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I AM WHO THEY WERE Arthur Robert Goshin

Cover Photo: Ghost Ranch, Abiquiu, New Mexico

OTHER POETRY BY ARTHUR GOSHIN One Hundred and Twenty Four Moons Longing Before Dawn Loveâ€™s Cloth Both The Harvest And The Seed Time Changes Nothing The Strange Curiosity of Memory Always Searching for Me Keeper Of Memories A Gate Opens Regardless of Time

Dear Lord, Grant me the grace of wonder. Surprise me, amaze me, awe me in every crevice of your universe. Each day enrapture me with your marvelous things without number. .... I do not ask to see the reason for it all: I ask only to share the wonder of it all.

Abraham Joshua Heschel

Always there is something more to know what lingers at the edge of thought awaiting illumination.....

Natasha Trethewey

For My Wonderful Sister Lois Chertoff

ABOUT THE POEMS All of these poems, these musings, were written over a two year period beginning mid-2016. While most, as in my past writings, are about topics such as identity, memory, aging, love, death, family, the Holocaust, and childhood, the dramatic change in the sociopolitical landscape forced me to constantly reflect on how I view the implications of these changes. I’ve also included four poems from previous books that are identified by an asterik(*). The book’s title comes from a line in the poem ‘The Only Gift That Truly Mattered’ on page 5. I do hope that you find some meaning in what you read here and have the opportunity for reflection.

[Please note that there are really two separate books here — one poetry, and one photography - and that the poems are completely unrelated to the photographs]

ABOUT THE PHOTOS All of these photos of flowers are not direct photos but are actually reflections taken off of a distressed metal surface that I use. That surface is not highly polished which tends to result in softer images. Due to the nature of the distressed surface the image can be a bit altered often creating a sense of motion. Landscapes and structures are other subjects I photograph in the same way. This approach allows me to create unique photo-impression images. I do hope that you discover some beauty in what you see.

[Please note that there really are two separate books here - one photography, one poetry - and that the photos are completely unrelated to the poems.]

THE EMOTIONAL MAGNETISM OF MEMORY Although I left my early childhood days in Brooklyn over sixty years ago theyâ€™ve somehow remained vital and alive in my consciousness, and even now I sense that those moments are somehow still there, resting, in hibernation, suspended in time, waiting for me to return to them, as though that place is, and will always be, my eternal home. That those life experiences were somehow permanently rooted deeply into the fertile soil of place and imprinted so that the emotional magnetism of memory is always pointing me there.

ALWAYS DIFFERENT I will never again be that person. Not even the one from yesterday. No, not the one who played carefree in the park, was hugged and held so tightly by my grandparents, loved unconditionally by my parents, not the one whose world was changed by that first kiss, nor the one who first recognized that time here didn’t go on forever, or the one who constantly wondered about life’s purpose, and not the one who held my newborn sons in my arms, or the one who said Kaddish for my parents and grandparents. No, I’ll always be someone a bit different, a bit new, neither better nor worse necessarily. But certainly someone I’ll always try to treasure.

THE ONLY GIFT THAT TRULY MATTERED They were born and raised in such different times, in such different places, having had such different lives. My grandparents and parents. Impossible to truly understand and compare to my own. And yet, it was their values, having been absorbed from their prior generations back down centuries, then modeled in their own behaviors, and as explained in their teachings to me, and in how I listened as they commented Harry & Marion Goshin

Jacob & Lena Goshin,

and reacted to events of the times that together shaped

circa 1939

Oscar & Minnie Weiss

who I became.

circa 1939

I am who they were. The only gift I ever received that has truly mattered.

THE LAST GLOW It’s late afternoon, early winter. I’m sitting on my portillo, wearing a coat, reading. The sun has begun its final descent to somewhere behind the nearby Jemez Mountains. It feels like this is today’s special moment because, for me, each day has at least one. The book’s pages are at first lit by the candle-like glow created by a departing winter sun. Gradually though, all becomes dark, quiet, until the book has disappeared in my hands, and the only sound is a breeze gently rustling through the few remaining leaves on a neighboring plum tree.

JUST ONE MORE TIME I want to open that apartment door one more time. To say in a loud, happy, sing-song voice,’ I’mmm home!’ To hear my mother call back, ‘hello Sweetie, come here, into the kitchen, so I can give you a big hug and a kiss!’ For me to do just that, and for my mother to lift me up into her arms and deliver on that promise. To feel the softness of her face against mine, her warmth, and her unconditional love. Yes, just one more time.

