Lakewood is special. Thank you for putting it into words so eloquently.

Cora, thank you for capturing Lakewood's essence. Love love love your poem.

My strangest neighbor wielded the power of invisibility, and for three long years remained unseen, next to my dad's seemingly row end town house as we free wheeling teenagers, constant gardeners, heavily potted, weeding out various invasive species from the surrounding parks to invite to our plot at any opportunity when Dad was working third shift or at his girlfriend's expressing annoyance at our audible shenanigans with invisible notes in spring that cluttered the porch each morning, flying up with the gust of the opening door to tickle my nose, or would sneak into the house to hide our keys, drink up the OJ and dilute Poppops whiskey reserved for sunday night football, and worse put ashes and burn holes in all my cotton clothes. When Dad finally had enough of my neighbor's intrusiveness and to some degree my siblings partying and even less than that the green thumb of two of us, his girlfriend moved into the single parent home becoming two and coincided we kids mourned with the clear departure of our awkward and somewhat entertaining neighbor since all the nonsense came to a full stop.

According to the Ancients, the Difference
Between the Erinyes and Aphrodite Urania
Is Only Due to Where and on Whom Theyd
FallWhether on the Land or into the Sea

In proximity with what God or Goddess
does your soul live? Thats the question.

Sometimes, it seems souls are little boats
loosely anchored and variously moored
to long-lost Gods, memories, and dreams.
As Platos Myth of Er tells, unbeknownst

to mortals, our fatal decisions are often
made while still being down and dead,
just before exiting for yet another trek
from Hell by the jaws of its nether beasts

as our lots are being sealed by the Femmes,
the Fateseither by an Erinys or a Siren
or a Muse who leaves some with her gift

which then moves like a well-timed brush,
sweeping off the blankness of the erased
mindto let us know and love her heart.

I can't imagine a more perfect description of Lakewood .

Strange by Comparison

So ideal, the person is resented:
A representation of unattainable goals.
Friendly, mistaken to be phony,
And unjustly scorned.
A diamond in a neighborhood of rhinestones,
A cherry in a bowl of gumdrops.
Smiles unreturned,
Waves ignored.
Better by contrast,
The different is rejected.

The Scandal

They were the talk of the neighborhood
A mother and three daughters
No man at the helm
Unheard of in the fifties

Their last name spoke of nobility
Their raven black hair and olive skin
Deemed them as Greek goddesses
Or Indian princesses

Not the mother, she was worn
Heavy set, with droopy eyelids and hardened lines
The oldest daughter the most stunning
Slim, eyes long/slanted, face soft untarnished

For all their beauty and their noble name
There was a roughness a rawness about them
Their home reflecting this in the way it leaned
The yard unkempt and they and it unclean

Accepted as all were upon are street
Perhaps less liked and more just tolerated
They lived among us, her younger girls joined us in play
Life on the street flowed gentle and sweet

Until one day that suddenly changed
The younger girls were now in their teens
Not quite as beautiful as the oldest daughter
But still they exuded the air of the exotic

Their drive and the street in front of their home
Filled with cars and men young and old
Came and went as laughter was heard
Throughout the night, our parents horrified and enticed

The police were called and said there would be no raid
But planted patrol cars outside the home that leaned
Our families all gathered in the home
Sitting next to where the party was going on

To this day I don't know why we children were allowed
To this neighborhood stakeout that nefarious night
But adults and children all had a front seat as
Huddled in front of windows, we all watched

As men, young and old, streaked naked
Chasing equally bare ravened haired women
Quite a frightening sight to behold
Yet transfixed we sat staring at the erotic scene

Until our parents rushed us from the stakeout
Back home and demanded we go to our beds
Regretting that we had been exposed
To watching the sins of the world unfold

Eventually the men and young boys all left
In their place all three of our neighbor's daughters
Pushed little girls in strollers, their faces hardened lines
Their little girls with raven hair and the hint of the exotic

My strangest neighbor wielded the power of invisibility, and for three long years remained unseen, next to my dad's town house as we free wheeling teenagers, constant gardeners, heavily potted, weeding out various invasive species from the surrounding parks to invite to our plot at any opportunity when Dad was working or at his girlfriend's expressing annoyance at our shenanigans with invisible notes in spring that cluttered the porch each morning, flying up with the gust of the door opening to tickle my nose, or would sneak into the house to hide our keys, drink up the OJ and dilute Pops whiskey reserved for sunday night football, and worse put ashes and holes in all my cotton clothes. When Dad finally had enough of my neighbor's intrusiveness and to some degree my siblings partying and even less than that the green thumb of two of us, his girlfriend moved into the single parent home becoming two and coincided we kids mourned with the clear departure of our neighbor since all the nonsense stopped.

Day 11. Write a poem on your strangest neighbor ever, whether someone now or in a dormitory or ocean cruise or your familys first neighborhood.
Visit: https://tovlis.wixsite.com/tovliwriter/tovlis-writings for better formatting.

Honey-boy and Nikes

Neighbor boy. Unlike us.
In his house, honey melts completely in tea.
His grandmother never speaks. We wonder if she still has her teeth.
Honey-boy walks alone. He never looks back.
His shirt is crisp, but he only owns one. His shoes dont fit.
His mother found a new country six months after he was born.
She plans to return, with food and Nikes.
His father died waiting.
His grandfather is a gardener. Their backyard is filled with vegetables.
Sometimes Honey-boy brings us tomatoes.
On Sunday, he brings a jar of his grandmothers honey.
He smiles on Sundays.
He walks alone Monday through Thursday.
We never see him on Fridays.
On Shabbat, he prays with his grandfather.
They walk slowly, side by side. They watch their feet as they walk.
They acknowledge every stranger they pass.

Remember Honey-boy? I asked my brother two decades after we left our childhood behind.

In my dreams I see him. My brother remained quiet. Then walked away. His shoes didnt fit. His shirt had been recently laundered. He always seems to wear the same shirttzitzit dancing from the inside out.

Why should Honey-boy stick to our dreams?

He made dreams melt like honey in tea.
He wrote poetry on our souls.
With just the right warmth,
his grandmothers honeycomb softened our lives.

Strange.
Honey-boys grandfather-garden,
with its bee farm floated away,
it lingered in wounds, healed,
caused us to admire loose-fitting Nikes with missing laces.

In childhood, we simply watched, accepted gifts, and followed others.

As adults we chose one day to smile, one shirt to wear,
one memory to dream backward,
and taste Honey-boys little poem,
a note that divulged:

theres this world inside us, amused,
planning to return, with new, flashy Nikes,
silver-white with colorful shoelaces--
everything sweet,
all thats lost,
safely in place,
a chair set aside for anything we need.

Tovli 2024

Cora, so nice to encounter you again after all this time! I thoroughly enjoyed your clever tribute to the city I love.

Thats Lakewood to a T, terrific. Nicely written.

Yes! You have captured the essence of what we love about Lakewood.