23.04.2026

She'll come at some point,  

In a moment of quiet 

My fears will soften, 

And fall away

In dispassionate reason

She'll sit beside me

And silently take my 

Hand in hers

There'll be no drawn out 

Hallway goodbyes 

All of that will

Already have happened

If I am so fortunate  

My suicide will come

As naturally, in its time, 

As any other death

Dirty dishes may 

Sit in the sink,

And damp washing may still 

Hang half-dried on the line

And the afternoon sun, 

May intrude through the blinds, 

Turning flecks of airborne dust

Into sparkling confetti

And in that moment

As the world carries on

     (As it always has, 

      And it always will,)

With a sigh of long 

Awaited peace

I'll simply know

It's my time to go. 

21.04.2026

What value is resilience, when 

Everyday, I

Smash into yet another dead-end,

Like a Ferrari, full-speed 

Into a brick wall? 

At what point does the 

Cost of repairs become prohibitive?

Already, my body's mostly 

Grey matting, and epoxy; 

The chassis is cracked.

(to say nothing of the axles.)

Even the steering is fucked, 

It seems I've 

Lost my ability to

Avoid dangerous obstacles.

The Problems Inherent to Suicide Intervention and Prevention

The following is a personal treatise on the field of suicide intervention and prevention, and should not be read, nor construed as a letter of present intent. 

It should be noted, that whilst it was written about my own experiences with suicide intervention, prevention, and mental health triage in general over the years, and as such, it remains a valid critique from my perspective, I share it with a note of trepidation, because despite my own experiences, I'm loathe to diminish the potential help it may afford those for whom it is more fit. 

~●~●~

The problem with so much "suicide prevention" and "intervention", is that it seems to focus exclusively on stopping the act itself, too often ignoring the real-world threats that may be prompting it. 

 

In my experience, (with rare exception,) preventionists operate under the premise that suicidality, is a maladaptive response to trauma, or emotional injury, and predicated upon thought distortions, and so, they follow one (or more,) of several possible scripts: 

•"Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem."

•"As long as you're here, things can always change for the better." 

•"Think of the people who love you."

And of course, my favourite bits of psycho-pabulum, (so concise, they easily fit on a bumper sticker, button or tee-shirt,)

•"You are enough."

- and-

•"It gets better". 

Whilst these are all lovely sentiments, they completely fail to address the reality that many of us who live our lives with the knowledge that we're unequipped to survive in a world of constant demands to which we're unable to respond, and so we face a lonely, painful existence wherein we're constantly under real-world threat, while those who'd previously offered support, become increasingly frustrated and impatient with us, oblivious to the fact that the help they were offering wasn't the kind of help of which we were able to avail ourselves, until they too disappear, leaving us ever more depleted and burned out than we were to begin with, and so, unless something else takes us out first, eventually, we'll have no choice but to do it ourselves. 

Much of the disconnect seems to stem from a complete lack of understanding of less than visible disabilities such as Autism, ADHD, AuDHD, Major Depressive Disorder, C-PTSD, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and others as well as differences in extant support systems. It's not necessarily these conditions themselves that are the impetus for suicidality, rather, it's the fact that they can often render us neurologically and therefore, physically unable to effectively navigate the compounding demands of this world, and too often, when we say that we are unable do something, we're disbelieved, and there's an insinuation that we're simply not trying hard enough, and we're labelled as "ungrateful", or worse, disingenuous to begin with. 

Believe it or not, when I think of suicide, it's often less about self-dissolution, and more a desperate bid- ironically, to "survive" with my sense of agency, dignity, and safety intact. When it's not about hurt feelings, but the actual inability to survive in this world that's been set up in ways that actively repeatedly cause me harm, the thought of finally becoming immune to those harms, is the only thing that brings me peace. 

All of this is to say that, what to others may seem like a desire for self-annihilation, is often born of a final, desperate sense of clarity, of the fact that the obstacles we face, simply in order to continue to exist, are sometimes truly insurmountable, and unless and until the field of suicide prevention comes to terms with such uncomfortable complexities, and commits to actually confronting them, it will remain for many of us, no more than a useless, inappropriate, actually injurious parody. 

17.03.2026

Often, in the midst of some 

Day to day mundanity, 

My eyes scan the room

And note that door

And something like ambivalence floods my veins; 

How easy, to rise, 

Discern my path, and walk through it

Even if 

For no other reason 

Than the simple fact that 

It's there.  