A BLESSING I wish I could thank each one, if I could. All of them personally. To offer a blessing to those who, without a thought of personal benefit, engage in repeated acts of kindness and goodness, because they see the damage, the sadness, the need to repair and perfect the world. They are the ones to be admired, respected, whose behaviors are a model for ours.

WHY? These questions may make some of you uncomfortable, but they must be asked.

Why did most who saw and knew we were being slaughtered never say anything, and even deny it had happened?

Why did so many of our fellow neighbors become collaborators and give us over to the Nazis? Why were we denied entry to countries like America and sent back only to then be killed in the gas chambers, murdered in empty fields? Why were our long time neighbors so quick and happy to take our land, homes, property, when we were sent off to concentration camps? Why, after the war, when the few of us who were left tried

Why did so many priests, church leaders, academics, police officers, businessmen, doctors, community leaders, teachers, journalists, and others, collaborate with the Nazis in ways that facilitated our slaughter? Why, even now, are we the people most targeted by religious hate crimes? Why do so many Arab and Muslim leaders express their desire and intent to kill all Jews? Why?

to go back to our homes, to our neighborhoods, were we beaten and often killed?

THEM THEN, ME NOW They always sat comfortably on the nearby park benches as we played. The elderly, I barely noticed them then, I was just a child. I did see them walking slowly about, a bit bent over, shuffling along a little. They had this look of easy contentment, appearing relaxed, a bit rumpled, but comfortable in the world, strangely untroubled, even though their time had to be running out. Seeming in no rush to get anywhere, quite happy to chat, to sit relaxed and watch us play and everything else going on there in the park. I write this as I sit here, it’s a late summer afternoon in Central Park, near the Childrens Gate at E. 76th Street and 5th Avenue. I’m now early in my eighth decade, watching the children play, wondering if they’ll notice me.

AMERICA IS DYING In only a few moments the world seemed ever so quickly to tilt from joy to sadness, hope to hopelessness, from light to darkness. The always present evil has again awoken from its slumber, its followers surging. The weak, the different, its first victims. Our world, always in a delicate balance, its path is now unmistakably downward. While we, individually and collectively, are responsible for perfecting the world through acts of goodness, kindness, and beneficence, a vast part of America is demonstrating that it prefers selfishness, repression, greed, lies, cruelty, and hatred. Our collective substrate for life, once fertile as a place for social and political democracy, is now diseased, in decay, perhaps irreparably. America is dying.

THE DREAM EXTINGUISHED First as a child, then through the rest of my life until now, I dreamed that this place, earth, America, could be a universal dwelling for hope, for kindness, and for shared communal aspirations. Sadly, I no longer have that dream. There has been a final affirmation that there is an indestructible darkness in our species, a genetic and behavioral immutability irrepressibly manifest, the implacable enemy of goodness and social justice.

AT THE EDGE My toes are curled tightly around the very edge, the edge between night and dreams, and I’m starting to tilt forward, ready to tumble into the soothing comfort of REM sleep and my own fantasia filled with the seemingly improbable and indecipherable. Some days I bring my pal Freud along, but he surely is as baffled as I am, even though he claims otherwise, and he is always mumbling words like, ‘repressed’, ‘sexuality’. Well, of course! Admit it, isn’t that a critical individual reality? Well, ok, surely not everything has to have obvious meaning. For me dreams are mostly unexpected, unpredictable entertainment, surely not as good as ‘Game of Thrones’, but what else is? And it’s fascinating how my daytime conscious mind just shuts off and its nighttime twin quickly takes over center stage, able to create its own world without having to go anywhere.

‘WELL, HOW WONDERFUL IS THAT!’ I’m not sure just what I experienced then, or exactly how to describe it, or what its precise effect, meaning, if any, was for me. But last week there was this unexpected, overcast, gloomy, rainy day that seemed to stretch on and on, and then suddenly, late in the afternoon it ended, with the sky then filled with a deep blue illuminated by a soft golden light that was so deliciously warm and radiant as it caressed my face, with the ground offering up the gift of a sweet fragrance of impending new life. I was so overcome with the brilliant perfection of the moment that I said aloud to myself, ‘well, how wonderful is that!’

TOGETHER, RISING IN THE WIND Iâ€™m beginning to feel time. Itâ€™s a swirling wind, continuously increasing in speed, rising forever upwards, higher and higher, toward an end at an unknown moment. We are in tight embrace, drawing ever closer together as more precious moments pass, and as the earth, life, become more distant.

*I WAS A DREAM I was a dream. Of my beloved parents. A dream begot by love and hope. No, not uniquely theirs. But a singular universal dream most have, embedded in our human code. Always being passed forward to those who are next. We are each creations that embody the aspiration for enduring meaning from our lives to what follows beyond us. It is also our bond to all who came before. It is a summation. We are conceived in love, nurtured with love, forever passing that dream forward. I was a dream.

