(An International Journal of Poetry)
ISSN 2249 –2178
Volume-2 december -2012 Number-2
Grandma's Little Girl
by Ruth Sabath
My granddaughter twirls round the room,
& in no time I'm dancing to her tune.
Our singing & swinging to Barney's croon
turns her bright as a high-watt bulb
& me to thoughts of lost days of old --
my daughter's childhood I'd missed when
I'd gone in search of meaning outside the home.
Not so far from that home, my daughter, alone
for the day, dines solo on stew, frozen then
heated longer than needed for no good reason.
Our dancing done, my granddaughter's hungry
for hot chocolate & homemade pie; she wants TV,
can't enough of Super Heroes, fairytale endings.
Her wish is my command, still she's wanting
something more, something I can't give her.
She wants her mommy & daddy back together.
There is No House that Does Not Dream of Better Times
by Ruth Sabath Rosenthal
as surely this old stone house must:
window panes reveal only curtains drawn;
and within the four walls, whirlwinds
of age-old warring rank the air
with vapor of those certain
to have ceased caring;
and room upon room, the walls grow
yellow -- stark -- like old barred teeth;
and oh, the floor boards - they creak
with each misstep;
and in the basement, a furnace roars, blasts
of raging heat perchance breached
by midday sun warming cockles
of wanting hearts -- that is, just till
dusk's chill signals thermostat drop
and heat back -- dust, deep
in the heart of the house, lambasted
enough to last a lifetime;
and stored in the attic, nothing
worth saving; and just outside,
white picket fence, laced thick
with honeysuckle, encircles lawn
front to back, green
with envy of untold neighbors.