by Agneta Falk Hirschman

A small hand on a windowsill
looking out on the future
the curved sorrow
an imprint I hold

a whimsical thought grows
to an ocean of bewilderment
a tender longing for fingers
to Interlace, helping each other
find the light

someone, something has dug
its teeth into my heart
I can’t reach it with my hand
nor with my voice, it beats
urgently inside, is as afraid as I am

history is on repeat
spewing bombs across the globe
it’s a sore dance to follow
a dance out of step

give me a tear I cannot cry
hand me a tool I can use
to undo the hunger
fill the ocean with fish

a guy on Green Street
I always have a buck for
tells me to go to hell
and no return
what else to do, but smile

a smile that doesn’t last
passed the thought of
this homeless city full

of cardboard beds
still, the dreams go on
someone plays the violin
on a corner, eats another’s
leftover lunch, chalk poems
on the sidewalk and shout
loudly into the night

Labor Day afternoon, a Falcon
settles in a neighbor’s tree
sits their majestically, very still, looking on
Is that you? I think, before it takes off

I want to bring back so many who’ve died
continue the conversations, get answers
to all the questions unasked, to be quiet
to be quiet together, to touch

elsewhere someone gets into a boat
crammed to the brim with people
fleeing for their lives, crossing
dark waters in search of a home

arriving at closed borders
barbed wire, overcrowded camps
it’s hard to climb over walls
built of fear of other
it’s hard to become a mere statistic
like a wind in vain chasing the weather

that small hand on the windowsill, my son
all our children, filling our shoes
following the footsteps, we’d made
our choice, their future

I fall
I fall
I fall
The leg is broken

begin to fly

by Agneta Falk Hirschman

A Cradle Made Of Gold
for Leonard Cohen

He takes you through the keyhole
engulfs you with his voice
open cracks in darkness
greets you at the door

you tap–dance on his tonsils
feel the vibrations in your soul
his voice is like a cradle
a cradle full of gold

it rocks you into slumber
makes you take a leap
opens all the windows
lets the river in

teases your tear ducks
to a soft falling rain
moistens the roots
of all living things

all that lays dormant
that makes you feel innermost
of being born in darkness
of being sprung into light

a fluffy ball of softness
for all that must be
when words and songs
become eternal harmony

by Agneta Falk Hirschman

The days grow hoarse
the colors of autumn
will soon die in the frost

time has passed
gentle beast
what remains
is the silhouette
of your laughter
the deep joy
slowly gathering
in the vestibule
for the final kiss

yet, I wait
for I don’t know what
hope the words
that burn in my throat
will be caught in a wind
and fly with you

by Paul Muldoon

To think you lived ten years without a wife
to frown on your dancing that newfangled jitterbug
or taking a penknife
to an ounce of walnut plug

or a scuffle hoe, bejapers, to scutch.
To think you lived ten years without a wife
and a wife’s touch
whilst holding your hands to the fire as if fending off

a future in which scutch would indeed be rife
in your twin–bedded crypt.
To think you lived ten years without a wife
who’d by now outstripped

you in dying as in whatever–it’s–called.
Losing ground since she had to scutch and
loosestrife,
she might have been all the more galled
to think you lived ten years, bejapers, without a wife.