AN UNOPENED ENVELOPE It’s early Spring, time to do some cleaning, organizing. So yesterday I decided to clean out some of my long-neglected dresser drawers. I finally came to the last one at the hard to reach bottom. It was filled with all sorts of things from my distant past. Birth certificates, death certificates of my parents and grandparents, my son’s bar mitzvah speech, photos of my wife as a toddler, and there, at the very, very bottom, underneath, was this sealed envelope, and on the front, written by me, were the words, ‘To Be Opened When’. I have no memory of it at all, of having prepared this or even a thought of why I might have written it then (I estimated that it was probably around 30 years ago), or what’s in it. So, I sat there debating, considering whether I should open it, wondering how different its content might be from what I would now say decades later. I’ve decided to leave it as is, sort of like a time capsule, and to now prepare a new one from the perspective of the now me, and label it ‘To Be Opened When #2’ and attach them together.

THE DEMAND OF PERSONAL INTEGRITY The reality of daily life often forces us to acknowledge the presence of the unacceptable, and that our individual control over externalities can be so limited. But it is the presence of an inner personal integrity, a conscience, an understanding of right and wrong, our â€˜requirementâ€™ to only doing the right things, that demands we resist, commit to do what is necessary within our capability to honor our beliefs.

A WHIRLWIND It’s a ferocious whirlwind. Blowing without pause. Offering no rest. Roiling across my entire landscape of memories. Forcing me to pay close attention for some obscured reason. ‘There must be something that my subconscious wants me to know’ I thought. Something to remember, to consider fresh, perhaps a memory to ‘see’ differently than before. Could be something relevant to what I need to do. Maybe I’ll find out, maybe I won’t.

WHERE IS THE DIVINE? ‘……. Where shall I find thee?’

I do look for it occasionally, the divine, a universal source of shared purpose. It’s a need to periodically affirm my preferred belief in its existence, to know it really may be present, at least for me. A continually unwinding thread connecting the embedded goodness and kindness within people. So, in the course of my days where is it that I do find evidence that the divine exists?

Well, I see it sometimes in faces, especially in the eyes and expressions of infants, young children, as a pureness of intent, purpose, hope, goodness, possibility. I also see it when observing intentional acts of kindness and beneficence, each seen by me as a commitment to make others and the world better, to fix what is broken, without regard for personal gain or recognition, observing that we each are able to be active participants of a divine purpose. The divine does exist, well, at least for me.

Just where?

MORAL WORTH How can a people, a collective, call themselves caring, civil, a democracy, when it is the circumstance of birth that primarily defines one’s life? On the national stage no one any longer speaks about poverty, the discarded, the invisible under class, it’s as though they no longer exist. A peoples’ moral worth, its character, is defined by how they, we, care for our most vulnerable. Shame, shame, shame.

ENDANGERED QUEEN You hardly notice it’s actually there. The Santa Fe River. It sort of quietly meanders through our town, as though embarrassed that it can’t live up to its name. Rarely actually flowing. But it is a river, truly, a branch of the Rio Grande. Voted the ‘most endangered’ river in the country. But it’s Autumn now, and all the cottonwoods that encase the river are showing off their bright golden leaves, and when the sun further illuminates their beauty, with a soft breeze causing their reflection to shimmer in the sparse water, the river looks like royalty, wearing resplendent jewels—the gorgeous Queen of all rivers.

TO SEE A FUTURE I watched. Feeling helpless. Uncertain about what exactly to do, what to say, just how to comfort the grief, the sense of loss, this terrible sadness of death. All eyes were fixed down on the coffin as it was being lowered into the ground. I wanted them all to look up for just a moment, to really â€˜seeâ€™ each other, and to understand the need to look ahead, and to realize that there will, indeed, be a future.

*AS WORLDS DISAPPEAR Everyone, everything, has the same fate. All worlds, all people, all things, disappear in time. Also, memories—a mother’s kiss, a child’s birth, a love’s embrace, hopes fulfilled and unfulfilled, all gone. But what’s gone wasn’t without meaning, without beauty, just because it doesn’t have a continuing existence. It had meaning at that moment, and sometimes long after, for those who knew, for those who shared. All pieces and bits in the grand human trajectory. Each as spectacular, as wondrous in their moments, as the stars and galaxies we view through Hubble’s lens that may have already disappeared by the time we actually see them.

A NEW BREATH OF LIFE ‘Then the Lord God ….. breathed into his nostrils the breath of life …. ‘ (Genesis 2:7)

Each new grandchild has breathed new life into my aging self, somehow reawakening my soul, seeming to give it, me, new purpose and a desire for much more time.

