Poetry Archive #2
   (Poems 2001-2002)

There was a young gal I used to know.

"Back to the earth"
was her chosen path
combined with a heavy dose
of "harmless" drugs and "Born Again"
Christian words.

She always looked so be-draggled,
in that kerchief she wore,
covering her tangled hair.
So very pregnant
in her long worn out and dirty
pioneer-style dress.

She'd drop by our cabin
for a visit, biscuits and tea
(she was so ravenously hungry)
and she was always sure
to mention something to me
about the importance
of my salvation.

She had a way about her...
a kind of  blissed-out smile
and a distant glassy-ness
about her eyes.
Her whole focus, you see,
was to  "act naturally"...
And to prove her point, one day,
she just lifted her skirts
and pee'd (!)
right in front of me,
carrying on all the while
with her blissful conversation
regarding my salvation.

Laughing to myself...
I thought she must be nuts
or had a lot of guts..
no if's and's or but's!
Still, she didn't mean any harm..
she was just a lost city creature
living on a farm...
and she was so very, very warm.
So, I was always pleased to meet her
as she strode up our garden path....
and listening
to her proselytizations
did bring me
to a whole set of my own

One day, she
and her live-in man came by
to lend us a helping hand
with some hard "back to the land"
back breakin' work.
Shifting her baby to her other hip,
she eased down the sleeve of her shirt
to expose her shoulder....
then showed me a terrible, ugly,
swollen looking sore ..much like a boil
that just had to be
causing her  a whole  lot of pain.

Oh, Maggie!", I gasped,
"have you seen a doctor?"
Amazed by her candor,
she replied, "Yeah, it's cancer."

She informed me she had no better plan
than to withstand the pain
and pray- because,
"God", she said,
"will make it all go away".

Looking into her glassy eyes, I saw
it would not be long until the end.

She left that day
with a hug, a kiss and smile-
Waving and repeating
her customary departing prayer,
as she disappeared
down our garden path

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Dual Edge

Some experiences
will haunt me forever-
like Maggie's eyes,
innocent child, that she was,
caught up in unrealistic dreams,
betting on her life,
that Jesus would save her
from a world of pain.

Those over-focused blissful eyes
did not foresee her own martyrdom
was at hand.
Was reality the cross she chose to bear?
Was denial a word with a dual edge?

Faith raw and bleeding...
faith, taking the form of cancer
carried her fearlessly, triumphantly, and victoriously far
from the rationalizing words of earth.
Nothing else would have quenched her thirst.

What I saw was not a fragile or ignorant mind
but one who laid her head
upon the sacred threshold of life
through death.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


An inevitable reality
unfolds fate
from the hand
of balanced forces.

The water
of growth's movement
continues along
it's precarious,
but tender course
filling thirsty hearts,
with replenished
and sustaining life.

Love's nutrients
kept alive
from the self-same source

as the tears
which fill our eyes.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001
The Mason Jar

I keep a stash of stones
in an old fashioned canning jar
perched on my window sill.
I often sit starring at it...
waiting for a mystic verity
to suddenly emerge from it's contents.
Magic stones selected from obscure outings...
Gleaned by vision quest
along roadsides,
in meadows and on mountain tops.
Some, from my own back yard...(funny, how clues may rest close to home).

Having discerned messages and signs,
I stash reminders of lessons learned
where they may be continually reviewed
while starring at the glass jar
perched on my window sill...

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Fat Cats

(For A Beloved Fat Cat)

Fat cats at crossroads of fate.
Sitting on the garden fence,
yowling and sleepless.
From darkness, mice emerge, scurring among
myriad back yard networks and pathways.
Tense and rapt, yellow, glowing eyes
pierce the shadowed night,
searching for prey.
Fat cats (with watermelon bellies)
find it difficult to move.
And gracelessly fall from the fence
giving ample notice to those who would flee.
Fiegning un-ruffled ease,
Fat Cats groom themselves and stretch.
Ignoring fortune, they saunter silently
amid tall grass.
Tails held proud and high....
fading into the moonlit night.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Spiritual Warrior
(A Runic Poem)

Seeing The Self within her,
she knows the human race.