28.02.2026

Then at some point 

Between the alerts, you'll 

Make yourself a mug of tea 

          (something to remind 

            what "normal" felt  

            like)

You'll sit in your kitchen 

At the open window, 

Wrapped in a long, black, 

Thrift store wool coat 

          (that once held a man, 

            at least twice your 

            size,)

And note the indifferent late afternoon sky 

All daubbed with pretty puffs of pink

          (so thick, you think   

          "they look like cotton 

            candy",)

And dunk a biscuit in your tea

Hold it there for

Five "Mississippis"

        (the perfect length, for     

          just slightly soggy,)

Then take a bite 

          (with tongue– not 

           teeth, pressed

           hard against the

           roof of your mouth)

And thus you spend your in-between times

Waiting for your tea to cool

Waiting for the sun to sink 

Waiting for the sabbath to end

And the next red alert that you know will come

          (you can practically feel    

           a new rhythm forming)

And already, your body knows this notation 

Already, she's relearned 

All her old steps

          (almost independently, 

           like you 

           weren't even

           necessary,)

And before you know it, this will feel normal

You'll float from couch, to kitchen, to shelter

To bathroom, to bed,

And shelter again

All on cue, an automaton

And to anyone watching, this 

Strange performance 

It might even look like you're

Actually alive.  

08.01.2026

Often, places make better poems 

Than clumsy words might hope to construct. 

An alley runs through the middle of my block, 

All lined by wild, and weedy lots

Where cacti and tamarim share the red soil 

At night, they're home to crying jackals,

Heat mad cats, and balletic bats

Once, I thought I'd found a gift

A tousle of oleander– 

        "Rapunzel's hair"

But in the end, it was white hibiscus

A pleasant tea

A promise, dashed. 

28.12.2025

Of all possibilities, it's a 

Small, green, sour apple I choose

To break my forty hour fast.

Hungrily, I bite through it's 

Lightly textured skin, perfect

Pale yellow crisp flesh, and

Do not stop until

Just a stem, 

And a few small, brown seeds 

Are all that remain in my sticky palm.

All of this, simply to say, 

To you, who've so kindly checked in,

That reports of my death by starvation 

Are greatly exaggerated, indeed.  

03.12.2025

The thin chill of late Autumn's evening Haifa air,

Dances in through 

Open windows, and 

Like shy feathers, touches the 

Skin of my bare shins and feet 

While the rest of my body 

Curls inward to nest 

Inside my gigantic, faux fur coat.

I'm laying on the couch

Its back cushions stacked 

Upon the floor at one end, 

To widen the space of my crippled's bed. 

Through the same windows, 

The day's light fades 

Not gently, it explodes 

In oranges, and vivid pinks, 

Then surrenders to blues, and finally black

And outside, a cat yowls 

And sticky cars' tires complain

As they try to hold onto the street

It's my body, now that opens a memory:  

Cold, late afternoons, 

Sat by the computer, 

Beside the open bedroom window 

How empty that apartment 

When She wasn't home

Loneliness, like spikes in 

The bottoms of bare feet on cold, buckled floorboards- 

How I'd push it away 

In the warm escape of 

Others' lives online

And when sometimes even 

That wasn't enough

I'd climb into our bed, my cold feet, not 

Daring to reach out for the

Home of her foot's sole

Instead, like my body right now, 

Protectively,

Pulled inwards toward self

And rub them together 

Beneath the duvet covered

Down winter comforter

My body trying desperately to

Pull in warmth

My face, out, 

Open throated gulping air

The cold New York air like 

Clean, ice water.  

01.12.2025

The jets, whose roars split 

The Haifa skies 

Are so dammed heavy; you

Can't even begin

To imagine. In fact,

They weigh

As much, as the sum

Of every world

They've had to destroy. 

This is just the way with war: 

Each rocket–

Every missile, grenade..

Even bullet 

Carries unimaginable mass

And always, 

No matter which side

They leave behind

A million black holes.

Now, don't get it twisted, 

This isn't condemnation.

I know too well the importance of war.

But at the same time,

How can I possibly

Ignore the suck

Of all those black holes? 

Memory Of Somehing That Never Happened

That time I wanted so badly to feel 

A different kind 

Of dust on my boots

Red, so fine and dry‐ 

Do you remember how I 

Begged you to come to the desert with me? 

To sleep again 

Underneath black skies

To feel the chill of earth, so dry

That even in summer, at night, we'd freeze 

To wake at first light

To the longing, red hills

To the world: a fresh wound

Yawning, open before us.

16.11.2025

The tissue-thin, dried-out, brown, crumpled leaves, still sit–undisturbed, in the grey, stone pot that you left behind, when you moved out.  

It's the only thing that, when I moved in, I left in its place, on the floor, by the window. 

Unlike the box of your old cookware, that I had to haul to the orange street bin, or the long, folding, banquet table, I carried under my arm, all the way to the Wizo thrift shop. 