AT THE WINDOW I’m at the window, looking out. This is my memory of it. Watching the street below, 5th floor, West 9th, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. It’s cloudy, cold, I’m hoping for snow. Early February, 1951. Just home from school, PS 247, kindergarten, it’s lunchtime. I like school and my teacher, Mrs. Hamburger, she’s great. I’ll be 5 years old next month, can’t wait since I’ve been promised a two-wheeler, red. Just let myself in, like most every day.

My sister won’t be home for awhile, she stays later since she’s in the 4th grade. Mom and Dad are at work. I like being alone sometimes, I like being trusted, I like the quiet. I’m going to make sardines on pumpernickel with cream cheese, a recent favorite, then milk, and a slice of cake Mom left for me. Then I’ll see what’s on the TV which we just got, maybe the ‘Lone Ranger’, maybe I’ll also play with my yellow truck. Later, I’ll go out to play in the halls and stairs with my friends Mike and Henry.

HIS CLOSET She couldnâ€™t get herself to empty his closet, his drawers. Convinced that doing so would destroy important parts of her memory of him, removing him from her world, making room, perhaps, then, for someone else. She, of course, knew that sooner or later she would have to confront and try to sort out these memories, but was coming to realize how selective memory was, usually choosing, on its own, what to keep and what to ignore. As before, she decided to leave things as they were, for now.

DESPAIR I am in despair. No, not for myself. Nor for the rest of my own time. I despair for the future beyond. As the dark side of human nature continues to flourish unrestrained by taking control of a substantial portion of the collective will, I continue to see a downward spiral where ignorance, cruelty, hatred, bigotry, suspicion, become the norm of our daily collective life. Where all problems, as in other times, are blamed on â€˜the other,â€™ who have become the unrelenting target of hostile and brutal persecution. We are at the cusp of another Dark Age.

OVER THE TREETOPS We were laughing, laughing, so hard together. There in the park. I was being lifted up high into the sky, again, again, and again. My mother holding one hand, my father the other. Each time they lifted me I swung my feet out into the air, imagining that I was leaping over the treetops, across the earth. Another special, remembered moment of my childhood, one that I wish I could relive just once more.

NEWLY DISCOVERED TREASURES It’s been surprising and unexpected. That many memories which were previously ignored, forgotten, undervalued, have now become such meaningful and prized treasures for me. Certainly, the more time for reflection, the nostalgia embedded within advancing age, the emotional turmoil of the death of loved ones, and life’s approaching void, all contribute. Interestingly, it’s the ones from earlier childhood that I’ve now come to believe were key contributors to who I’ve become that are the most treasured. But it’s also surprising that there are vast swaths of years when truly wonderful things occurred in my life, where the recollection of specific events, specific memories, are so wanting.

AN EXPIRATION DATE Maybe it would be easier if we were given a departure time, you know, an expiration date. So we could plan, to put our â€˜thingsâ€™ in order, to lay out our life pathway, make choices consistent with our allotted time, to have the end less uncertain and traumatic for ourselves and our special others. Consider this a request.

SILENCE

in beautiful parks, on trains, planes, and on the street, with all sorts of devices in or covering their ears, blocking out

Silence. Treasuring the opportunity for personal reflection, the singular internal contemplation of the wonders of the surrounding world seem out of fashion, in behavioral exile, most especially for the young, the ‘millennials’ (aka the Self(ie) Generation). The obsessive need to connect constantly with their ‘smart’ phone for music, conversation, games, their social media sites, to find out what everyone had for lunch, seem to be life’s priorities.

what surrounds them, with music noise being essential, as though purposely eliminating their internal thoughts, reflections. But what about taking time to notice and enjoy the special silence contained in passing clouds, in sunrises and sunsets, in the faces of infants, in the joy of children anywhere, in the wizened thoughtful facial contemplation of seniors, of the moon in the darkness of night, or reflecting on possible opportunities to make the world and others better, or how to bring more love and happiness into one’s life, or to enjoy moments of nothingness, or ….?

You can regularly pass people on remote mountain trails,

LIKE A PEARL In its creation a beautiful perfect love seems peculiarly similar to how a single grain of sand, unknowingly, creates, transforms, into a glorious pearl. This grain of sand, as an ‘irritant’, enters the life space, unsettling the natural equilibrium, causing responses that form layer after layer of coatings, gradually evolving into a created perfection. There is no originating intent, it just happens … just like love.