She is an issue and source
of Utterance
cast upon the shores
of the Divine rivermouth.

She swims ashore embarking upon
an unending journey of the soul,
traversing from the earth into death
utterly and helplessly charmed.

Opening gateways, her mystic words,
will slay both demons and giants.
For she is a Spiritual Warrior
who shall be victorious in every battle.

Setting her course for the stars,
her quest and destiny will lead her
again to The Unknowable.
There,once more,
seeing The Self within her,
She will sit beneath The Sacred Tree.

Carving magic bows and arrows
from Sacred Divine Words,
she will mark
the primestaves of planetary time.

Yes, she is a Daughter of the Sun.
Tried by fire, she journeys
"charmed" through
hail, sleet and the natural
forces of damage,
transforming herself into the fertile soil
of growth, rebirth and new life
For she is of the sacred Tree of Life.
Defending All, she journeys
out of need and necessity.

Entailing great disruption and hardship
along her way,she has learned
the lessons of constraint-
for she knows
the causes of human sorrow well.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001
Pure Heart

Tears flow, but
she has not
fallen from grace...
though her mind
may be swayed
by a poor  character.

The cruel darkness
invades the light
of her heart,
overwhelming her
by the contagion
and illnesses of others.

Shall she be blamed
for her weakness
and succeptibility?

having known the enemy
many times over,
she sweeps shadowed cobwebs
into nothingness
from whense they came,

then claims the reward
of goodness, right and light,
For she possesses

" a heart pure, kind and radiant".

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


The fragrance of lilacs
made her swoon
casting a dreamy smile
across her aged face
and a moist twinkle
into her eyes...

taking her back

inside a mesmerizing memory
to the loving days
of youth.

There, in her kitchen,
she carefully set the
fluffy , full, fragrant branches
into her finest crystal vase..
and with a beaming flourish,
clasped her hands, smacked her lips,
and threw us
a perfect Jewish mamma kiss-
then boisterously belly laughed
and belted out
in her stoutest  five foot magnitude

a beloved Russian folk song

while preparing
her famous meal of
chopped liver and cabbage rolls
with lucshen and cheese.

Having stuffed ourselves
into a painfully drowsy
and overfed stupor, we made
one last brave attempt at her
raisin-apple pie ala mode,
while she packed the rest

"to take for the road...!"

Oh, so bitter sweet
the memories of that day...
For now, cherished Leah,
you've gone away

...home to your beloved man,
into the arms of love
and lilacs
once again.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Dining Table

by  the thought
that I could lose love,
that I may hurt you,

I wear down my own
resistance's to run...

I will not
turn my back
in indifference or anger.

I will not
slam the door shut.

I will not
find a reason to leave you
standing alone in the cold
burdened and in pain.

I will not
lock myself in
or retreat into "my work".

There will be no excuses...

For you will always find
before you
in fullness and honesty
ready and willing
to lay every last detail
upon our dining table.

Eat with me. Share the food.
Be nourished by what is offered
and real.

Maybe, just maybe...
we will find
some hidden flavor
we've never before
or savored!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Dearest Mother

She is now ill...
weakened and wearied
by the replayed sorrows
of time
which have led her
down a re-paved road
of wars
nearly forgotten.

Her deeply sorrowful eyes
gaze moistly and fearfully
into mine- knowingly,
framed by her beautiful
silver-white hair
of history
and calamitous times.

As I grasp
delicate and aging hands,
her helpless tears brim
and seep into
my bleeding heart.

Mother, my dearest Mother-
These "Rumors of Wars"
shall never tear our grateful,
luminous and  loving
Baha'i spirits apart.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

The Catch

Having drawn
those illusive
within the net...
I  pull the strings
gathering  ruffled edges
to a close...
capturing jumbled
like so many
wriggling fish.

