My Valentine’s Day

after Jane Hirschfeld “A Blessing for a Wedding”

By Joanne Jagoda

Today when the master paints the sky magenta
Today when the universe of us composes a heart song
Today when you’re making morning noises
shaving in the bathroom
Today when you grasp my fingers and kiss them
Today when I remind you to take your pills
Today when you insist I put on the alarm when you leave
Today when I remember you brought me Cheerios in bed
after my chemo treatments
Today when you forget a corny Hallmark card from CVS
and overpriced roses from Safeway
Today when you yell “I’m home” four times
because you can’t hear me yell “I’m up here”
Today every crevice of my heart will be suffused
with a tide pool of us
Today let me not crumble with thoughts
of when we will no longer be we

Photo by Tomas Williams on Unsplash

A Walk in October

By Joanne Jagoda

When I’m on my afternoon meander
and I’m certain I’ve seen the most exquisite fall trees of all
and there could not possibly be better ones
a little further I discover another
and another
and then another
a buffet of pistache and sugar maple,
dogwood and scarlet oak—
shouting out to me in all their glory
until I feel like I’m awash
in the largesse of nature’s palette—
stunning brushstrokes
of gold, burgundy, and vermillion
and I take out my I-phone trying to capture
this abundance of riches,
but I never get the photo right
and really I shouldn’t try
because otherworldly beauty
can’t be captured
with a mortal I- phone lens
instead I’ve learned to stand still
and breathe
because I know this final show will run out
like a smash hit on Broadway on closing night
leaves will scatter like discarded jewels
in the next big storm
overfilling the gutters and roadways
and once again I will be overcome with longing

Photo by Andy Holmes on Unsplash

No Elegy for Jasper

By Joanne Jagoda

       There will be no words⸺
no tributes, no sonnets or verses of consolation,
borrowed from the great poets
recited for a toddler named Jasper,
an adorable laughing sprite napping in his car seat,
caught in cross-fire on the I-880,
on an ordinary Saturday afternoon.
       There can be no words⸺
no comprehension, no rationale, and no acceptance,
for this not quite two-year old, called up before his time.
Was he on his way to Target?
He had a Superman costume for Halloween.
If only his mother had been in a different lane,
would the angel of death still have stalked him?
       There are no words⸺
when a small coffin is lowered into earth’s bosom
his precious life cut down, a felled sapling.
Who knows whom he could have been…
what gifts he might have given our damaged world?
Yes, a go fund me set up, pleas for gun control, police presence,
cameras, ten thousand dollars for information,
as if, as if….. any of that could change anything.
       And there never will be words…
       only rivers
       of inconsolable tears.

Photo by Mary Oakey on Unsplash

no words

By Joanne Jagoda

       When I had no words ⸺
for my son in law who wept every morning for two weeks after Uvalde
when he dropped off my grandkids at school,
and for my daughter, a fifth-grade teacher
who wanted to leave the country
because she was afraid for her students and her own little ones
and could barely sleep or eat.
       When I couldn’t conjure⸺
platitudes or reassurances,
offer consolation or guarantees,
or my usual common-sense wisdom.
For once in my life, I was left speechless,
grieving in silence for children cut down before they could be.
       And I hoped and prayed, maybe, just maybe,
we had finally reached the tipping point with Uvalde
that we didn’t achieve (unbelievably)
after Sandy Hook or Marjory Stoneman Douglas.
Could Congress soar above partisanship this time,
demonstrating integrity and unity,
with new gun control laws, prioritizing a greater good?
       Still, sadly nothing has changed, shootings every day;
in a Walmart, at a L.B.G.T.Q. nightclub, university campuses, a parade, a bank,
so routine, so ordinary, I hardly flinch.
And the ultimate head-shaking tragedy, when a first grader shot his teacher.
And don’t give me your empty thoughts and hollow prayers.
It’s much too late for those.
There are no words and there never will be.

In RavensPerch

Photo by Bruno Kelzer on Unsplash

Sanctuary

By Joanne Jagoda

I’m a blondish plucked chicken
underneath my burgundy scarf
though I thought I was bold and tough
when I cut my hair short weeks ago
ready with wigs and peacock-bright coverings
until the last wisps started their heartless descent
and I wept, sprawled on the bathroom floor

waiting my turn, I sit on the leather chair
magazines unopened on my lap
admitted by default to this curious flock
a sorority I never wanted to join

quietly chirping in different languages
draped in cottons, silks, perky knits
exotic birds in festooned plumage
we steal wary glances at one another

bald beautiful birds shorn to their essence
stoic smiles, jutting cheekbones, haunted eyes
a thirty-something with a hennaed pate sits to my left
proud and elegant, so cool and hip
she cries, comforted by her mom
I sigh; she is too young for all of this

name called, ID checked again
my chemo cocktail prepared
I play my music and close my eyes

I see the others in the room we share
connected to the tubes
tied to each other by strings of understanding
the red poison drips relentless

hopeful birds we are all
sometimes we chat
sometimes we huddle quietly under warm blankets
tended to by nurses, family and friends
we hover bravely
not knowing what tonight or tomorrow may bring
praying we will soar again

Published in Dreamer’s Magazine

Photo by Camila Mofsovich on Unsplash

A Moment in Time

By Joanne Jagoda

early 1930’s, Hamburg Germany
handsome twins; tall, dapper, in well- tailored suits,
the one with a walking stick was my father,
strolling on a busy street
flanking their beaming mother
bursting with pride; it’s obvious
her face, lovely, sculpted
even amused passersby, watch them posing
so guileless, innocent, sweet
but if a prescient fortune teller could have read their cards that day
they would not have believed what lay ahead
their beloved mother would be deported first to Teresen
then sent to Auschwitz, May 15, 1944
taken to the gas chambers on arrival
I cling to this one photo, a singular remembrance
of this noble woman, my grandmother,
who never held me in her arms
or cuddled me on her lap
I study every tiny detail of the photo
carefully preserving it in my mind and heart
but I take that day for what it was, no more no less
just a perfect moment in time,
a mother enjoying a moment with her handsome sons

First Place in the Gemini Magazine Open Poetry Competition, May 2022

I Would Have Called You Oma

By Joanne Jagoda

I would have called you “Oma”
You would have called me “Little Doll”
I would have cuddled in your lap
You would have told me your stories
I would have gone to you when I was hurt
You would have kissed away my tears.

