It's There
©2001 Jane Freeman

Did girlfriends call her Trudy
Did she have a dog
Did she ride a velocipede
Hike woods they'd later log

Write stories in a notebook
Get hundreds at her school
Like to tease her brother
Act silly, play the fool

Dream adventure sagas
Of traveling afar
Making waves in Paris
Driving her own car

Nurturing all those artists
The painter and the scribe
Penning her love for Alice
Her companion and her bride

If only she could dine at
A trendy sidewalk café
Or hear our literati
And our jazz musicians play

See pairs of women walking
Arm in arm, in open love
She'd wish to be in Oakland
Not just watching from above

Thoughts at Yom Kippur, 2000
©2001 Jane Freeman

Tufts of dandelion
Float aloft
Tiny seeds parachute
And reproduce.

Men argue.
Each claim the land.
Each claim that god
Is on their side.
Blood is spilled
And hatred grows.
Children die.

Protecting its seed,
Even a lowly weed
Knows how to grow
The next generation.

More Thoughts on Yom Kippur, 2000
©2001 Jane Freeman

Neither Barak nor Sharon
Nor fanatic orthodoxy
Speak for me.
Tikkun Olam means heal the world

Once landless, now you colonize others.
You pound the Palestinians
With high tech pogroms.
Is this Tikkun Olam?

Billions in U.S. aid
Have paid for the bullets
That crushed the children's heads.
Is this Tikkun Olam?

Oh Promised Land, keep your promises.
Make an end to violence.
Love everyone's children.
Tikkun Olam

The Coffee Table
©2001 Jane Freeman

The round top has a smooth oak-like surface in spite of tiny pits and scars. Picture these objects on it, painted wooden eggs in a basket, and stacks of hardcover and paperback books. A camera squats with its strap curled next to it. There's a television remote, dental floss dispenser, paper clips in a plastic box, a torn bag of cello wrapped lifesavers, a ball point pen, the folded datebook section of the Chronicle, and three birthday cards. A purple rubber band lies next to a red curio box. Two nested seals form a ying/yang sign on the lid, a delicate handle,
I remember when my husband stained and varnished this table in one application, forty-seven years ago. This coffee table has traveled with us from house to house to apartment. Three babies, in turn, pulled themselves up to a standing position, their fat little hands holding on, their bodies supported as they walked around its perimeter.
Just a piece of pine with a beveled edge. But if I sit quietly, I can almost see those little ones standing there, smiling. Look at me, they're saying. Look at what I can do.

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