Poem - A Piece of Plato’s Philosophy

A Piece of Plato’s Philosophy

In a conversation with his son

the old man said,

"Wisdom comes with ones

grey hair and beard"

“NO NO” the young man said

"Its not the colour or the

fungus on your face the counts,

Its what goes on in your head.

Said the old man

"I have earned these grey hairs

on my head and my beard

through the trials and

tribulations I’ve lived through"

“I’ve made my mistakes

and kept the receipts

and thats what we  call experience

according to my life’s sheets."

"I won’t argue with that, the young man said

luckily you were born before me

Your experience may help to make me wise

and I hope to grow grey before your eyes."

"with that remark alone said the old man

you are already showing marks of wisdom"

by Hillie Feldman  31st July 1998

Poem - Mental Constipation

Mental Constipation

Have you ever sat in from of your Computer

and nothing happens

Not a single thought touches your brain

no light anywhere

For a long time, you sit in front of your thought recorder

and nil

You stare out into space looking for something

to get you started

and now you look  out of your window

and through the slats, a garden

greets you, a mass of green bunches of color

where the Roses are king and the Snapdragons and Geraniums

vie to snatch your attention away from the Gladioli,

who vaunt their full glorious blooms

in the coolest part of the garden.

Its Hot today, very hot and the sprinklers on full blast,

attracting some pigeons who walk in and out of the spray,

ruffling their feathers, and bathing in a pool of water,

while small birds wait their turn, in proper pecking order.

Some sparrows bolder than their feathered friends

push their way in ahead of the others

a quick swim in and out, a shaking of their feathers

and off they fly defiant to the last.

So much beauty and yet I remain blocked, but wait,

on the road outside my garden, I see two nubile figures,

outstandingly beautiful, staring into my garden, while

putting their hands to the cooling spray,

so skimpily dressed because of the heat, they look as if

they are ready to go right under the shower. I call to

them through the window "come into the garden

and enjoy the shower" , they laugh, duck in and out

of the spray, and with a thank you wave, go on their way

shaking sparkling drops of water off their bare arms

and shoulders , a whiff of their perfume lingering in the air.

Somehow I am no longer mentally constipated, in fact I am chock-a-

bloc full of Ideas, which will have to wait until I cool down.

 by Hillie Feldman 20th June 1997 (copyright)

Poem - Night Owls

Night Owls

How quaint and queer

the quiet streets are 

when those from near 

and those from far

have retired at night.

How fragrant fresh

and free the air

When those from here

and those from there 

are safely in their beds.

When Moon-beams meet 

in merry mood

cast bright light

where shadows stood

touch roof- tops, trees

and chimney-stacks

with magic light-------

From far away

and places near

the posterns of 

the night appear

Watchmen Police and 

Traffic Cops

Night Owls 

of the dark.

By Hillie Feldman copyright

30 June 1996

Poem- A Tribute to a peace maker

  A Tribute to a peace maker
 

 When a king dies

a nation re-acts

according to whether 

he was popular and respected 

hated or despised.

When Yitzchak died

a nation wept

and the nations of the world's V I P’s

Kings and Queens Princes and Royal Personages 

Flocked in from every corner of the 

globe to share with Israel

The intense grief felt

by Jews Christian and Arabs

and even former enemies.

Life will move on

The nation will settle

down again

the Knesset will take 

up its burden 

Shimon will lead 

the way.

But if its Peace 

we want 

then first we must 

settle our house

The left and the Right

must talk to each other

so that we are seen 

to be united 

and strong.

Through our strength

we will win the battle

for Peace

and justify the work

that Rabin did

in a lifetime 

loyal service to 

The State of Israel

Hillie Feldman copyright   12 Dec 1995

 ----------------------------

 Today the wailing sirens

Sounded throughout the land

Bringing the whole nation

to silence and tears.

Kings, Queens, Princes.

The Presidents of many nations

From eighty lands

came to Pay homage

Yitzchat the sabra

had gone to his rest.

Huge piles of flowers

masses of candles

marked the coming together

of men women and children

in spontaneous grief

Rabin is taken away

from us -Why?

