These four poems travel the intimate terrain of memory, identity, love, and survival. From the shaping force of childhood expectations to the small inheritances we discover long after our parents are gone; from the quiet astonishments of enduring love to the razor‑thin margins that separate us from catastrophe, each poet invites us to look closely at the moments that define us. Together, they form a chorus of reflection—honoring the past, savoring the present, and awakening gratitude for the fragile, luminous gift of being alive.
To Know the Present, Look to the Past
My past has made me into who I am,
I look to my family to understand their plan,
Mother wanted me to be her own success,
To be a performer and a famous actress,
Trying to please, to have my dad’s love,
I found myself on a pedestal too far above,
Looking forward to a future of safety and peace,
He assured me his love would always increase,
Trying to become whom they hoped I would be,
Took so much of my time and energy,
Where was I and what were my own dreams,
Wondering all this tore at my very seams,
I made a decision to run far away,
To stay in show business to work and to play,
To be my own person, independent and free,
Never forgetting values my parents taught me,
Be strong, surround yourself with support,
Make life better, share what you were taught,
However, you can never be someone else’s vision,
Just being yourself is the right decision!
~Carol Ostrow, author of “Poems from My Pandemic Pen” and “Poetry in Motion with Much Emotion”
No Longer On The Side
I want to tell my mother
that I like anchovies,
the wiggly strip of fish
disdained by many,
with a name as strange
as they are.
As a child
I was a very picky eater
and anchovies made me flinch.
I imagine a poll
in the frozen fish stick aisle
would result in the data
that not more than 7 kids in America
ever craved anchovies.
When mine were young
we spent many Sunday nights
as 3 generations dining at Al Forno,
a brick oven pizzeria
on Second Avenue.
We always shared
the family sized Siciliana salad,
with the anchovies on the side.
My mother was the only one who ate them.
Recently I discovered,
that I actually like
the salty devils too!
Cut in small pieces,
they add that certain spunk
to many simple dishes.
If only mom and I
could go to lunch
and share that salad again,
just as the chef prepared it.
~Nicole Freezer Rubens, author of “The Long Pause and the Short Breath”
Loving you is the greatest Gift
You let go
You reach in and out
It is not a game
An adventure that keeps on giving
A Journey unexpected but surprising
It improves with time
Some think it is an activity
Some say it is a game
Does the winner take all?
If it is shared
Lasts a lifetime
Making love is an incredible gift
If wine grows sweeter
In this case, it is the most divine gift of all
A treasure of our own kind
It is easy loving you
~Madlyn Epstein Steinhart, author of “Put Your Books on and Dance in the Rain,” “Beautiful Heart,” and “Found at Last”
How Many Times Have You Been Spared?
have you been spared
by the razor-thin elements of existence?
A screeching car
Gliding on a rain-slick street,
a distracted driver
glancing away for one fatal second,
while your fragile self
passes untouched through the slim lane of chance.
A crumbling ledge.
A misjudged step.
The dizzying abyss opening beneath you
like the jagged throat of the earth itself.
Your forehead stopping
an inch before shattering glass.
The thick shard of food
lodged in the trembling passage of breath
then suddenly released
as though life itself
refused to surrender you.
The venomous serpent
coiled in stillness
hidden beneath leaves and shadow,
its ancient poison waiting
for the warmth of your skin.
The opportunistic spider
lurking unseen
in the dark architecture of corners.
The terrible shudder of an airplane
caught inside roaring turbulence,
metal trembling against furious clouds,
while strangers grip armrests
and silently negotiate with God.
The treacherous glaze of ice
on the mountain slope,
your body rushing toward the savage trees,
until somehow
the anxious speed loosens its grip.
The dangerous stranger
watching too long
from the dim fluorescent silence
of the subway platform.
The car hydroplaning
across a frozen highway,
the wheel spinning uselessly in your hands,
headlights dissolving into white chaos,
while death circles patiently beside you.
Your skull grazing
the brutal concrete floor
of the shallow pool.
Another quarter inch
and the bright arc of your future
collapses into darkness.
How many times
has catastrophe brushed against your sleeve
without claiming your name?
How many invisible disasters
have bent themselves away from you
at the final unbearable instant?
A remembrance, then,
of all the incandescent moments
that might have become endings.
Catching your breath with a
a fierce and burning reverence
for the astonishing continuation of oxygen,
for the pulse still singing beneath the skin,
for every luminous ordinary morning
we were never promised.
Because perhaps survival itself
is the miracle
to awaken again
inside this perilous, radiant world
still gloriously alive.
~Phyllis Haynes, author “Dance in the Chaos”