A TERRIBLE DARKNESS There is this terrible darkness in the hearts of people. A tribal imperative that separates us, always lurking there, just below the surface, that when played upon yields unspeakable hatreds, the greatest danger to civil society. It’s a belief that all problems are caused by ‘the other’, the one different, the one usually weaker—‘if they would just disappear.’ Those who understand this and seek to use it to their own benefit to achieve power and influence are the enemies of democracy, the enemies of all personal and communal freedoms, the darkness that must, somehow, be banished.

UNSTOPPABLE It was unstoppable. A strange, perverse, perfection of unbridled intent. All internal defenses, and all applied external interventions made no difference. It exists to destroy, with no conscious awareness, no judgmental concerns, a willful commitment to overcome any obstacle. I watched in sad, morbid, fascination, it was riveting in a most unseemly and peculiar way. It showed no mercy, having no moral compass, just a singular objective no matter what, to complete its purpose, a perfect weapon system for destruction, death. Cancer.

THE RAIN (FOR MY MOM) Miriam, age 7, woke to the sound of the rain beating fiercely against the nearby window, and could tell it was early morning. Glancing up she saw the rainwater beading up on the windowâ€™s grimy surface. She turned her head and looked over her shoulder and saw that next to her, on the bed, her two younger sisters, Sylvia and Martha, were still off in their own dream lands. For the first time she became consciously aware that her inner voice was now, surprisingly, more in English than Yiddish, and smiled. The other sounds she heard were her parents off in the front, in their store, getting ready, since rainy days were best for their umbrella business here on Essex Street, the Lower East Side, New York City. Miriam decided it was time to get up and help, perhaps assemble a few more umbrellas with the materials still there on the work table.

ME, THEN? It’s mid-Autumn, late afternoon, a Monday. I’m sitting on a Central Park bench, reading a spy thriller, looking about, reflecting. I can hear a jazz group playing nearby at the East 76th Street entrance at 5th Avenue. Nice. I glance over to my right, and a couple of benches away is this rather elegant older gentleman who appears to be about 15 years my senior. He’s looking straight ahead at the canopy of high trees that are beginning to show a bit of yellow, a bit of red. Serene, a slight smile on his face. I project forward to a time when it might be me instead of him sitting there, same demeanor, remembering this same moment, and my smile broadens. Just a few seconds later I look over again and he’s gone, and now I wonder whether that gentleman was ever actually there, or was I just projecting myself forward in time?

TWINKLING LIGHTS Itâ€™s dusk, late summer, and just below the far horizon on the facing eastern slope of the Jemez Mountains the lights of Los Alamos have begun to twinkle, calling out to be noticed. Further above, the stars and galaxies, so many light years distant, are making their appearance, competing for my attention. I lean back in my chair to watch the light show as it fills and brightens against the darkening backdrop. The gentle twill of birds fades as harmonizing insects take over. These are brief, treasured moments of peace and comfort in a world that feels as though it has begun to unravel.

‘IT NEEDED A HUG’ Last Spring, as I was taking a late afternoon walk in Central Park, I came across a neighbor of mine, Joseph, perhaps fifteen years older than me, a bit infirm, with his arms partly encircling this large tree. He looked over at me, smiled, and simply said, ‘I thought that this tree needed a hug.’ Somehow, at the time, that seemed quite reasonable, sweet, to me. Since then, I’ve given more thought about things we do and the reasons for them. I’ve concluded that, perhaps, there were two reasons for Joseph’s hug—the one he gave, to meet the perceived needs of the tree, and the one he didn’t—that close contact with something alive, even a tree, provided comfort, perhaps reducing his sense of isolation (he also lives alone). What do you think?

STEEPLECHASE With my two best friends then, Henry and Mike, we decided on I’m looking out the window of the Q train as it approaches

a Saturday adventure.

its last stop.

Each with a dollar, we walked to Coney Island through

Still very cold, winter, but sunny, early in the morning.

about 3 ½ miles of Brooklyn to the Steeplechase, a fabulous ride

I see my own reflection, and it’s some familiar elderly

area within Coney Island.

guy looking back.

For a dollar you’d receive on a string, a round ticket that you wore

At exactly the same moment I’m recalling one of my very

around your neck for 20 rides.

favorite childhood memories that took place here sixty-five

At each ride one of the 20 numbers were punched.

years ago, one that I believe contributed to a sense of personal

When our 20 were finished we went to the exit, and as people left

independence that has helped to define who I became.

without having used their full ticket, we asked, and they gave.

One of the reasons I came this morning is to remember that day.

In that way we spent hours at Steeplechase, and then walked back home

I was eight years old, my grandmother, Minnie, used to

later in the afternoon.

occasionally slip me a silver dollar for my own use.

