Jill Pallone Poetry

So happy to sapy that I just voted, from Switzerland,in the November election. For those who fear that the process will be long and complicated—no worries! If even I (a seriously old-school type) found it straightforward and extremely user friendly, chances are you will too.

So to all my fellow Americans living abroad, I URGE you to request your ballot online. Soon after, you’ll get an email with the link to retrieve it, from there you register your vote and finito.

Really, it could hardly be simpler.

Every one of our votes is very important, even if you are not registered in a “swing state.” We Americans living abroad do need to make our voices heard. So let’s not lose this historic opportunity!

This page seems to have been attacked with ads and unauthorized postings. I have switched the privacy settings, so it should be fine now. (as of 9-Feb-2023)

Here are two poems by Jill about excessive heat in July, 2015 (7 years ago!) The first touches on the idea of welcome relief, and the second on acceptance and accommodation. Both are found in her book, "I am Not Myself Today." Posted by Bob because it's too hot for Jill to do it today.

Heat Wave

It crept up
on us
till one day,
around noon,
the air closed in
like an elastic
band.

We walked
in slow, small
steps,
stopping
to catch
our breath

as the sun struck us
silly
and we searched
for relief.

It was all
we could talk about—
money and food,
joy and regret
were almost
forgotten

as we hid
in the paltry shade
of helpless
trees.

Maybe tomorrow….
though the forecasts
betrayed us.

Maybe it will rain…
We had to hold out
hope,

captives waiting for
a savior
to set us
free.

Then, one morning,
we awoke to a breeze.
It was not predicted,
not foreseen.

We spread our arms
and kicked up
our feet,
no longer at war
with our bodies.

Voices lifted
and rusty wheels
turned;
doors sprang open
to the sweet scent
of liberation

and we bent down
in praise
and quietly
colluded
to deny
that this gift
could quickly vanish
before our grateful
eyes.

Jill Haber Pallone
8 July, 2015

---------------------------------------------------

Heat Wave II

This is our space now--
this shuttered room
cooled by the whisper
of a whirring
fan.

You are not bothered.
You fill the space
with your imagination

like a child
beneath a blanket
strung across
two chairs.

Your lists
and dates
are scuttled

and you don't
care.

You are peacefully
suspended,
like heat above
the mountains

in no hurry
to move
on.

Jill Haber Pallone
17 July, 2015

Afternoon in the Piazza

“Look at that cloud!”
you said,
“It’s like a summer poem,
calm as a slow, deep breath,
white as icing sugar.”

And we looked up
towards the fine, smooth sky,
blue as the satin gown

of a renaissance
Madonna.

And when we had absorbed
that momentary wonder,

we strolled on, squinting
in the lively square,

eyes raised toward
rich, red geraniums
tumbling from clay pots
and wrought iron balconies

as if they, too,
could not contain

the restless
joy

of beauty passing.

Jill Haber Pallone
27 June 2022

Easter, 2022

(With thoughts for the refugees of Ukraine)


The air is so gentle now.

There is no need to fight
fast-flowing rain

with brooms and buckets
and rubber rafts;

no need to shield yourself
from maniacal winds
that would surely rejoice
at your destruction.

Spring brings a cautious truce,
where the sun sits in a perfect place;
when we try not to think too much

about the stifling, scalding days
awaiting us in summer,

but to raise our eyes
to tranquil blue skies
and newborn buds
and leaves,

lit by the kindness
of the cosmos,
which feeds the fragile,
tender seeds
of our battered hope
for peace.


Jill Haber Pallone
15 April 2022

Spring, 2022

There have been early signs
of life
amid the rubble
and the tears.

With each green shoot
I wish I could proclaim
that it is here.

This has been
a dark and deathly
season

seen on the faces
of mothers,
of children,

walking stoically
towards safety,

terror pumping
in their hearts.

I wish spring
would hurry

with its joyful
certainty;

that it would
loosen the crushing vise
worn by all of war’s victims—

let them breathe long
and deep

the pure and gentle air
of peace.

Jill Haber Pallone
17/3/22

Not Wasting Time

Perhaps
I ask
too much—

to wring
each moment

till
it is bone
dry,

till our lungs
nearly burst

and our veins
run rich

with joy.

Perhaps
it is enough

sometimes
to glide,

sailors
following
the humors

of the sky,

the stubborn
rhythm

of tides.

Perhaps
time

is best
contained

in the motes
of our
lives,

so small

we barely
see them

as they
dance

before
our
eyes.

Jill Haber Pallone

Friendship in a Foreign Language

When we speak,
it is in
your language.

