The Poem I Did Not Write Today

THE POEM I DID NOT WRITE TODAY

The poem I did not write today
Will never be written.
No one knows what it is
Or where it is
'How it can be? ' is another question
No one can answer.

The poem I did not write today
Never went away
It is always here with me and with you
It is the same simple poem
Written over and over again
In our everyday minds.

It is the poem of love of life
The poem of happiness
The poem of belief in God
And in the goodness in the world to come

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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Every Poem Is Another Effort At Poetry

EVERY POEM IS ANOTHER EFFORT AT POETRY

Every poem is another effort at Poetry
Will it belong or not?
And what is Poetry?
And who owns it
And who cares ultimately?

We are criers in the night
Dawn- breaking whisperers of Awe
We make of our little lives
A gantze gescheft.
No one is where we are
When we are alone,
And even the once beautiful stars
Have given way for us
To cold measurements of deeper darkness.

Let us say we know how to pray

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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Who Can Tell All The Moods Of A Single Life And Love?

WHO CAN TELL ALL THE MOODS OF A SINGLE LIFE?

Who can tell all the moods of a single life and love?
Much less of two together?
Who can explain the lonelinesses and the distances
Two can feel with each other?
Or the tendernesses and intimacies
One may know while the other is somewhere else?
Who can explain all the intricacies of anger and pain and joy
When they mix in sudden strange ways?

Our lives are mysteries to us-
So too our relations with those we love-
In all their Beauty there is still something we cannot find and make our own –

Love is a deep thing perhaps the deepest
But too with it there may remain questions-

Why oh holy and close now and why in a second some other distance we never dreamed and are forced against our wish and will to feel?

poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Don't Know Where The Past Is Gone

I don’t know where the past is gone
I only know most of my own life is over-
I don’t know where the past has gone
I only know so many people I loved
Are no longer here and will never be here again-
I don’t know where the past has gone
I only know that that chance I had that hope for so many years
Can never be mine in the same way again-
I don’t know where the past has gone
So many moments of beauty and love and opportunity missed and longing unrealized-
I don’t know where the past has gone
And what of it I should miss
And why I should long for it so.
I don’t know where the past has gone
And where my life was lost and why I did not do better in it-
I don’t know where the past has gone
And what will be when for me
Everything is only the Past gone

poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem I Am Writing Now

The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-

Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -

The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.

Why then write these words now?

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Don't Know Why This Sadness Is Me

I don’t know why this sadness is me,
And why depression has suddenly come -
It seems as if I am empty alone
And nowhere and nothing knows
Just what I was.

I am deeper into what I do not want to be
Then I know how to go out of-

Oh these games of despair
How often have I played them in the past-

Let me walk outside
Let me feel the light
Let me read an interesting page
Let the time for Shul come and let me get to my Siddur again-

Anything anything
But the down of this now
Which by my writing is already somewhat less,

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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An Afternoon Poem Is Rare

AN AFTERNOON POEM IS RARE

An Afternoon Poem is rare-
Afternoon is long after the first light-
Afternoon is a time of heaviness and quiet
A time of rest-

Afternoon is after the morning work has been done-
Afternoon is the weight of the day-
Afternoon is the time after the day has lost its freshness-

Still there must be afternoon poems-
There must be a beauty that emerges
In its own way,
Perhaps from where lovers meet
Perhaps from ‘ripeness is all’
Perhaps from the anticipation of evening
Perhaps from winter where it is the warmest time of day.

There must be afternoon poems-

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long

I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG

I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?

And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?

I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-

Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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Uncertainty Is Too Much With Me

UNCERTAINTY IS TOO MUCH WITH ME

Uncertainty is too much with me
And question too much of what I am
Fear is with me so much
And anxiety also
I am not the best example
Of what a pioneer or patriot should be.
I have gotten through it quietly so far
With many blessings given by God
And help from family and friends -
I am a small person really
With great literary ambitions
Never realized-
A kind person when convenient
Not bad not great
Fearing a war and our destruction
Knowing I am not the one to save us
Praying to G-d for help
And knowing G-d does not always answer-

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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The World Is Moving And You Are Standing Still

“THE WORLD IS MOVING AND YOU ARE STANDING STILL”

It’s still right, Dad,
After all the years,
‘The world is moving and I am standing still’
I feel them all going by
They are working and earning big sums
They are meeting with others in their field
And discussing and discussing -
They are being important and self- important in whatever they do-
And I am standing still
Still nowhere-
Only now so much older and far too late to really go anywhere
I am standing still-
They are going by-
They are getting places-
I am getting nowhere-
Just more and more of the same old hiding inside my own words-
They are going by and faster and farther than ever-
And I am still here trying to move and standing still

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poem by Shalom Freedman
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