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[This poem was written under the impact of a 12,000 ft. parachute jump].

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Free Falling Granny

Must be mad...
But no – no going back
It's up, up and away now
While I stare into thin air.

 The signal sounds
-But just a minute
-I mean…how?

No time for buts
Out the gaping door I go
Into a tandem jump.

And oh my, oh my
I can fly
Like the birds and the bees
Like the flies and the geese
Well – almost at least.

Flat on my stomach
Arms playing wings
I feel
The mighty magnet
Of Mother Earth
Urging me back
To where I properly belong.

Well knowing that this force of
Eventually will win
I beg for a few more moments
Just bird's eyeing
This spectacular speck of our

Canopy opening above
The free fall comes to a halt
Turning me back upright
No more pressure on my chest
No more thunderous winds
Engulfing my head
Just sheer dazzling, dangling
As all spells stillness.

Not yet within hearing range
Of ice cream vendors
Trudging along the shore
Down yonder
Ankle deep in sand
Oblivious of turquoise waters'
On which my eyes feast
As I swing and sway.


Back in the bosom of the Earth
I am still in the sky.

©Birgit Talmon – Summer /06



In the Super-Pharm

It's 'socks up'
As I zigzag
The perfumed lanes
Eyes firmly fixed
On the toes of my shoes.

The in-names
All blend into
One indistinct scent
- Luring.

A slightest side glance
Spells the eye contact
That'll get foxy vendors
Going with their:
This is exactly
What you need,
It'll smooth and soothe
Your complexion
Lift those tired lines'.

I tighten my blinkers
As I head for all I need
The aspirin that will soothe
And then the lift
That will bring me home
Sweet home.

© Birgit Talmon – winter /08  



Crowning the dead

In the beginning
There is
The tooth fairy
Silently sneaking
Her surprises
Under the pillow.

Then molars take over
Grinding life's feed
Of sweet and sour
Hard nuts
Along the way.

An occasional
Nerveless stump
In porcelain's embrace
Pretends while keeping
Dentures at bay.

 Let there be munching
Long live the dead.


 © Birgit Talmon - /07



A face – its name
A lifeless blob
Flat on the tip of my tongue
Refusing to take shape.

Grey matter battling
This, nature's mishap,
In feverish attempt
To get that name upright
While still facing its face
To push it off the tip
Let it spill over my lips
With an air of the victor.

 ©Birgit Talmon - /07


 Playing Footsies

 Hello there
Little pedal bin
Shining bright
In this toilet’s neon light

As a matter of fact
In course of time

I have run into
Quite an impressive lot
Of your numerous cousins
Spread far and wide
And you are all the same
So I know your game.

At my toe's slightest
Touching your pedal
You'll go speeding
Across the floor
Me hopping along on one foot
As if the tiles were hopscotch.

You’ll slip into the deepest corner
Under wash basin

Where your stainless lid
Will flick open and
Smack against the wall

Finally letting me
Discard of my trash
Doing the splits
While playing footsies

With a partner as odd as you.

© Birgit Talmon


Lady Butcher

Clad all in white and plastic apron
She glowers over the debacle
Unfolding before her.

Each of the raw ingredients
For a delicious bowl of that
So famous Jewish penicillin
Neatly displayed in stainless trays.

A pair of voluminous turkey breasts
A row of ditto legs
Not properly shaved
Round the ankles in the rush
Wings which never really went soaring
No longer tooting fanfares.

With bitter-sweet satisfaction
She swings the flesh hatchet
Pounding the chicken breasts
Into paper thin schnitzels

With such a flesh hatchet
And so many chicken breasts
Who needs a shrink?

© Birgit Talmon, November 2005



Deep red and beautiful
The long-stemmed rose
Proudly bids me welcome
From its vase.

When trouble is brewing
Dearly-bought roses
Are precious to us both
And so very worthy
Of the echoing joy
As your manhood’s
Precious purse
Slackens emptied
With delight
And I as well
Am drowsily satisfied

© Birgit Talmon, February, 1997


Sweet & Sour

So now then…
There they sit
Joined in Holy Matrimony.