It fits me poorly,
but I love

the feel
of it,

and do all
I can

not to trip
on it,

to hang onto
it

and not to let it
fly
away.

When we speak,
I am careful

of my phrases,

aware of
my strangeness,

how foreign
are my fears
and my
distresses,

for I know you
are wary

of darkness.

You are so fluent
in the language

of joy
and resilience,

and when you speak
I listen closely

to its
cadence

and stifle
the rumblings

of my mother-
tongue.

Jill Haber Pallone

Bowls

It mystified me—
this game

of old men
in a gritty

park
in the west

of Zurich.

Silver balls,
cool to the touch,
heavy
to hold,

chasing
a small,
green,

helpless
one

just waiting
to be
clobbered

in some
haphazard
way.

I sensed they met
here

daily

to share
their silent
troubles,

brown bottles
full of bitter
beer

in their sinewed
hands,

standing,
one by one,

in the pitcher’s
circle—

a metal disk
that I had

thought
at first

was just detritus
lying
on the dusty
ground,

but soon
discovered

was essential

to their ritual
cleansing,

their moment
in the sun.

Jill Haber Pallone
17 June 2021

Il Vecchio Quadro

I stared deep
and hard
at the tired,
tilted
angle

of her kerchiefed
head,

the solid
spread
of her sandaled
feet,

the wicker basket,
finally
empty,

strapped high
on her sturdy
back,

and felt in my
chest

the stretch and pull
of her fatigue,

the weight
and the fecundity

of her too-short
life,

and sensed
that if I stood

too long
before her

I would burst
with the fullness
of her,

unable to contain
her wholeness,

this lovely farm girl
captured

in a brief
moment

of rest.

Jill Haber Pallone
9 May 2021

The Scent of My Mother’s Roses

I never thought
I’d miss it.

Never thought
the blousy-
blossomed
rose,

would
go away—

pale yellow
and baby-
girl

pink,

with the pure
perfume

of pretty women
wafting

in the crisp, flowing
sundresses

so common
in that day.

But now it seems
a sweet,
elusive

dream—

my mother,
gloved
and on her
knees,

snipping
between
thick
thorns

to gather in
her finest

creations,

always lifting
the dewy
petals

to my face
so I could
marvel

at the ancient,
summery
scent

she might
have known

would never be fully
forgotten.

Jill Haber Pallone
28 February 2021

Limbo (after the insurrection)

We are all
in it.

Holding
our
breath

as we put
one
foot

in front
of
the other,

always
shadowed
by

the murky
phantom

of fear.

We dare
not

stare
too long

at its
shifting

dimensions;

only
dread

lies
there.

Instead we
walk
on,

numbly
following

our noses,

straining
to
retain

the vaporous
scent

of hope.

Jill Haber Pallone
15 January 2020

I finished this poem just in time!

Awaiting the End of Trump

I am
walking

through
these days

with hope

hidden
in my

pockets,

worry
scratching

at my
back,

fixing
the same
breakfasts,

checking
off

the same
lists,

pretending
I’m not

a prisoner

of the
maddening

precision

of the
passage

of time.

The future

is so
close
now…

from
certain

angles,

some
say,

it’s
already

in sight.

But I
don’t
dare

look
it
straight
in
the
eye—

I must
wait

till
it’s ready

to come
to me,

perhaps,
to
comfort
me,

if the stars
are so

aligned.

Jill Haber Pallone
7 November 2020

September Storm

It began
this morning:

just
a bit
of
rumble;

a thin
white
gash—

barely
noticed—

across
the sky.

Then, as I opened
the door,

everything flew
into
motion

and all
I wanted
was to race

against

the blustery
wind,

thrilled
by the wild

whipping

of awnings
and trees

and the strange
embrace

of the wooly
grays

of crouching
clouds.

When it
ended,

there was

a sudden,
breathless

peace.

A softly
buzzing

silence

settled over
the streets.

Now I hung
in the
joy

of this tranquil

moment,

brilliant
as crystal,

fragile

as brittle,
autumn

leaves.

Jill Haber Pallone
27 September 2020

Autumn Rain

Yesterday
the rains

began.

The change
was
sudden

and took us
by
surprise:

the sky,
pendulous
and brushed
with gray;

the light,
opaque
as milky
glass…

I saw people
scurrying

to the safety
of
indoor
cafes;

fruit vendors
hustling

for a
hasty

retreat.

But I had no
desire

for cover.

Summer
had kept
me in hiding

from the brazen
eye

of the overwrought
sun;

now,
autumn

would release
me.

Now,
I would open
my mouth

and take great,
luscious
gulps

of damp
cool air,

delighting
in the waving
dancing

of the wind,

bathing
In the

fresh-
washed

scent

of fall.