Heaving the net
aboard, the catch
falls free
spreading itself
in slippery profusion
at my eager feet.

These few
golden coins emerge
as precious words
among the silvered,
quaking throng...

and Emerald stones,
the  treasured poems
from 'neath the Sea's
ancient and Sacred Hold.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Anguished voices crying out...
longing to be heard, beseeching God,
beseeching each other.

A trillion competing messages
demanding to be heard, we
Crying, dying children waiting
to be nourished, loved and understood.

All this grappling
for a little sacred space in time
to call our own,
all of us feeling our complete
and mystified aloneness.

How big we seem  as we flaunt
our fortunes and fame...
and how small we seem
as we lose at our own games, then glimpse
a mere grain of sand miraculously here
being conscious  of  being conscious

Will we glean who we really are?
Will we make a loud enough wail?
Will we rise above
this cacophonous, clamoring
long enough to actualize ourselves,
recognizing the greatness and nobility
of who and what we are?

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


Humans love to
announce their arrival
with loud cymbals
and beating, crashing drums-

not having evolved or changed much

since ancient times.

Neanderthals threw rocks
at each other from the doorways
of their caves
and crept up from behind...

same as today.

Marauding troops
of early man
pillaged and plundered
entire villages, killing the offspring
of the women they raped...

same as today.

Even the thieving monkeys
knew better than to die
fighting over
the last banana.

Mocking us, they covered
their ears, mouths and eyes....

same as today.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Untitled Stew

I am not prone to
on gruesome
the horror of
the vision offered
repells , frightens
and disappoints
this tender, loving

These things
I  do not
wish to own:

the raging, angry
nightmare sickness
of the netherworld
of a maladjusted

Whether the saber
is wielded by
the hand of another
or is brandished by
your own...

you  both  end up
among the "living dead".

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Talk to Me...

Suspended words
averting our emotions,
rocking our trust.
Each raw moment
disappearing into staring eyes
of silence.
Shifting and changing chairs,
we know
what has
been said.

Can love be just
or deeply savored
if we do not embark upon
mutual fortune
with trusting and honest eyes?

Time looks favorably
upon those who exercise
their will toward

open and true

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

I Just Make Me Laugh

I reside here
in ridiculous heavy headed-ness
laughing at my own
pitiful attempts
to understand...when
I just wanna scream
and laugh away
this sense of over-whelming blues
walking like a shadow
inside these ill-fitting shoes.

Just when I think
I've got it all down
I find myself crying outoud,
kicking, scruffling-
and making confused,
fussing sounds.

God knows my head is too soon
in the clouds-
so, He throws me right back
wriggling like a half drowned worm
on wet, soggy ground.

(Sigh) Tsk.
It's enough to really make me laugh!

Thank God for that.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Beloved, blessed and happy
be the lowly and searching!

For, from ashes
does the Phoenix rise
toward the Eternal Sun,
and the moth
from the shadowed night
flutter nearer
the illumined flame!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Spring Son

Oh, hear me!

There are lilies
in the field
nourished by
the new spring Son !
The wing of the moth
whispers knowledge
as life expands.

But still,
A babe's salt tears
fill the sea
as a world
of "wise men" shout.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001   


at the gate of love,
They've sacrificed their lives
by the crimson stained robes
of God's righteous Cause.

They offer mankind
the long sought after
golden grailed Cup of Wine
the Arc of The Covenant

All nations shall approach
the Kingdom's golden, sacred
Threshold of Promise-
and the light
of the New Dawning  Era
shall shine
from the illumined Terraces
of Mt.Carmel.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

These Principles of Joy

A great sadness envelopes me
as I witness so many
deadened and joyless eyes.

I cannot but share
the depth and certitude

of my HOPE

for the coming of a healed
and enlightened world...

in which the Peoples of the world
will share One God,
recognizing His many Messengers
as having come from
One Common Foundation and
Ultimate Source.