We did repeat the experience on another Saturday.

In those days kids used to have enormous freedom to be out all

I didn’t have the courage until 25 years after to tell my mother.

day on our own.

IN HIBERNATION Meeting old friends. I often feel this strange, uncomfortable, and awkward internal silence. A searching for lost or misplaced words that should be readily discoverable. Trying to reach back across all those years to find some common footing. After all, we had been close back then, or thatâ€™s how I remember it. To at least make a sincere effort to recapture the friendship, the camaraderie, now so many years in a distant hibernation. Why is that so hard?

JUST FOR ME I’m out now for an early morning Sunday walk. In the city. Summer, few people about. As I turn east, far down at the end of the street, the sun, framed by the tall apartment buildings, is inching its way up and up as though strutting its stuff just for me. Not a cloud in the sky. As I cross the street the rumbling of the subway underground disturbs the strange urban quiet. I briefly wonder who might be on the train this early, and where they’re going. For a moment, I imagine that I’m standing in a beautiful meadow, glancing about at the surrounding majestic mountains. The moment passes as I step off the curb and head to Joe’s for a cappuccino and one of their delicious dark chocolate donuts.

THE VENEER OF FAITH I am troubled by the common definitions of faith often offered by others. I especially reject the seeming ‘requirement’ to only follow prescribed rules and a need for an external cloak, a veneer of faith by the wearing of religious symbols, the need to somehow show others one’s religious identity. This need to show, seems analogous to the wearing of brand or team names, the showing of labels, and makes me wonder whether there is a lack of a committed inner faith rather than being a possessor of it. Isn’t true faith personal, requiring doubt, uncertainty, a continuous questioning and, therefore, shouldn’t it be more private? Rather, for me, the true affirmation of an inner faith is confirmed by repeated acts of beneficence, compassion, caring and kindness. Faith serves as a private internal inspiration for the defining of personal beliefs that must then be transformed into actions that improve both the world and the self.

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*LOVE, THE GIVER Oâ€™ Love, how many lips speak of your wonders. How many of us bask in your warmth and glory. We live for your delights, suffer your disappointments, dwell on your mysteries. You are the giver of lifeâ€™s best moments. You are the bard of our hearts, singing to us your sweet melodies of romance and passion. We hope for the blessing of your presence within us, and graciously accept the gifts of joy you offer us each day.

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SELF I know that it is impossible to have an accurate, externally viewed, perception of myself. Yet once in a while the same thought occurs to me and I pause and wonder, â€˜Just how different is my own sense of self from a consensus of what others actually perceive, conclude?â€™ And, if I knew, would I alter anything about myself? Would you?

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PREDAWN INDIGO The night was drawing to a close. Very still, dark, early. The sky cloud-filled, starless. I stood at the Mt. Atalaya trailhead waiting for this morningâ€™s first light and the predawn indigo until I could see the trail itself. As always, I had no expectation of finding anything new or different, just out for the wondrous solitude of a daybreak hike, allowing for first reflections, self-awareness. As my eyes finally adjusted, I started out. Up ahead I could now just see what was next, and there, a bit beyond that, I thought, perhaps, maybe, if I could, I might get a glimpse of the future.

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MY MURDERED PLACES These are my places. Where my grandparents lived before coming to the United States.

Blazowa ‘In July 1942 most of the Jews from Blazowa were deported to the

These are from eyewitness and contemporaneous historical sources:

Rotmistrovka ‘On May 12, 1919 a band of 50 men arrived in Rotmistrovka. The next morning, they were joined by local peasants and peasants from nearby villages and the pogrom began. Most murders took place in the evening.’

Belzec death camp.’

Boryslav ‘Boryslav fell to the Germans July 1, 1941. A pogrom immediately after killed 300 Jews. In the first ‘Action’, November 29-30, 1,500 Jews were murdered in the forest of two neighboring villages. In August 1942, 5,000 Jews were deported to the Belzec death camp.

‘The Germans occupied Rotmistrovka on August 1, 1941. Within a few days they murdered all the Jews.’

In February 16-17, 1943, 600 women, children and elderly were executed in the city slaughterhouse. Finally, between May and August 1943 all remaining Jews were killed.’

Libau ‘The Latvians, themselves, actually planned and organized the

NEVER FORGET. NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, NEVER, N…………

massacre of the Libau Jews. In this way, most of the 9,000 Jews of Libau were wiped out in the summer of 1941.’

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TRANSPORTED My most treasured, best remembered moments from before â€Ś.. how would I now perceive them? What would it be like to be transported back, right now, having the benefit of all that Iâ€™ve learned and experienced, and once again be in the exact same place, and at the exact same moments in time of the ones that I recall with greatest affection from my distant past? I wonder.