The grass did not stir

and the wind did not blow

no birds sang, bees or

butterflies moved.

Nature itself stood still

trying to absorb the

shock of a Nation Bereft.

Lea few wives have an opportunity

to meet and marry

a man of the stature

of your Yitchak.

Few even fewer have

been through the trauma

you have had to endure

in these few days.

Your family your friends

the nation and even

many of our former

enemies share our pain

                       and tears.

Hillie Feldman  undated

Edited by Ronnie Feldman  11^th Aug.2017

Poem - Jerusalem Bus 20

htJerusalem Bus    20 September 1995

Like the Chagall figure

I floated above 

The Wailing Wall

Touching the ancient stones 

I felt the deep pain  -

Centuries of anguish 

of my people.

I saw the river of tears

That sought the assuage 

The grief of 3000 years. 

Even now ethereal

Dawn mists softly

Creep along the city skyline

Creating an eerie feeling 

Of fear in me.

In among the traffic 

Bus 20 moved slowly

Up the hill

Hesitated a moment

Then all hell broke loose

A blinding piercing explosion

Tore through the bus

Fire, smoke, a huge pall 

A black umbrella 

Edged with orange flames 

Engulfed everything.

Startled pigeons flew

in all directions

Tree branches blown 

asunder.

Cries for help

Screams of pain

Sirens wailing - fire brigades

Ambulances and police cars

all converge.

A weeping man carrying 

a bleeding woman 

in his arms. 

Stretchers loaded

on every side.

A scorched briefcase - papers scattered

Bloodied torn shoes and clothing

Abandoned bags

Parcels - a child's headless doll.

A ripped tallit hangs drunkenly 

from a twisted pipe.

Splintered glass everywhere

Opposite bus 20 -  bus 9

Gaping burning and blown apart

Skeletal seats dripping blood 

I wept with anger - burned with hatred

Hatred for demons 

that had engineered this act.

My whole being demanded revenge

"Vengeance is mine sayeth the lord"

Like in a dream 

The pigeons returned 

Nearby a white dove 

Fluttered to earth

Carrying no olive branch

By Hillie Feldman copyrighttps://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1729858876454860687#allposts 

Poem -The Poet’s Palette

The Poet’s Palette 

I take up my word palette

And Now try to decide

Will I paint a poem

In flaming red a murder

Mayhem in the sunset

Or maybe something in Dismal Black

Refugees in a war scene

All to familiar processions

of women, children old folk

on the roads away from home

Nowhere to go.

Maybe a White description

of hospitals , nurses, doctors

and ambulances

Their battle against the microbes,

pus and pain.

I could use the Yellow press

Sex words, topless, nudity

pornography child abuse,

Prostitutes and pimps.

Or indulge in a little Pink socialism

Dark Red communism – already fading

or Deep Green world environment

But my best choice of all

The changing seasons

Spring blossoms pink, white red,

Variegated colours of flower filled

Gardens, meadow, veldt and country side

And stark brown and black mountains

Summer with dark green lawns

Flower strewn banks –gentle rivers

Shrubs, trees, bushes and

Hedgerows in full bloom

Autumn richly festooned

Brown, yellows reds and purple pruned

The bird life on the wing.

And empty places

Where the lark does sing.

Yellow of the harvested fields

Awaiting next year’s spring.

And winter with its bridal

White and chimney stacks

Black puffs of smoke

Against the dismal grey skies.

There is no doubt that word and colour

Are always one with one another

Truly the poet’s palette.

 by Hillie Feldman 1995 copyright

Poem -Just a feather

http Just a feather  

Where are you my feathered friend

Who lost a feather – maybe

Victim of some errant cat

Who licking tips of desire

Waited on your nest for you

To return – so that he could devour

In his our chosen hour

You - in his chicken soup.

Or is there another

Tale to tell

Way up high

While some bird of prey

Even higher in the sky

Pounced on you

Like bait from the blue

And carried your corpse

To the mountain eyrie

And all that was left of you

Was one large plume

 From which I fashioned a quill

To record your doom.

by Hillie Feldman 1995 copyright

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