When humankind will truly
the Oneness of Mankind
and see itself as
the Race of Man-
looking upon the varied colors
and likening them
to flowers
within a colorful, diversified
and magnificent garden.

When the
Independent Investigation of Truth
will distinguish truth from error-
leaving spiritual realization
in the hands of the individual
and not in the hands another-
making belief
a self realized privilege
rather than a passed down obligation
through generations of ancestry
without thoughtful, conscious

When Religion will be a Source of Unity
rather than a source of disharmony,
discord and war.

When mankind will realize,
and put into practice
the Essential Harmony of Science and Religion.

When the battling of the sexes will cease
and the minds and capacities of all
will be nourished
and recognized as equal
and positively known as
the Equality of Men and Women.

When the seas of hatred, despair
and oppression will end
the Elimination of Prejudices of All Kinds.

EVERY child on our planet
will benefit
from Universal Compulsory Education.

When Economic Problems will be
remedied by Spiritual Solutions.

When communications
among the peoples of the world
will be upheld by
A Common Language and Script.

When the affairs of the world
will be guided by an
International Parliament of Man
and All
will truly believe in and uphold

Universal Peace.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001
Note: All poems are
protected by copyright
and may not be reproduced or reprinted without the authorization of the copyright holder/poet. 
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Talk to Me
Oh, Precious Love...

Is hatred
so deep a pain
that it will never
know love again?

Where are
the bright innocent,
loving and trusting eyes,
of the dear nappy headed child
I once knew?

How you push me
scornfully and remotely

what can I ever say or do
that you will not receive
as just another form
of targeted bigotry?

So disgusting
am I
to your cynical
outraged and angry eyes.

I am helplessly at a loss.

There is nothing I can do...
to satisfy the rage
flamingwithin you, save
allowing you
to pull the wings off
this broken hearted fly, then
squish me and my
"patronizing love"
into nothing
but a moist spot
on the pavement...

Save, laying down my life
in nothingness before you...
which would be in your view,
"much too easy".

All I know is that
we once loved each other,
here, in our colorless hearts.

Here, where once
mutual tears blended
in a compassionate and human
life-giving, salty surging sea...

Is it so wrong of me
to continue longing
for your precious
lost love

and racial unity?

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Joyless Bird

Pouring out
my soul,
I long for
your encouraging words..
a sign,
that these moments
of naked comprehension
might find recognition
and refuge
within your guarded heart.

What fear binds you
in silent, imprisoning regard
and tethered, barren love?

Would you not give
this broken winged bird
a vehicle for her song?

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Spirit of Ignorance

Who is afraid of the Specter
that comes
from the dark night of the soul?
What veil obscures the vision
of the ones who look upon evil
with  blinded eyes?
What spirit possesses minds
and drowns tender hearts?
What wicked entity is it
that tears this world apart?

Every man fears his own
reckoning; his darkest reflection
staring back at him
from the mirror of his soul...
veiled blind
by those material conquests
for power and gold
which hold hostage
as pawns
our poor and unfortunate brothers
to the spirit of greed
and power hungry nations.

It is the Spirit of Ignorance
which animates and gives life
to the wickedness of prejudice
and all hostilities steming from
race, class, religion and gender.

Is it no wonder

that we find fear
in our own faces?
That we are challenged each day
by what is held deep and hidden within-
the eyes and soul who we are?
That we are indeed the

idividually responsible guardians

for the outcome of the world?

Searching my heart
at the end of each day,
I call myself
strictly and consciously

to account.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

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For R.H.

Sometimes truths
(like answers), descend
in an overwhelming moment
of light...
like that "flash" of comprehension which shines so brightly over
your "aha" head.

Sometimes the answers
like scattered bits and pieces
(of truth), descend in
a sequenced, jig-saw puzzle
over years
of struggling, contemplating time...and
You piece most of it
together... sometime
before you die.

