width=61 height=87> Voracious Verses



Isis Weiss

The Book of Images


All sweat and no drama
bouncing a ďBĒ ball
in the corneró
They stop, look up
and whistle in unison
as the pretty girls walk by.


Wither away into a fine point
like a number two pencil
heavy with led, full of dark shadows
erasable with each passing dayó
Smudges on an otherwise perfectly good page.


The deer ventures out into the road
Confused, not expecting to be road-kill,
And ends up a bloody pulp
Behind the back wheels of a Honda;
which in turn is rear-ended by a minivan.
A line of cars swerves left,
Side-swipes a brand new baby blue Cadillac.
The cars line up for miles
Immobile behind this mess.
The guy in the last car
asks ďWhat happened?Ē to no one in particular.


A massive crowd gathers outside Carnegie Hall
on another dateless Saturday night.
She stands in the corner
with a red wool coat---
Look at me.  Look at ME,
Defeated she turns and walks east
to her over-priced one room apartment.
He walks out of the Russian Tea Room,
at the same instant,
having eaten and drank too much
with boyhood friends 
who help starve off the emptiness.
Tonight feels different to him.
He struts west with a bounce in each step,
it could be the air, it was probably the wine.
His heart makes a flutter like butterfly wings
escaping their doom.
Somewhere on 57th street
two lives collide.

© 2007 Isis Weiss

The Irrational River of Thought

Today I had to write a letter to a friend whose twenty year old daughter has cancer. The entire time Iím thinking what a difficult letter it is to write; how this is such a complicated task for me. I mean how selfish and self-centered am I? This poor woman has a daughter who might die and I am over-thinking how well (or not) written this letter is going to be.

After the letter is written I look desperately for a stamp. All out! I run to the post office and wait in line with the rest of the miserable slobs who donít have a stamp or have to send out a package. I keep thinking I wish I had this womanís email and then I wouldnít have to be here in this gray, sad place. My eyes wonder over to the most wanted posters. The men in those pictures always look deranged. If I met one I wouldnít even know it. Iím not that observant really. I have this inability to notice anything other than my own pesky thoughts.

Looking back at these thoughts I feel myself growing dim. I never want my friend with the daughter who has cancer to know how dim Iíve become in her absence. She moved away four years ago. A lot can happen in that time. Iíve aged so much this past year. I see a glimpse of myself in the reflection bouncing off the glass door. Jeez, I look like the Grim Reaper!

I am half the woman I once was. My friend may remember my colorful side. I was always the one with the witty jokes and sly smile. Maybe that is why she is reaching to me now. To pull her out of this darkness. I wish I had a way to get back to that other me. I think tomorrow Iíll visit the cemetery and try to remember what it is about life that I love so much. Iíll bring a roast beef sandwich with mayo and make it an afternoon picnic with the less fortunate (the dead) or are they really?

Oh, I think the trip to the cemetery went very well. While sitting at my favorite bench, I was a witness to something extraordinary. It rained last night and the ground was wet. The day can be described as mostly damp, dark and dreary. I guess this is my logical way of explaining what happened next. I felt a breeze blowing from behind me, up from the ground through my neck and shoulders past my left cheek and straight ahead. I looked to the ground confused and saw warm thick smoke rising out of a tomb. The name on the grave was that of my grandmotherís. Couldnít be! My grandmother is buried hundreds and hundreds of miles away from here, across the ocean, in a different country altogether.

I have had dreams of the dead before. I have seen them walk around while awake too, and ďNo, I am not now or have I ever been crazy.Ē If that is what you were thinking! In my foggy condition I could feel the presence of something familiar; something vastly peaceful and deep. She still guides me after all these years. ďGrandma, I ask, why canít you just give me the lotto numbers or tell me what the after life is like?Ē These visits are mostly for her, I know. I think she still misses me. But being the inquisitive child, I still need answers.

Then everything falls into place, everything that was scrambled like a dozen or so eggs becomes smooth as butter on warm toast. (The thought of that makes me hungry for toast). I feel comforted by her. It really is that simple. I look in my compact mirror and see her face. I never noticed before how each wrinkle, each silver lock of hair makes me look more and more like her. I like aging with my grandmotherís face. Itís not so bad to look into her kind eyes and remember all those long ago hugs.

I am home now. Life is good for the most part even if aging isnít. There are comforts to growing old. There is the old standard thought that you are wiser. Am I? There is patience, due to the fact that days become hours with the passing of time, you no longer have to wait as long. I feel each hour bringing us to the end and maybe the beginning of some other challenging chapter. There are things to do still. There is always something to do. I change the sheets on the bed, load the dishwasher, and walk to my favorite chair to read a book. Life is not so empty when you have books and memories to fill the remaining days.

© 2007 Isis Weiss


In the yellow house
a woman lays dying.

Drifting from redemption
to perdition 
all in a dayís work.

Under the trembling stars
she utters madly
as the clock ticks away.

Everything fades 
between tomorrow
and her downy thighs.

Long, sharp days lay ahead,
while her ebony mane
turns to silver threads.

The light diminishes
in the horizon
of so many broken dreams.

In the yellow prison
bells toll endlessly
as they chime deathís song.

She sings, and sings along
while blossoms wither at her feet
where a hundred tears have fallen

For her last love;
For her final hope;
For her ultimate end.

© 2007 Isis Weiss

About the Poet:

Isis Weiss:   My inspirations come from my travels, photography, music and art. I have lived in several different countries and Iím multilingual. Currently, I reside in New Jersey with my husband and two children. When not writing poetry I work as a stock market research analyst for a large publisher of news and financial information.