a bottle of

bath oil for my birthday after

seeing I only take showers.

Or you say you admire me for all

my close relationships and then

sulk when I visit a needy

friend.

When the son I adore

can’t get a job

in the public sector

because there is no longer

any interest in the

public interest

When my childhood friend,

now sick, divorced

and the mother of

two teenage boys

can’t get enough

food stamps

under Reaganomics.

When my mother asks me

to come for a visit,

and when I do

berates me for never

coming to visit.

When the local policeman

gives me a ticket

on the first day of Spring,

after he hides in the bushes

waiting to make me feel like

a criminal for not making

a complete stop.

And my daughter’s landlord

who reveres Polish solidarity,

reads The Nation

and believes he believes

in the common man

raises her rent illegally.

I bristle when the

local town officer asks

a twenty-five-year resident

to notarize a statement that his

grown daughter really lives

with him since her divorce.

I feel contentious…

When I never have enough money no matter

 how hard I work.

When I feel life has suddenly gone by and I have

 only done one-third the things I wanted to.

When a close friend refers to someone as

 a Jew boy.

When I realize I’m just one person.

Family, Poetry, Thoughts on Life

Family History by the numbers

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By Rhoada Wald, May, 2021

family photo

We were four

My children,

Marian, Stephen, Beth

and me.

But I really have to

count my former husband

He is family to my children.

          Actually, we were five.

Marian married George

and we were six.

Steve and Anne married

and we became seven.

When Beth married John,

we were eight.

Marian and George

had two children,

Todd and Justin.

Steve and Anne

had three,

Megan, Jonathan and Michael.

And Beth and John

had Jake. 

Two and three

and one are six.

Six and eight

are fourteen.

But now I remember,

Charly died two weeks

before Jake was born

In fact, we were only

thirteen.

          Jake was named

Jacob Charles in

memory of

his grandfather.

Justin married Jason

Todd married Marissa

Megan will soon

           marry Joe.

We became sixteen

Once we were four,

 really five

And now we are

almost seventeen.

I have three children,

Six with their spouses

Another six grandchildren

Three more by marriage.

Todd and Marissa added

one great grandchild.

Megan and Joe have

another on the way. 

Like flowers

new blossoms

form every day,

every year,

I hope forever.

And I am going

to stop counting. 

Poetry, Thoughts on Life

Covid-19

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     by Rhoada Wald, April, 2020

I’ve been in my apartment for 33 days.

plant by windowI have to

get my house in order

sweep the floors

put away the junk

clean the refrigerator and

change the linen on my bed

 

I have to

get my head together

teach my class

get some milk

buy some bread.

call my family

speak to betty

 

I’ve been in my apartment for 34 days

I miss

walking in the sun

getting my mail early

swimming in the pool

going to the exercise room

not being afraid

 

I miss

going to the movies

seeing friends for dinner

buying a new dress

opening my mail when it comes

eating with my family.

 

I’ve been in my apartment for 35 days

 

I want to

have a dinner party.

go to the movies

know my family is well.

get out in the sun

drive my car upstate

have a good night’s sleep.

 

Megan postponed her wedding  to next summer.

I want to be able to go.

I know I can’t live forever.

but I want to live life a little longer.

 

I want to

see my grandchildren

be calm again

wear my new dress.

go to a party

know the covid virus is long gone

kiss everybody

feel the world is safe again.

 

Poetry

Ode to Rhoada – a poem by my sister

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This is a poem my dear sister wrote for me. I love that she thought I had so much energy!

Sanibel Island, 2005

by Milly Kapilow

All hail my awesome sister Rhoada

Build for her a sacred pagoda

She flourishes in this tropical setting

This awestruck poem thus begetting.

lighthouse Sanibel Island

Up at dawn before the sun

Already two laundries she has done

Before the clock has chimed at eight

The beach is walked at rapid gait

And though her guest is yet abed

The New York Times is bought and read.

 

By nine the bike is back on rack

Exhausted by her tireless track

Now she’s home to snatch brief rest

While cleaning house and feeding guest.