You may believe those irretrievable
bits of wisdom lie hidden,
that somehow, you have lost
the determining key
to the outcome
of the "Big Picture".
Yet, really,
has been misplaced...

Those answers are to be found
on the other side...

('cause it doesn't end here...!)

You will digest
the questions of the journey
once you've completed
the goal's course.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Sullivan's Fiddle

Love danced
from the kitchen woodstove fire
on Saturday nights-
sparks popping and crackling
as the flame of friends and family
ignited spirits
in joyful music and song

rising high

into the winter's cozy
and magic night.

The merry sound of Sullivan's Fiddle,
rocking the cabin with jigging feet,
echoed across the barnyard and meadow, stirring up the Rooster-
crowing  ardent, scratchy punctuation's
as our whoops and hollers of laughter
rang out until the dawn.

Now, I gaze
into the warm fires of memory,
blinking away sentimental tears...
A Grandmother now,
lost in the peels of childhood laughter
and the precious  fields of the heart.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Pure Heart

Tears flow, but
she has not
fallen from grace...
though her mind
may be swayed
by a poor  character.

The cruel darkness
invades the light
of her heart,
overwhelming her
by the contagion
and illnesses of others.

Shall she be blamed
for her weakness
and susceptibility?

having known the enemy
many times over,
she sweeps shadowed cobwebs
into nothingness
from whense they came,

then claims the reward
of goodness right and light,
For she possesses

" a heart pure, kind and radiant".

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

For R.

I read your eyes
of "haggard" sorrow helplessly,
silently witnessing
your devastation,
feeling your
sorrow reverberating
across the memory
of my own lost years.

But, give ear:

Alone and frightened,
one may lift away the veil
of love's broken grief,
to reveal
the beauty of being


and the gift
of re-designing a chosen
and mindful self...
leaving that dark,
stark stranger
to shake hands with
a renewed identity
and a prognosis for
a fulfilling, productive
and happy life.

It is my vision
and chanted wish,
that you too,
shall witness,
                      and actualize

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Too painful
it is to speak
of these things
upon which we disagree...
too threatening
that we may clash
in uncontrolled
hostility and anger
spreading  viral-like
contagion, drama  and grief.

How easy it is then,
to slide between
these onion layers
of  pungent but silent
safety...where we may
privately screen
any possible release
of our
"worm-breeding" souls.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Dear Girl

Don't you understand
that YOU are
angry with me?

I am waiting for you
to share with me truthfully.
Must I be made responsible
for dragging it out of you?

I am not your enemy,
but the mirror by which
you may discern and free yourself.

I would be happy to reflect upon and
wipe away your misgivings
if you'd give me a fair chance.

Instead, you cirlce around me
like a sniffing, moody dog...
Only hinting at your mistrust...
in between the lines inaudibly.
I'm waiting for you to take responsibility
for your pain
and your anger.

When I reach out to you
it's through bars
in which you are imprisoned.

I want to free you
from your self imposed cell,
but you must first

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Past and Gone

You are now the cold winter
of past and gone,
the trillion miles of separation
groping in the dark,
a  grasping for fair flowers
in a longing heart.

The grown man no longer
seeks to know
those long lost moments
forever ago...

Yet, the deepest breath
inhales the faint child musk
of flaxen hair,  discerns
the  winds whisking
upon the memories of fragile time,
the heat and crackling fire
hidden within
his blue pooled eyes.

But, he is now the cold winter
of past and gone...

the trillion miles of separation

groping in the dark,
a  grasping
for fair flowers

in a longing, broken heart.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Awake and Striving

Oh God! Forgive Me.
I remember each mistrusting face,
each synical gesture,
Every unkind word
and misguided judgement.
And I try not
to "take it personally."

Deep wounds refuse to relinquish me
and I remain enslaved
to powerful scripts from the past.
Slowly dying here, I grope
for ownership of a new and reborn
empowerment not dependant upon
others' reward or rebuff.