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THE DARKNESS WOULDNâ€™T LEAVE It fills all spaces. Like a dense shadow slithering through the streets, the houses, into every corner of peoplesâ€™ lives. Taking possession. Replacing all light. This darkness, rolling across our country, washes over the sun and the moon, a dark cloth over the heavens. There is confusion, uncertainty, rising disquiet, doubt about its meaning, its intent, its permanence. We search for the light, but it eludes us.

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WATCH THE WONDER Please, pay careful attention. Go watch the expansive wonder in their eyes. Watch the joy that flows with each of their bouncing steps. Watch their sweet, tender, gentleness. Watch them laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Watch their pride when praised for things accomplished. See their vulnerability and dependence on others, on us. This was once you, and unbeknownst to you, still could be again.

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GUILTY I confess. To occasionally feeling guilty. Guilty for experiencing joy and happiness, at the same time that I see, and am aware of, such terrible sadness and deprivation in the world.

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THE RESISTANCE – THE PLEDGE ‘I pledge to take all non-violent actions within my capability, to resist all efforts that would diminish the civil and human rights of all in America and their ability to achieve equity and equality in a just, diverse, caring, and democratic society.’

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THE TRIPLE HELIX Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, there actually is a divine light. A third, unseen strand, intertwined with our own double biologic helix of life. A universal life force, linking us together, coiled within the first cell at the moment of our creation, then continuously replicated. This light being a divine gift, the source of goodness, kindness, beneficence, available to each of us to help perfect ourselves and the world but only if used, otherwise it withers allowing darkness to enter and to permeate all actions. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, there is a divine light.

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A LOST BATTLE They could tell that the battle was being lost in spite of all repeated heroic efforts. It was no longer possible to forestall, to turn back, to alter, the gradual but persistent decay (well, perhaps ‘fading’ would be a more sensitive word) of their external facades, physical veneer. Devoted, skillful restoration no longer really seemed to work to their satisfaction. Time and nature were having their inevitable, unforgiving way. Forcing them to reluctantly accept this reality. ‘Well’, they thought—maybe some other day’.

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MOURNERS I watched the mourners nearby. I was with my Dad to visit, to remember, to offer prayers to all of ours at Beth David Cemetery. Ten years old. Although I wasn’t allowed to attend funerals, my Mom’s protective rule, it was ok to go and ‘pay my respects’. I often saw the sadness, the grief, the effort of mourners to comfort each other. As I watched them leave, I realized the brevity, the quickness, the certainty of the end, and that people have no real choice but to move on to whatever is next.

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DISCOVERY As your string of time winds down, treasured moments of self-revelation remain possible. When you can still discover that you are, or are capable of being more, perhaps much more. Able to achieve new insights, comprehension, knowledge, a previously elusive understanding, a new awareness about yourself and the human condition. Maybe recalling a vital memory offering clues to how you became who you are now and who you might yet be. Or a sudden ability to finally articulate and convey a deeply held feeling, perhaps a discovery about how to solve a vital and troubling challenge. This spark reignites an inner glow, a renewed appreciation of the magnificence of the gift of life, recognition that you are not diminished by age, that capability doesnâ€™t wither, only the will does.

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A LOSS OF INDIVIDUALITY? In the vast, towering, intense, often claustrophobic landscape of cities is the personal sense of individuality, self-identity, lost or diminished? As I travel between Santa Fe and Manhattan, I continually ponder this question, unsure as to whether this is simply my own inner musing or is there, in fact, a more universal truth. In Manhattan itâ€™s only when I venture over to nearby Central Park, particularly in the mornings when few are there, that I have an inner feeling of an unobstructed individual physical existence. Itâ€™s not just the varied landscape but the sense of distance, space, the ability to see the horizon, with no one coming close, invading my personal space. So, does the lack of, or diminished reality of personal space, alter our self-perceptions of our individuality? What do you think?

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MY SOUL (Nefesh, Ruach, Neshama) IS RESTLESS My soul is restless. Breathed into me by the Holy One, Blessed Be He, nurtured by my beloved generations. I am now at the intersect between the gradual withering of my days and the need to yet fulfill more purpose, to honor the obligation to help perfect the world in exchange for the gift of life, to hold fast against surging dark forces, and to help assure a rule of kindness and goodness. But given the forces of darkness, and my sense of urgency to help alter its path, there is troubling uncertainty about what exactly to do to find an answer to the question, â€˜Grandpa, what did you do when the darkness came again.â€™ My soul is restless.