These things all had stories that took up too much space, and you left them behind, for me to deal with.

But the heavy, grey, volcanic stone pot, was already a ghost; I just think you forgot.

Trust me when I say this: in my fifty-six years, I've moved more times than I can count, and as unromantic as it may sound, we're always leaving our ghosts behind:

     An old plant in a corner 

       we'd forgotten to water

     A snow globe given by an   

       office friend

     A shoebox of some 

       deceased relative's

       clippings 

All just ghosts from a life, 

Ephemeral things.

15.11.2025

In this driving, blinding, crushing rain, 

There's little to nothing that can be seen, 

Beyond the house across the street;

Even the bright, port crane lights are gone. 

I dreamt, last year, of a massive flood, 

That swallowed the jettys that lie in the Bay

And went on to eat the docks, 

The port, Bat Galim, and the Lower City

And as the waves white caps lashed hard 

The houses, and cracked their graffiti'd facades,

The concrete block, brick and rock 

Walls b'neath gave way, and fell 

The kiosks, cafés, Tambours, makolets, 

All seemed to sigh, surrender, and sink.

The old Russian men who ran shops in Hadar,  

Soviet, and stoic, shrugged and drank tea

The Christian Arabs all fervently prayed, 

Masjid minarets played Al Adhan

And as the waters continued to rise 

Threatening us, atop Har HaCarmel

News 12 said that "..well, of course,

the new Ark has long already been built,"

Then went on to say, "...but there's only room, 

for Bibi, Sarah, and the Haredim".

And while I stood at my kitchen window,

Looking out as my city drowned,  

'Twas the raven I envied, who'd refused to return 

And not at all, the supplicant dove.

14.11.2025

This place I sit by open window watching the world drown

Although the sky is falling, nothing ever seems to stop:

Police sirens wail, the traffic hums, and ships (imperceptibly) "race" 

To unload goods at port for us and our impatience

The neighbours across the way 

Are fighting yet again;

He'd promised to fix the roof last year and now the floor is wet. 

So much commerce, all the time; so much to get done

I try to lose myself, instead in watching my pigeons; 

Some huddle 'neath dudei shemesh, 

Others bravely stood atop: defy the downpour, and

Autumn chill, to gaze upon their world;

They seem to say, "why miss a moment, of this hungry life? It eats us whole, no matter what, so live! Don't just survive."

13.11.2025: "The Emissary"

The obstreperous white of 

Cranes' wings in flight

Strike the battleship-steel-grey sky, and 

Slash the seamless, fog-drawn dawn;

A brilliance, bright as 

Summer's Sun

All calls to mind, how even now,  

In dark'st November, 

When torpor pulls 

Me back to slumber—  

The refuge of dreams, 

(When all of mine have 

Come undone,)

It's neither time to 

Give in, nor give up, 

With promises waiting, like 

Bulbs 'neath the frost

If only I can just hold on 

Through interminable Winter's stark, 

As day succeeds night, the Spring will dawn

Only new light can vanquish old dark.

06.11.2025: Dad

I've kept your mug.

The one with the alligators, 

Where each one's different, 

But every one, 

Has the tail of another one

Clamped in its teeth.

You'd told me once, how 

The only time, you'd 

Use it, was when, 

To you, it felt like 

The entire world

Was "nipping at your tail"

And I understood instantly,

How it was a part of you

From outside of mom, and me. 

I've often wondered

Where did you get it? 

Did you buy it for yourself 

Some evening, waiting, 

Between trains?

Back in the early Seventies  

When you worked for 

Barton-Aschman

When we lived in Chicago,

And we only had one car, 

So, at night, after work 

You'd take the train, 

Into Evanston, 

Where mom and me 

Would come pick you up

Me, in footsie pajamas

Red boots and winter coat

While the impotent wipers

Swept the snow off of the windscreen

Of mom's burgundy Renault? 

Or, did you find it one morning, 

Left, wrapped, on your desk, 

A gift from a co-worker, 

Or maybe the whole team

Because they'd actually seen 

The monsters that you fought 

(Both from without, and from within?)

Did it make you feel seen? 

Did you feel understood? God, 

I hope that you did.

I hope that at least once, 

 

The world had been more kind to you, 

Than it later, had become, 

When you lay dying in a bed 

That wasn't even yours, 

Alone and scared, while 

The insurance company threatened.

I've kept your mug. 

Once, when I was visiting you 

And mom, from New York, you'd 

Walked into the kitchen,

Just as I was about to pour my coffee into it

 

And you told me not to use it, 

That it was personal, something special

And you told me why, so that 

Maybe I wouldn't feel offended

And I'd understand, how for you 

It was sacrosanct; an amulet 

For the worst of times. 