Table beautifully set
A teaspoon for sweetness
A tablespoon for sourness.

Their hands reaching out
At times for this one
At times for the other.

© Birgit Talmon, Autumn 2003



This is the Land
And Holy Moses
This is the Language.

 My hand,
Forerunner of
My brain,
Caught between
Graphite and
Rubber tail-ends
Going the wrong way.

Poles tilting
Tediously competing
Balance shifting.

Worn-down pencil points
And almost unruffled erasers,
Earned by the
Sweat of my brow
As, at long last,
Hebrew and I
Have – just about
Come to terms.

 © Birgit Talmon, 2006







 © Birgit Talmon, 2006


A roll in the hay

On the cover
Of my mother's book
From a forgotten time
Couples swing and sway
To a mouth organ's tunes
In the dim light
Of Midsummer Night
In the dunes.

Closet reading
I follow them
Back to the farm
Up the ladder
Into the hay
Where I bury my nose
Between the pages
Sucking in
The paper's musty odor
That remains
My perception
Of a roll in the hay
Up until the day
Stepped down
That ladder.

©Birgit Talmon,  27.12.07


Better never than later

All those years
I did not know
That prior to me
Another soul
Had swelled alive
Within the warmth
Of the same womb.

At the end of my term there
You were not around
- Only I.

On the day we stood face to face
The void became filled
Filled with love for one another.      


In anguish we must part
Flee from our stumbling block
Flee – lest we defile
  The Lord's command.

© Birgit Talmon



What tore through your inly
Proposing to you before your time.

Did you fling yourself at it headlong,
Or snuggle down in anticipation
Cheek on the cold iron.

If you chose the second way
To be your last
Did you then
 Have the presence
 Of mind at all
To pay me a thought
Your will galloping
Wildly towards you
Jerking at the rails.

Did you  - did you not
Love me  - love me not
I shall never know.

©Birgit Talmon, 1985

Inly meaning: Inner self – word used in poetic language only


Sweet stink of survival

As soft as newborn moles
And emitting scented freshness

The socks set out once more.

In the burrows of the boots
Blindly they cling round feet
Called up again all too soon.


Stiff with dust and sweat
Upon returning
From the perpetual dispute
In heritage battlefields
They rise from the burrows
To spread their reek
Throughout her rooms.

With relief she welcomes
This familiar stink:
For smelly feet in ditto socks
Spell life.

© Birgit Talmon, 09/07/89


That Crutch

In the fresh morning breeze
He strides
Amongst friends and foes
Feeling secured
By his well supplied crutch.

Getting softer
In the knees
With each drop
Vanishing from
The flask on his hip
He knows that
Behind the intriguing labels
Brightly luring on the shelves
Is the power
That'll get him back up there
Where the world looks bright
…Till the day
It slips out of sight.

 ©Birgit Talmon


Could it be…

Tiny precious grains
Silently washed up
Upon promised shores
Perhaps as a nature’s gift
From the Nile
Happy playground
For happy children
Still with bucket and spade.

Tiny precious grains
Captured anew in jute
Stacked up against windows
Great grandchildren
Of long gone sandbags.

Do they tell us
We are back at square one
Or could it be
We never left it.

© Birgit Talmon, March 2002


Nurturing self-respect
Deeds of Darkness

Wingless Ones

In obscure kitchens
Hooded men
Frantically cook up
In relentless pursuit
Of gathering
Strength and range.

Deeds of darkness
-         Off they go
 Soaring up and away
Like wingless hawks
Screeching down
On sitting ducks
Yet another pile of misery,

...another heap of victory
In the eyes of the beholders.

© Birgit Talmon

Summer /06 And Winter /08


Current currents

It had been decided
From above
That this was the place.

So right there
The seed was tucked in
Little hands
Padding the ground
To the sound of silent prayer.

When time was up
So was the feeble stem
Peeping round
As green
As the hope.

