Carol Schoen

Message

by

by Carol Schoen

The girl walked into the overgrown
meadow, wheat-colored grass
concealing secrets.
And then she saw it:

sunshine spewing radiance
from the sign: Cornell Dubilier —
a whiff of college,
of great French artisans.

There is no value in explaining
that it is a company that makes
electronic capacitors —
the child knew she had found
a magical kingdom hidden right there
in the middle of New Jersey.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Hare Krishna

by

by Carol Schoen

Twice exiled, not yet at home
in the park, the tree
remembers the dappled light
of India

remembers the prayers
the marigolds
orange and red
garlands strewn
among the fallen leaves

home now almost forgotten
in an almost forgotten park
but the faithful found it
prayers send from here
the hare krishna tree
a small sign pasted crooked

for fifty years
the hare kishna tree
they come here to pray

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Cemetery

by

by Carol Schoen

The cemetery cowers
in a corner of the office
park. Bought long ago
by immigrants uncertain
of eternity
it holds many neighbors,
my parents, the family doctor,
my aunt and her demented
husband, a teenage friend
whose presence always shocks me.

I check to see if the lawn
has been mowed, if the dead
juniper bush has been replaced.
A hole in the ground announces
a coming funeral.  I do not
recognize the name.  Finally
I go to my parents and stare
down at their gravestone, blankly.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Angel headed hipster

by

by Carol Schoen

Calm down, Allen, the angel headed hipsters
are sleeping it off.  The pot’s
all gone. Your momma’s
safe in that big sanitarium
in the sky and the Beat world blew
off in a puff of smoke.  A century
of time disappeared in a cyber minute.
Right now, right here, there’s just you
and me, two Jews trying to figure out
where we fit in a techie’s algorithm.
Here, I offer you, not the clutch
of love but a little of that mother
you hated, loved and wanted.
Come to this clean, middle-class bed
and I will cuddle you and you will remember.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.


Message

by

by Carol Schoen

The girl walked into the overgrown
meadow, wheat-colored grass
concealing secrets.
And then she saw it:

sunshine spewing radiance
from the sign: Cornell Dubilier —
a whiff of college,
of great French artisans.

There is no value in explaining
that it is a company that makes
electronic capacitors —
the child knew she had found
a magical kingdom hidden right there
in the middle of New Jersey.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Hare Krishna

by

by Carol Schoen

Twice exiled, not yet at home
in the park, the tree
remembers the dappled light
of India

remembers the prayers
the marigolds
orange and red
garlands strewn
among the fallen leaves

home now almost forgotten
in an almost forgotten park
but the faithful found it
prayers send from here
the hare krishna tree
a small sign pasted crooked

for fifty years
the hare krishna tree
they come here to pray

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Cemetery

by

by Carol Schoen

The cemetery cowers
in a corner of the office
park. Bought long ago
by immigrants uncertain
of eternity
it holds many neighbors,
my parents, the family doctor,
my aunt and her demented
husband, a teenage friend
whose presence always shocks me.

I check to see if the lawn
has been mowed, if the dead
juniper bush has been replaced.
A hole in the ground announces
a coming funeral. I do not
recognize the name. Finally
I go to my parents and stare
down at their gravestone, blankly.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Angel headed hipster

by

by Carol Schoen

Calm down, Allen, the angel headed hipsters
are sleeping it off. The pot’s
all gone. Your momma’s
safe in that big sanitarium
in the sky and the Beat world blew
off in a puff of smoke. A century
of time disappeared in a cyber minute.
Right now, right here, there’s just you
and me, two Jews trying to figure out
where we fit in a techie’s algorithm.
Here, I offer you, not the clutch
of love but a little of that mother
you hated, loved and wanted.
Come to this clean, middle-class bed
and I will cuddle you and you will remember.

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

Three Poems

by

by Carol Schoen

Prologue

They were nobodies;
two of the million
children of immigrants
from East Europe,
not artistic,
or philosophic,
or brilliant.

Born in New York
same time
as the Communist state
in Russia,  Julius and Ethel
committed their lives
to the goal of equality
for all.  They never lost faith.

Julius

Hundreds of years in Russia
as merchants, managers,
we kept order among the serfs,
dwelled in shtetls, ignored at best,
while the elite wrote scurrilous
books about us.

The Communists gave us the vote!
Imagine that!  We were citizens,
no longer aliens barely tolerated
Citizens, participants in the great dream.
We owe them.  I just wanted to help.

Ethel

No one saw the scabs,
police batons hacking

at the people’s  backs.
My first job, I  was a leader
striking for workers rights;
we won few concessions.

Julius said NO!
let the people feel oppression ,
suffer till they understand
only total change,
total destruction of the old,
will bring the relief
that communism offers.

Destroy?  destroy?
More suffering?

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since.

College Days

by

by Carol Schoen

In the dour light of a Cambridge afternoon
We threw Pooh sticks off the bridge,
raced to see whose stick had won,
chanted bits of half-remembered lines.

Wandering back on Brattle to traffic jams
in the Square, we examined the books
at the Coop, ate popcorn in the  U.T.
had a beer at O’Conners, held hands, kissed.

We walked up Garden Street to the dorms
sat on the steps,  chatted with friends
unwilling to part, unable to stay,
we stretched time to catch the moment’s joy.

I recall each minute in that perfect day,
but I suspect it never really happened.

 

Carol Schoen wrote her first poems for Sarah White’s study group and has been chugging along happily ever since