I kept your mug

Out of all of the objects that

Populated our home with their stories

This is the part of you

I chose to bring with me. 

I've used it only once

When I felt trapped by my shortcomings 

That was back in New York, just after you'd died.

I kept your mug. 

I keep it safely tucked 

Towards the back of the cabinet, 

Behind all my others, 

Deeply loved, even if rarely seen

And I hope that maybe 

That's the way, you'd 

Told yourself 

I felt about you. 

29.10.2025

My ancient home is 

High above the bay 

In Fall, I open up 

All the windows 

Air out the rooms from the 

Stale heat of Summer

But none of the doors in my

Apartment latch

And with the windows open

It becomes a wind tunnel

And the wind plays percussion, 

And the neighbours complain

But who am I?

And who are they, 

To try to dictate when the

Bay wind, can play?

01.11.2025

It starts as soft panic, that

Sends me back 

To the sweetness of sleep. 

When finally, I wake

It's at the insistence 

Of my twitching nerves.

The toilet calls

Then coffee, and I'll stand, 

Once again at my

Kitchen window, as the

Electric kettle, lit blue,

Bubbles

I'll assess the world, 

Note the state of the bay,

And whether the pigeons are around today

Then, coffee made, 

I'll adjourn to my chair; maybe

Flip through my phone

Or write a small poem

Anything to ignore the

Insurmountable mess that's

Taken over every 

Inch of my home–—

      "Just, don't look up- keep  

       your

       Eyes on your phone, or

       Something else,

       Something

       manageable, maybe

       Sew another hat

       Or write another poem"

While meanwhile, the piles of 

Detritus grow

And so does the mould that's destroying my home 

And wreaking this hell on my body. 

28.10.2025

By far, it's not that it's 

Actually cold, but 

There's an absence of 

Warmth in the air 

Already, I sense the 

Truncated light, that 

Turns grey afternoons 

Into ink-black-blue nights 

Already, again these 

Old bones of mine 

Have turned into picky, 

Dith'ring, crack'd sticks

Who beg me to pull on my father's old coat, 

A seasonal surrender,

But I protest! Look,

The sun is still bright as it

Was in July, 

And flocks of white sailboats 

Still rock on the bay 

But closer by 

To where I stand 

The roof where my friends roost,

Is silent today

No cooing or flapping, 

No comforting din

Just empty and quiet

No performance given

And down, below

Where the streetcats yowl

Or laze, in afternoon's 

Dust speckled sun

It's deserted too; no 

Amity found

There's only the city's 

Far-off, lonley hum. 

20.10.2025

Oh, this precious thing

This old, stained, banged-

Up brass tray, marked with 

Permanent footprints from my 

Mother's Shabbos candlesticks

And a small, round, nickel-sized

Imperial Russian seal, 

That looks like an ancient coin 

And captivated me as a girl

This tray that my 

Bubbe's bubbe carried 

All the way to the New World from Minsk

(Or maybe it was Pinsk?)

This thing, that

Like an archaeologist, I've 

Carefully extracted with an exacto-knife

From layers, and layers of bubble wrap 

And now hold tight, to my chest,

The wetness on my cheek, 

Surprising even me

Hundreds of years

Generations of daughters, 

And mothers, and bubbes

Now here with me,

The last of the line

Pressed hard to my heart, 

This culmination of dreams

Each year, we would say

"לשנה הבאה בירושלים!"

"Next year, in Jerusalem!"

And even now, it's hard to believe, that 

Here I am

And you are now here with me

(Maybe not Jerusalem, 

But only a short train ride away) 

And though I've not brought forth a 

Daughter, 

Who will stand one day, like we

A white kerchief on her head, and

Sweet prayers on her lips,

And sadly, I know that this 

Tray, and all of our ghosts 

Will inevitably end 

Up in some junk shop, someday

But for now, at least,

This Friday night

I'll stand in my livingroom 

Wooden matches in my hand

(White kerchief on my head

Sweet prayers on my lips)

And you will stand beside me

In this Land of all our dreams, 

And finally fulfill 

The promise we had made.

18.10.2025

Skeletal fingers of

Winters trees, 

Accusing the sky, 

And bluegrey, side-

Ways slanted light

On felt-cover'd mounds

All painted white

That threat'n to pull me, toward

Hiraeth, to someplace, 

Where weary, my

Soul might rest

And dream of warm light, 

While here in crass brightness, 

I dream only of softness 

Of dimmed, blurred lines

And patient stillness,

The kind that I 

Have only found 

In Deep'st Winter's night.