Next on to sand and comfy chair

To read two books in open air

A spot lunch and on to pool

A mere fifty laps her daily rule.

 

At sunset to library speeding

She needs four books for next day’s reading

She rounds the day by dishing up

Dinner for her guest to sup

Who must obey her sternest wishes

By letting Rho do all the dishes.

 

So goes the day, her vim unfazed

This guest can only watch amazed

Each day an ode to Rho in action

One hour of which puts guest in traction.

 

Two weeks of this without cessation

She pronounces “Perfect Vacation!”

Her thoughts now turn to oh-oh-six

What to do next year to get her kicks.

 

Mt. Everest?  The Amazon?  In wilds canoe?

Who knows what else the kid will do

An Arctic jaunt?  A trek Down Under?

Maybe ALL!  Salute this ageless wonder!

A tribute to my sister, Milly, is Chapter 12 in my book The Myth of the Yellow Kitchen, titled “Memories and Memorabilia.”

Poetry

A Poem about Canoeing and Life

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It’s a little cold in Boston to be thinking about canoeing, but it is around this time of year that we often think about where we’re headed in life.

"Connecticut River Greenway State Park" by Tom Walsh via Creative Commons
“Connecticut River Greenway State Park” by Tom Walsh via Creative Commons

In life, as in canoeing, we don’t have control over the river or what it will bring us to. We only have control over how we react and what we do about it.

 

On her knees

she navigates alone

huddled in her

winter sweater

a buffer against

the early spring wind.

 

The long, grey, metal canoe

she propels like her body

right, left,

forward now,

keep control.

 

Rocks gleam on the surface

the river swerves

her heart beats quickly

as she navigates the river

swelled high with melting snows

of early spring

wonder why she’s here

challenging the current.

 

Beguiling white arrows

concealing winter wastes.

pitching in the strong current

spinning in a whirlpool

then smooth like silk.

it suddenly seemed so easy.

 

Around the curve

another torrent to be mastered

a rock, crevice,

fallen branch.

her arms are aching, heavy,

paddle deep, forward now.

 

She takes control

exulting in the challenge of the current

then veering toward the

peaceful eddy.

Family, Poetry, Thoughts on Life

Thanksgiving at my Table

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ThanksgivingThanksgiving is a special time to remember all the good things in our lives. Not that we shouldn’t do that all the time, but this is a time to do it together. I wrote this some time ago, but it still applies today.

Whatever you are doing in this season, I hope you are able to enjoy the blessings around you.

Thanksgiving

I feast my eyes on the children
my children
grown, beautiful
building an order to their lives.

My eldest getting married
to a wonderful young man
Another in law school,
not quite together yet about his life,
his vocation, his love,
But together in his head, his vitality
his assessment of things.

And the youngest
when did she get so lovely,
so tall, so slim
so elegant,
getting off the train
hugging her brother.

I feast my eyes on my nieces and nephews
growing up, getting taller
building an order to their lives.
Carrying the chairs, setting the table,
laughing as I torture the turkey

I feast my eyes on the richness of the harvest,
of young people
having birthdays, arguing about politics,
growing older, entering adulthood.
I feast my eyes on the miracle of it all.

This poem was reprinted from The Myth of the Yellow Kitchen, a memoir about resilience in the face of life’s challenges.

 

Poetry

Identity

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I always think I’m
not in the right place
at the right time
doing the right thing
whatever right is.

I always feel that I’m
not wearing the right clothes
no matter how many clothes I buy.
Sheila always seems
perfectly groomed,
informal for informality
tailored for such occasions,
wearing stockings while
I go bare-legged to the theater
feeling gross,
not dressed correctly
not in concert
with my age, status, or place in life.
so the next time
I wear stockings
and she looks perfect
in jeans
and a red shirt.

Lucy gets a job
selling insurance
and I think that’s the right thing
even though I hate selling
and hate insurance.
but for one long week
I read the business section
of the New York Times
thinking I should
apply for those jobs.
but I never do.