Oh Lord,
Let me not judge those who judge me.
Nor let me be blinded by my own refusal
to take in the manifest lights and attributes
in front of my face!

We are all so small
in our self orientated worlds.
In this I am surely not alone.
For this, I might take it upon myself
to bestow mercy
where none may be returned.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Comes A Time

Because you are always with me
I see your face
as for granted...

What vulnerability lies within my ease!
What do I now know
of need
but that I am content ?

When familiarity shall cease
as it will and always must
I shall become
no more than dust
settled upon the farthest shelf
awaiting the hands of time
to sweep me clean
of a stranded state,
to open the gates of joyful reunion
with your familiar, beloved light
in the world of the afterlife.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Maid of the Moon

There is a Hand Maiden
who resides
in a hallowed
ancient Oak Tree.
Imperceptivly, each night
she emerges from
the safety and womb
of The Ancient Tree.

With head thrown back
and face uplifted
she gazes mystically
in moonlit wonder
upon her own face.

The Wise Owl
follows her flowing silver robes
and whisping flaxen hair
as she glides as an agent among
the diamonds and pearls
of the Mystic Milky Way.

There, whispering knowledge
gleaned from among the stars, she
merges into the Rosey Light
ushering forth the Dawn
of each new Golden Day.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


Drawing in the breath
of Chi
I am transported to
the unfolding petals of a rose,
alive with fragrance, and
more real than real...

I navigate this single
universe graced and awed
by the splendor
of an all-seeing eye.

Joy envelops my being
in a warm liquid rush
leading me still further
into the absolute
where suddenly

I recognize,
with much laughter and delight,
I am not alone!

There, upon meeting

eye to eye

with a precious jewel-like ant,
We observe each other
upon our mutual journeys
in complete acceptance...

with the most exquisite love
and happiest regard!

This glimpse of Paradise
I was allowed so briefly
to witness... Oh, how rarefied
and bright!

A fleeting kiss of bliss,

All wrapped
the Universe of Chi

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

The Spirit of "Chi"

The knowable realm of the senses-
sight, hearing, smelling and touch-
rise from the hidden depths of
moving through
our bodies, minds and hearts
in omnipotent presence
in the placeless unity
of who we are.

Without our material "clothing"
we may perceive ourselves
existing in unmanifest

as the eternal life spirit
of "Chi".

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

"Beartooth" Meadow

The pristine stillness
of the mountains alpine meadow
transformed my heart,
seemed to speak to me
from the wisdom of ancient

My soul tranquilized, I
perceived the mystery of change
standing within
the summit's of spirit.

My chanted  breath echoed
within canyon walls, then ascended,
soaring upon the wings of
mountain Swift's,
uniting  my rapturous melody
in an everlasting covenant
with the essence of the Beloved.

How dear to my heart
the everflowing Springs of hope
which lay nestled within
the Beartooth Mountain range.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

The Sunlight Cafe

There is a Sunlight Cafe
on my neighborhood corner,
where I meet with deepened,
philosophical thoughts
written upon the worldly faces
of magnificent strangers...
and hear warm, laughing truths
echoing among afternoon patron's
beneath boldly stripped green canopies.....

There, one may hearken to
the tinkling crystal-light
of tipped glasses ringing amid
splashes of brilliant color, as
fragrant flower baskets hover
above the heads of young lovers 
lowered and blushing eyes.

Melodeous tones, sweet and hushed
brush electrified, sensuous knees
beneath loves trembling
quaint and checkered
table skirts.

Magnificent, spiritual paintings
grace the interior walls of those
worldly hearts and minds...
While sidewalk easels gather
eager portraits of the changing times...
Capturing the voices of camaraderie
amid Spirit's and Poet's,
Painter's and Thinker's and
the "essence" of  all that is
Philosophical and Ethical,
and Spiritual versus the paths of
"Bohemian" life.

