This poem was inspired by a visit to my long-time friend who lives in Bellingham WA which has much natural beauty and many artists and galleries.

Ladies Dancing, Ladies Singing

For Barbara

Never mind that our voices
break and crackle as we
burst into song at the least provocation,
that there are several la, la, lahs
and something, something, somethings
among the remembered lyrics.

We’re still knocked out by Dr. John’s
growling boogie, Etta James’ sexy, raw,
“I Just Want to Make Love to You.”
We serpentine to Klezmer freilach, upraised arms
and hips swivel to the rhythms of Senegal and Jamaica.

Never mind that those hips are wider now,
that the flesh under our upraised arms
moves to a rhythm of its own,
that we run out of breath sooner, collapse
in ragged giggles before the music finishes.

No matter that our grown daughters
affectionately call us crazy. One day,
after we are dead and they no longer young,
they may remember, pick up old melodies,
the steps, make them their own.

We rust and patina in the weather of years.
Like the metal sculpture we loved
in that gallery on Chuckanut Drive,
ladies with flying hair, kicking legs,
hands linked, we dance.

Sylvia Levinson, October 2003
First Prize, American Society on Aging
National Conference on Aging, April 2004
Art and Aging Poetry Contest

While studying Pablo Neruda's odes to inanimate objects in a class, I began this poem which started out praising a spoon, but turned into an ode to my daughter.

SPOON
for Sally

Slender silver spoon

delicate handle, swirl

of jonquil, tapered oval

which I now dip into

narrow-mouthed jars

olives, capers.

This same tiny spoon

dipped into strained carrots,

introduced first foods

to my first born, this

daughter of mine

her eager mouth

sucking the sweetness,

I, carefully catching

the spills, wiping

the cleft of her infant chin.

O spoon, this child

you nourished, learned

her lessons well: she welcomes

life with open mouth

taking in the world

from savor of first tastes

she grew voracious

to devour life.

To sip the garnet wine

of Cotes du Rhone,

color of her birthstone,

dine on succulent green-lipped

mussels from New Zealand

waters, a sprig of mint

from her own herb garden,

foods ordinary or exotic.

She travels,

treks steep paths

the Cinque Terre

above the Mediterranean,

in the swelter of August

sits in silent respite,

in Assisi, the cool damp

crypt of St. Francis.

Sucks the marrow

of knowledge, studies

language, literature, law.

O spoon,

you served this child

well. This woman

lives con brio,

open eyes, open heart.

She feeds me.

Sylvia Levinson, 2003
First Prize, African-American Writers and Artists,
Poetry Contest, 2004

Long ago memories can flash into consciousness triggered by the senses - scent of perfume, song on the radio - and you are 13 years old again, with all the excitement and trepidation of your first school dance.

Eighth Grade Dance

Girls lined up on one side of the gym, worry their hairdos,
boys across the varnished floor, jostle each other.

My friends and I, all giggly and hopeful, first gloss of lipstick,
contraband mascara applied after leaving the house,

choose me, choose me, we wish in silence,
trying not to look too eager

as the doo-wop pulse, Blue Moon
(you saw me standing alone) starts up over the speakers.

We want the cool guys, the almost-bad boys,
the ones whose voices are already baritone,

whose hair is slicked back in Brylcreem ducktail,
short-sleeved shirt rolled to the middle of biceps.

Scent of Evening in Paris, Old Spice and cigarettes
overlays the sweat of last night’s basketball game.

And we want to be held, slow dance,
budding breasts against muscled chests,

groins sloped chastely away,
the heat of them calling each other.