copyright (c) 1996 Beatrice K. Sheftel New poems copyright (c) 1998 Beatrice K. Sheftel
a collection of my poems. (Please read and enjoy,
but do not copy my poems.)
by Bea Sheftel (c) Feb 1999
We are spirits in bodies.
Spirits have no color,
no religion, no race.
Spirits live by Divine touch
Let us unite and sit together
not as racial colors
but God's people,
open to His spirit, His love.
Put away the knives and axes
of prejudices and see beyond
differences to what makes us one.
Love, compassion, understanding.
These know no region, no country.
They are the best part of us,
unafraid to mingle, to break
barriers which divide.
Solder ourselves soul to soul until
we cry with one voice.
"We are all God's children!"
DAY VISIT TO NEW YORK: BRUCE
Bea Sheftel (From Beauty in the Weeds)
He sheds his workcoat when he visits New York
Becomes one of the many exclamation points
hurrying up Fifth Avenue, In their black overcoats,
furred and fluffed women by their sides.
His hands give him away, ungloved,
their texture like medium fine sandpaper.
But he joins in the pretense, with a pocketful
of dollars, a working man's hoard.
He spends too much cash at the golden tower of Trump:
eats salad with hundred dollar patrons,
tips bills, rolled from his penny jar.
by Bea Sheftel (From Beauty in the Weeds)
We sit at Grandma's wooden table,
watching wrinkled hands knead dough.
She fills the shell with sliced apples
bought fresh at the fruit wagon,
mixed with a crab apple or two
from a gnarled tree.
Back bent over floured board,
she blends the fruit, like life,
sweet and sour combined,
a treat for her grandchildren,
whose itching tongues ache to taste
the gift of Grandma's love,
the memory of her harvest.
PRAYER FOR THE CHILDREN OF KOSOVO
Dear Lord, hear my prayer today.
It isn't for me or my family.
I pray for those I never met
in a country far far away.
The children of Kosovo,
they need your Divine help.
Oh Lord, I pray for the children
who cry in the fields of despair,
who hunger and thirst.
Dear Lord, reach down from Heaven
wipe the tears from the children.
Put hope back into their hearts
and smiles on their faces.
The Children of Kosovo
how little they have left.
Families gone forever.
Babies cry, children sob,
have mercy on them.
Oh Lord, hear my prayer
for people I do not know.
My arms ach to hold them,
the children of Kosovo.
A MOTHER'S LOVE
Many years have flashed by
since my son to me was born,
like lightening in the sky
since I held him in my arms.
My heart soared with deep joy
when I kissed my baby boy.
Now my son is a grown man,
proud mom, his greatest fan,
watching him running through life,
following an upward path,
fearless to problems or strife.
I gather roses on his way,
to bring the sweet to each day.
From ancestors this gift wends
from parent to child, I send
a mother's love has no end.
THE CHRISTMAS STORY
Crackling wood in flame's glory,
sweet pies and special dishes,
mangers, the Christmas story,
reminders of our wishes.
Hand in hand with love we sing,
Peace and hope, blessed season,
Faith in Man, still lingering.
Hatred kneels to His reason,
our life renews as we see
the Christmas star on the tree.
Knowledge alone will not
a good teacher make,
too few really are,
Teaching saps the strength
and drains the blood.
The young wear age lines
when they dare to teach
I look our my kitchen door
at the hills of snowy slides
where the dog jumps and plays.
His small body softly sinks
into the mounds. And up he pops
to bound again on another mound.
He chases a branch blown free
by the breeze, rolls round and round
in the deep snow. Stopping
just a second, he nibbles the crusty
surface. Body bounding,
he leaves large prints.
He looks at me waiting
in the open kitchen door.
Then he turns and sees the street
where freedom sees to lie.
No leash holds him.
I twist the heavy band
which collars my finer
and set the table.
Elmo, the hero dog