I would have looked like you
You would have laughed when people said that
I would have had your high cheekbones
You would have fussed with my straight hair
I would have slept on your shoulder
You would have sung to me about geese and rabbits

I would have made cut-out cookies with you
You would have taught me your recipes
I would have run to you with my report cards
You would have been in the first row for my graduations
I would have helped you when you were sick
You would have sat with me when I had the chicken pox

I would have told you my secrets
You would have kept them forever
I would have brought around my sweetheart
You would have welcomed him into your arms
I would have stood under the marriage canopy
You would have wept tears of joy

But they shipped you on the train to Auschwitz
And you walked to the showers of gas
Your precious light extinguished forever
And when I hold my own sweet grandchild
I think about you…
I would have called you “Oma”

Nominated by Viewless Wings for 2025 Pushcart Nomination, Quillkeeper’s Press

Walking around Lake Merritt on a Monday Morning

By Joanne Jagoda

A rare January-in-Northern California morning
colder than New York City.
I layered best I could,
adding a knit hat and furry gloves.

And can I tell you about the sky,
cerulean blue, a rare slice of heaven
that took my breath.

The lake shimmers as if knowing,
it’s on prominent display.
Ducks gleefully skimming the water
of this urban paradise.
City gardeners tend to flower beds.
Nannies prattling in Spanish wheel their little charges.

A weary man warms in the sun,
naps on graffitied benches,
his backpack serves as a hard pillow.

Another lost soul shuffles by, body odor trailing,
earnestly mumbling to himself, holding up his pants.
A woman carts a worn carry-on, pauses for a smoke,
asks passersby for money.
Joggers push through, oblivious to everything
except keeping up their pace.

On the perimeter, ragged tents and tarps
provide makeshift shelter for homeless.
Clothing hangs from branches of once stately oak trees.
The clutter is endless—
desk chairs, blankets, duffels, hot dog buns,
empty wine bottles, single running shoes,
even a glittery high heel.

As I walk, Welcome to the Hotel California
streams in my earbuds.
The words seem oddly appropriate.
“This could be Heaven or
this could be Hell.”

Published in RavensPerch

Photo by Puma Atbay on Unsplash

Cooking Lessons

By Joanne Jagoda

her kitchen, her kingdom
she, a conjurer of magical offerings
from an ancient O’Keefe and Merritt
just one smallish oven
a clock that read 12:30
never shedding her European roots
her repertoire solid, good food

I, an interloper
spoiled first- generation over-achiever
rarely offering to help
attempting disastrous half-hearted cooking forays
but it was really OK with her
school was priority to our immigrant parents

but I’ll forever regret I didn’t watch
when she made her roasts
heavenly smells of braised meat filling the house

and I didn’t observe
when she baked her masterpieces
apfel kuchen redolent with cinnamon
swollen yeast doughs like big stomachs
patted down then smothered with cut Italian plums

but thankfully I gleaned
what was important
from the little things she did
like paprika dusted carefully
hand-chopped parsley garnish
her presentations flawless

and when she made lunch for Mr. Cooper,
a crusty handyman in worn denim overalls
I learned what it meant
to be gracious and hospitable
to anyone who came to our house

a glass of Manischewitz, Campbell’s Vegetarian Vegetable soup simmering
thick egg salad with mayo and French’s on challah
a generous slice of her marble pound cake
arranged on a cut-glass plate
those precious lessons I never forgot.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Found

 Poetry arrived in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where it came from,
from winter or a river.
—Pablo Neruda

By Joanne Jagoda

I went back to my old neighborhood,
wrote about the cracked skylight in the too-warm kitchen,
the Norman Rockwell calendar,
hanging next to crinkled appointment cards under thumbtacks,
and recalled my immigrant mother serving lunch to Mr. Cooper,
a crusty handyman in overalls,
her thick deviled egg on challah and a fat slice of marble pound cake.

I wrote about golden poppies trailing over the splintery fence,
the glorious lilac tree in the backyard,
Mrs. Fishel spying from behind her living room drapes,
keeping the street safe,
and Mrs. Hetrova, our piano teacher, who came on Wednesdays,
with her pillbox hat where she hid her money from hooligans.

I wrote of “going downtown” on the 5 Fulton
with my mother and sister,
wearing little white gloves, a dress, never pants,
for school shopping at the Emporium on Market St.,
then tuna on toast at Blum’s and sharing a piece of crunch cake.

And it all came flowing back to me,
the fog shroud, the briny smells, the eucalyptus trees,
Saturday afternoons in Golden Gate Park
rolling down and down Lindley Meadow with my cousins.

And when I journeyed “home,”
it was as if I viewed my life through a new prism,
but I couldn’t stop the sad memories from showing up too,
party crashers, poking and prodding,
stories I did not want to dredge up
but could not leave untended or unwritten.
I had found my voice.

Published in The Write Launch

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash