Graffiti: Smell of Brooklyn Bricks
My hand sweeps across steamy, rugged red bricks
Brooklyn graffiti, in your face, ancient with a modern twist
Grassy rain, steamy mists of cement, tar, and clay
smells of Brooklyn bricks, the tale scripted in graffiti
emotions feeding my hungry soul where I climb
green cyclones of Oaks shooting toward the stars
Ocean waves purge immigrants onto Ellis Island
Tattered suitcases, old wool coats, eyes stark, searching
Smells of chicken soup, cabbage, onions and garlic.
Pour out from ships, graffiti in my nose.
playing hop scotch, Spalding ball hits against the cement
red brick, orange brick, white brick, spongey brick, hard brick,
chalk, dust and ash heal my skin and bones
Hieroglyphics of sages, priestesses and seekers
jump rope with me playing red light/green light.
Street vendors, fried oil drifts down the subways,
pot roast juiciness drips down paint brushes, fingers, elbows,
imprinted on my DNA, I am the canvas of graffiti
My family tree, the sand, oceans slapping against the shore
The march of grievous generations living and dying crawl in my belly
Rustic walls, wild berries, olive trees, sand, hills, valleys, rivers,
Sabra flower, a bitter fruit on the outside, sweet on the inside.
Cook in kitchens of Ashkenazi and Sephardic grandmothers.
German, Polish, Russian gobbled tongues of Yiddish.
Sarah, Leah, Rebecca, Ester, Lilith, Yashti.
Tents, fire, chants. Sabbath…ushering in the Shekinah.
dancing around fire and braided moons
Frankincense, lavender oils comb through my hair.
This is the graffiti of Brooklyn bricks.
chicken soup, blintzes, grilled fruits and vegetables,
blood of the lamb, the covenant, forty days, forty nights
Push carts lined against bricks, sweat and survival
strawberries for two cents, scarves five cents, air to breathe, priceless
Graffiti is my mother and blood, the eternal flame of my people
Secret commandments written by scribes and sages with cigarette stains
Tribal graffiti, broken brick, Brooklyn brick, a collage of stones
Ahh, sweet graffiti, legends branded in brick calling me home
Marta Luzim, MS, is a Psychospiritual Therapist with an MS in Counseling Psychology and BS in Education. For over forty years, she been an expert in women’s story-telling and a Next Level Practitioner in the field of women’s trauma. She is certificated as a Kaizen creative coach, Metaphysician, intimacy trainer, and mindfulness teacher. She is a self-published writer, artist, and playwright. Her novel The Calling and her spiritual guide Heart of Woman can be found on Amazon. In addition, Marta is President of Giveheravoice.org and directed a multi-media show called The Telling. She is currently writing a memoir. www.womenswayin.com.