Oh, to the Sunlight Cafe
which is very much alive
and exists
on the neighborhood corner
of my wishful, dreaming mind!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


The little girl in the soft pink dress circles
around and around with joyful abandon,
gliding on a  two wheel scooter.

Her dress flutters and flaps like a sail in the wind
as she skims by-
boasting the most carefee, beautiful
and ecstatic grin!

The other little girls watch,  enviously,
but patiently- awaiting "a turn "
while some jump "rope rhymes"...
Laughing breathlessly and giddily,
the whole time.
An older, more mature girl, carefully plaits
her sisters golden hair
into a l-o-n-g braid
which hangs
neatly and temptingly down
her equestrian-like back.
Sigh.... all's right with the world!

Suddenly, the boys emerge in a flash
from the bushes-
snickering among themselves ,
they leap to fulfill their plot!
They rush right over
and give the little girl in the soft pink dress
quite a substantial knock!
Pushing her down and making her skin her knee
while they laugh and chortle and mock...

Then, noisily and triumphantly,
they "make off" with the scooter,
YANKING on that tempting l-o-n-g golden braid
as they rabble rouse along on their "get-a- way".
The mother's heard the girls outraged screams
and angry hurt and cries.
Of similar times they'd witnessed
with both saddened and innocent eyes
Those playful crimes and naughty, mean boys
that made life both bitter and sweet
Who disappeared without penalty
or "losing face"
down the neighborhood street.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Prairie 's Lament

Little did they know the grasslands
would dry out, be set ablaze,
and burn like hell's fevered winds
across the desolate expanse of prairie

Driving the herds blindly
into pungent blue smoke which rose
in stench for days, darkening the sky;
choking the flight of once happy birds,
singe-ing the circling plans
of red-tailed hawks

Skin hide teepees cracked and burned
those sleeping eyes who dreamt
of  sunflowers with drooping, heavy heads
and visions of harvests
about to die

White winds now sing lament
in rustling sage
and whisk tumble weed spirits
who remain whispering of
those  cruel, haunting days.

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

The Gypsy

Up and down the street sashays
a vision of independent defiance.
In rain or shine, sleet or snow.
Her long ringlets of black hair
frame an earthy, aging, wisdom .
A countenance of mystery and courage
...at 58 or so.
Boldly exposing her bosom
and still remarkably sharp figure,
she wears a clinging red silk polk-a-dot dress
to the annoyance of the "decent",
more "respectable"
neighborhood wives.
(How they scorn her so!)
She kicks off her matching red sandals
and sprints bare legged and barefooted
down the HOT asphalt street
as though life depends
on catching the last approaching bus.
She gallops like a wild horse,
her untamed mane tossing in the wind.
(Oh my, the husbands desire her so!)

She does not belong here
in this quiet, conservative place.
Her careless freedoms
worry the others so.

As she crosses by the wild fruit trees,
quick, cunning  painted fingers
gather red, ripe, and j-u-i-c-y apples.
There, plucking random fortunes
and life's secret knowledge for free,
she captures, then ties them
in the billows of that red silk polk-a-dot dress.
Knotting her deed
for all to see.

In awe,  I  wonder who'll taste
of her wild apple'd quisine
and envy this magnificent women
and her Gypsy soul!

Martha Meshberg
Copyright ©2001


As a writer,
I sit lost in
the keys of thought.
On the question mark,
Searching for symbolic meaning.

To be taught by thought,
Behind the blind of obvious.
Drawing akin to new possibilities.

Seeking  through the poets eye,
gives life to the inert.
Nature sows her concept
and all that is seen
with the natural eye
Becomes resource.

I am borne into alien worlds
and become the writing tablet
and the ink of life.
within my grasp
are the timeless moments.

I write
To journey a world
not moving
from the question mark.

Marty  Meshberg
Copyright ©2001

Poetry Archive 3
Archive #1