Monthly Archives: March 2017


Why did these men in black steal my house with all my things in it, saying my house is theirs, that it belonged to their family before it belonged to mine? How could that be, as my great-grandfather Hamid built … Continue reading

Posted in aging, George Polley, grandmothers, homeless, Jerusalem, Mothers, Palestinians, poem, Prejudice, race, Uncategorized | Tagged , | 1 Comment

Old love

How long has it been? Looking back, so much has happened since we met sixty years ago when you were twenty and I was sixteen. We married one year later in the village church, with everyone gathered around — aunts, … Continue reading

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Little one

Who are you, little one, and where is your mother? Are you lost, or just exploring, as my children used to do? Is that your mother I hear calling? It must be, as you cock your head, turn and go. … Continue reading

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Being old

Being old happens when you live long enough, the hair on your head turning white or falling out; your steps, once confident, falter, so you carry a cane with a spike on the end so when the snow falls and … Continue reading

Posted in Aging, Poetry, Uncategorized | Tagged | 2 Comments