Feeding on disputed land
It thrived well
For a while
Leaves sipping
The goodness
From sun rays.

First petals
Already showing
When the storms
Became utterly harsh
Tossing the hope
From side to side.

Soil grown sour
At its feet
The delicate stem
Turned into a briar.

© Birgit Talmon – August/05  


Getting together

In pleasantly dimmed light
On comfortable sofas
We babble in concourse
About the seemingly
Never ending abattoir
On the roads.

There is simply nothing
Like a settee such as this
For finding the key
To put an end to
Incidents and accidents.

From here we all
Show the uproar
As is meet and proper
Good advice and know-how
Spilling over from armchairs
Demonstrating willingness
To do anything in our power,

…Except perhaps
For taking a good look
In the mirror
Admitting the presence
Of a potential Speed Demon
Dormant within ourselves.

© Birgit Talmon   06/1996 


Home and Dry?

Rushing home
At closing time,
The gifts of his gab
Glueing the tongue
To the palate,
He puts his feet
To rest on the
Old familiar footstool
While loosening
The choking silk tie
Allowing a free flow
Of the guzzled coke
To wash away
Gnawing doubts.

© Birgit Talmon, 2006


I wonder…

 When I bolt my door
Do I thus -
Shut evil out
Or fence it in?

© Birgit Talmon, 2005


In Absentia

She did not want you
To take me to wife.
Her voice not heard
It seemingly lost its fight.

In absentia
Her genes ran their errand
And we became parents
To our sweet little honey dew
Framed in pretty lace
Smiling back at us
From Granny’s face.

© Birgit Talmon, Summer/05


Passover Night

Each year comes Passover Night 
Each year comes a family fight
Then in festive attire
We together admire
And gobble gefielte with delight.

©Birgit Talmon, 03/2004



There once  was a girl named Grace

Who based her face on her face
Growing a bit old
She started to unfold
Letting out her inly from its case.


© Birgit Talmon, March, 2004




My naked spirit
Wobbly on its edge
Utterly incapable
Of uniting with
My naked body
Engulfed in ritual water
Plunging into the new self…

Into the price
For little loved ones
 Should such come into being

To be equal amongst equals

In this land
I'd chosen for them
To call home.

© Birgit Talmon, 02/2004


Blessed be…

The vagaries
Of the weather,

- At a pinch
An ever handy topic,

That can shatter
Silent moments
The two of us.

© Birgit Talmon


Elegy for a mouse

Never thought it feasible
To be borne by you
My enchanted gateway
To modern constellations.

Now you lie lifeless
Tale-end no longer flaring
Like a rocket's
To transport me
To realms
Of wonderment.

 © Birgit Talmon, 2005




Spring wafts

Heavenly scents

Over the Promised Land

Bringing in its wake

The eternal question:

"Why is this night


From all other nights?"


Profane eyes

Scan sanctified aisles

Fringed by nylon veils


A Kosher license.

Stung by the yearly censure

Through hushed slits,

Hands fork towards

Forbidden fruits. 

  © Birgit Talmon, April 2006




 This little heavenly enclave
Enwrapped in barbed wire
Has an electronically operated gate.

Brain and body washed oh so thoroughly
Neat-length skirts and skull caps
Welcoming the Shabbat
In a swirling Hora
Blades of grass tickling feet
Caressing this God-given foothold.

Then - In the twinkling of an eye
A blast beyond fence and gate
May once again enwrap very still uniforms in smoke
Out there under the celestial map of the infernal Strip
Twinkling above forever closed eyes
Gone home now to God’s Acre.

But not to worry
A fresh batch of custodians
Is soon to arrive
For here the Hora show must go on
- Some say.

And I ask -
He, on whose side of that fence
Is He?

©Birgit Talmon, 2003



 Words committed to paper
Are but a tool – a frame
And how exciting
To run into
That very poem
Hiding right there

Between the lines
For each and every one
To reflect upon.