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LIGHT BEHIND She enters. I can see just a bit of her bare, creamy, white ankle. All motion slows. She approaches. A scent, soft, powdery. Sheâ€™s wearing all black. Hair up, her neck beckons. Slacks, just tight enough to see the outline of her thighs. My hand reaches out for hers. Warm, soft. Our lips touch. Electric. An embrace. My heart rate quickens. A light seems to shine from behind her eyes drawing me closer. We touch, gently caress, share confirming smiles about what might be next. We donâ€™t let go.

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ANDROID IMPLANTS? There are a select set of repeating memories that define my perception of childhood, my self-identity, what I believe then shaped who I became. But did they really happen? I’ve begun to wonder. Movies, programs, such as ‘Blade Runner’ and the more recent TV series, ‘WestWorld’, have android stars ‘who’ have been given memory implants to enable them to feel, behave, well …. human. I see them, I smile, but then wonder, I smile some more.

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NOVEMBER 18, 2016 I needed to know. Itâ€™s now been 10 days. To know whether I could still see goodness and sanctity in the faces of everyone that I saw. My faith has been shaken. An unwanted confirmation that evil, darkness, is ever present, waiting for its time, and again has now returned. So, I spent time on the subway, looking, then more time walking through Central Park and neighboring streets looking at faces, trying to see into peoplesâ€™ hearts. It gave me only a momentary, fleeting, comfort because I know now, for certain, that the darkness has come.

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*HOW IS IT? How do we become so possessed by indifference? How does the failure to respond to terrible human suffering seep into our being? How does our conscience so easily disappear at moments when it is most needed? How do our hearts become so readily hardened and frozen? How is it that our humanity is so often just a thin veneer? How do such things happen? How?

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Dr. Arthur R. Goshin first began writing poetry as he turned sixty. Educated as a physician and in public health, he’s had a successful fifty year career in health care. The first phase of his professional life involved the development of comprehensive health centers in communities of poverty. The next phase involved the founding, development, and leading of a very well recognized, large, not-for-profit health plan serving over a half million members. He currently serves as a board chair, board member, or advisor for a range of organizations, foundations and private entities. As a Clinical Professor, Dr. Goshin is approaching his fiftieth year as a global health focused faculty member at the University at Buffalo. As he retired from ‘employed work’(as he puts it), and began writing poetry, he also became the founder/funder/president/ceo of his own foundation (www.healthyworldfoundation.org) engaged in numerous health projects in India and Africa. A website is under construction that will include selections of Dr. Goshin’s poems and photographs. He splits his living time between Santa Fe and New York City with his wife Renee. They have two sons/daughters-in-law, and three grandchildren.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS 1

The Emotional Magnetism of Memory

Always Different

The Only Gift That Truly Mattered

The Last Glow

Just One More Time

A Blessing

14 Why?

152

Them Then, Me Now

America Is Dying

The Dream Extinguished

At The Edge

‘Well, How Wonderful Is That!’

Together, Rising In The Wind

*I Was A Dream

An Unopened Envelope

The Demand For Personal Integrity

A Whirlwind

Where Is The Divine?

153

Moral Worth

Endangered Queen

To See A Future

*As Worlds Disappear

A New Breath Of Life

At The Window

His Closet

62 Despair 64

Over The Treetops

Newly Discovered Treasures

An Expiration Date

72 Silence 74

Like A Pearl

A Terrible Darkness

81 Unstoppable 83

The Rain (For My Mom)

Me, Then?

Twinkling Lights

‘It Needed A Hug’

92 Steeplechase 95

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In Hibernation

155

Just For Me

101

The Veneer Of Faith

102

*Love, The Giver

105 Self 108

Predawn Indigo

110

My Murdered Places

113 Transported 114

The Darkness Wouldnâ€™t Leave

119

Watch The Wonder

120 Guilty 123

The Resistance - The Pledge

124

The Triple Helix

129

A Lost Battle

131 Mourners 132 Discovery

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A Loss Of Individuality

138

My Soul (Nefesh, Ruach, Neshama) Is Restless

140

Light Behind

143

Android Implants?

147

November 18, 2016

148

*How Is It?

157

LOCATIONS OF INCLUDED PHOTOS Santa Fe Botanical Gardens, NM New York Botanical Gardens, NY Huntington Gardens, CA Golden Gate Park, CA San Francisco, CA Los Angeles, CA Johdpur, India Getty Museum, Los Angeles, CA Caseyâ€™s Garden, Santa Fe, NM Carmel Valley, CA Long Island, NY Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, NY Central Park, NY Nassau County Museum, NY U.S. Botanical Gardens, DC Marrakesh, Morrocco

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