© Birgit Talmon, 2004


Letter to Greenland


Tell me, sweet pea,
Are you ever more
Knitting that never ending
Scarf of yours
Giggling at stitches
Popping off the needles
Leaving large gaps
In the pattern?

Whither now, Massantina,
While I water the seeds
Of the Winterdrops
So awkwardly tucked into
Our flower bed by
Your kinship's tinted hands?

And my falling through
Your knittings portals
Into your embrace
- What is to become
Of those dreams?

My understanding you
Was perhaps as nil
As my understanding
The connection between
Your needles and wool.


Remaining – for now
Is but to safeguard
Our little haven -
Have already begun weeding
Between feeble sprouts
Peeping out
In what was to be our
Trickling togetherness.


If called back
By the blazing whiteness
Of your native soil,
I beg of you
Let not once more
Your slanted eyes
Be blindly drawn towards
The edge of the inland ice.

Massantina – still my love?
Let tomorrow once again
Be yesterday.

© Birgit Talmon,
Spring 2008



 My sweet one - it is now
Ninety nine long nights ago
My dad's heart stopped again
This time
Leaving us for good.

 Then came some men
From "Charity"
 To fetch his clothes
Now that he didn't
 Need them anymore.

 This I could easily understand
But didn't like the way
His long johns were
Pulled from the drawers
Held up in the air
For inspection.
- Didn't seem right
So private, no?

 The shortest guy
Put on dad's raincoat
Blaming the unstable weather
For his runny nose.

As the "Charity" folks left
That raincoat trailed
Down the steps

Like a bridal veil
And was gone.

 The hangers - left behind
Dangled so lonely
For a while without
The protection of dad's coats.
- It all seemed so very wrong.

What do you say, love?

©Birgit Talmon, Spring 2008



I am very hungry, but must first
Feed your boots a new batch
Of peppercorns
That'll keep gnawing
Intruders at bay.

 And then I shall be off to
The stand on the corner
That emits those heavenly scents.

I do not go there very often
Now that you no longer
Can keep me company.

 While munching away
I watch the richly coloured pictures
All having something to do with a
Sausage from some angle or other.

 The one showing
The young girl sinking her healthy
 Teeth into the brown skin
Had you giggling shyly – remember?
Well - she's still there.  

 When tired of watching her
I sometimes try to strike up
A theory about the name

 The sausage guy calls me "Pal"
And says that maybe we'll
Discuss that some day.

 But he always turns away quickly
To serve another pair of hungry eyes
Peering into the promising smell
One with ketchup,
 No mustard thanks,
With onions, though,
 But for heavens sake
Not raw!


On my return, belly full,
Your baby-seal boots
Will greet me by the door
Where you walked out of them
That last time your legs obeyed.

 The abundance of peppercorn
Shall keep 'Silver-Fish'
From nibbling at
The tribal embroidery
Preserve my memory.

©Birgit Talmon, Spring 2008



Long before yesteryear
She settled amongst us
Here in Mangolia – our land
And though
Not of our seed nor stock
She might be good enough.

And when those blue eyes
In due course
Grow dark and slanted
Customary with us
We shall embrace her more fondly
And all will
Seemingly seamlessly blend.

© Birgit Talmon


A Kind of a Smile

I had no choice
But to let them cover you out there
With that listless concrete blanket
As custom bids
You had, after all, orphaned
Your soft eiderdown quilt
Under which silence prevails
Now that your good morning winds
No longer crack with a giggle
Just for kicks
Right there on the brink
Of yet another day.

From the glass on your bedside table
Your Sunday dentures,
Which I shall no longer water,
Smile at me – breathlessly
Without your lips’ embrace
While the lump in my throat and I
Wobble on the edge of a life
Without you.

© Birgit Talmon



Yet another morning
And we are still here
Caught at the peak of our pride
Distorted scenery within us.

This morning, my dear,
Treading cautiously
Let's descend from here
After all,
The two of us feel so cold
In such somber moods.

Then we'll hug and love
In a reborn warmth
Yet another ascent.

© Birgit Talmon