Jill Haber Pallone
29 August 2020

Gift

I would give you
something

small

that you could keep
in your pocket,

like a smooth
blue stone

gathered years
ago

on a silver
beach,

where the icy ocean
bit our toes
and tall, pale
grasses

sprouted
from the sand.

I would give you
something

large,

for you
to dream
in,

like a
hidden
forest,

where you could
lose

yourself

in crimson
canopies

and breathe in
the dazzling
whiteness

of skies
dense
with snow.

I search
for the perfect
gift

for you—

to take
in your mouth

and grow inside
you,

that you will
nurture

and will nurture
you,

that you will never
abandon,

and that
will never
let you

go.

Jill Haber Pallone
8 August 2020

Celestial Music

When we laugh,
my love,
we raise
the roof,

we split open
our sides

to let each other
in.

When we laugh,
we shimmer
like the ocean,

our eyes
are full
of light

and we are cleansed
of sadness.

When we laugh
and laugh
and laugh,

all our cells
vibrate

like Tibetan
bowls

singing
to the skies

Jill Haber Pallone

Disappearing (Pandemic)

Sometimes,
locked

inside
these walls,

I begin

to lose
myself.

I walk
from room

to room,

distantly

observing

the astonishing
coherence

of my movement

through
space.

And when I speak,

my voice

is a familiar
echo,

coming
from somewhere
far away.

I am adrift,
amorphous

as a blotch
of paint,

knowing
that

the freedom

of the outside
world

might
ground
me

and restore
my boundaries,

mercifully
return me

to my rightful

shape.

Jill Haber Pallone
26 April 2020

To a Friend in a Time of Loss

I see you,
sitting calm
among the treasures
of your past,

walking tall
among the brilliant
blossoms

of this strange
spring,

buoyant
with the sense
of your own

strength,

your own
freedom.

I see you
peaceful

even
in the midst

of loss

and dark
uncertainty,

for joy
and love

are in the marrow
of your
bones,

and you,
my dearest
friend,

will never
lose them.

Jill Haber Pallone
April 2020

Yearning (Pandemic)

Yesterday, I cried
for tulips

at their peak:

Orange,

Yellow,

striped
White

and Red,

reaching up
to April

skies,

not yet
prepared

to bow
down

in listless
resignation.

I cried
for the spring

I will not
see:

the clever
dance

of fresh
wisteria,

climbing, twisting,
falling

from wooden
pergolas

and iron
gates,

hugging
the mottled
trunks
of patient

trees.

But today,
as clouds
hang
low

and windows
close

against
the chilling
wind,

I do not yearn
to spread
my wings;

I am content
here,

in the dimness
of the afternoon,

to sit
in a clear

space

of perfect

silence,

wrapped

in thought,

stroking

the comforting

shapes

of words.

Jill Pallone
29 March 2020

A New Poem:

Still Life With Tulips

Sunday afternoon,
our vista
overcast in tones
of gray

except for
the strangely
hardy

green
of the climbing
leaves

of gentle
jasmine.

Inside, you
attend to
business,

slowly placing
things

in careful
order,

while the sounds
of a flute

curl around us

like Turkish
incense

and I am
entranced

by a tall,
white

vase

of striped
red
tulips,

now fully
blossomed,

just as we’d hoped
they’d be.

Jill Haber Pallone
16 February 2020

Winter

1.

It is hardly
winter
here.

I have seen
the new
camellias,

lipstick
red,

preening
among
polished
leaves;

tables
primped
on terraces

waiting for
the midday
meal.

Here,
my eyes
swirl
with the blinding
light

of the slanted
sun,

the lake barely
shivers
in the January
breeze,

and we stand
in awe

of snowcapped
mountains,

just beyond
our reach.

2.

I know well

those other-
worldly

places,

hushed by
tall,
plush hills
of moon-white

snow,

low,
gray skies,
heavy

as woolen
blankets,

and the strange
sense

of falling
deep

into the drifting
banks

of wordless
dreams.

Jill Haber Pallone
26 January 2020

Unrelenting Winter Rain

We are bent
beneath
the full
weight

of the swollen
sky

and our bones
are aching.

There is a thick
film

over our eyes
for there is no light
to free them.

At first
it was almost
enchanting:

swathes of ruffled
clouds
ringed round

the mountains,

and the world
was a woodcut

subtly wrought
in tones
of gray.

But now we have
trouble
breathing,

for we are so
enclosed
by rain.

Night bleeds
into day,

which slips
back into
night

practically
unnoticed,

so we are always
unsure

of what we should
be doing,

except to wait
for the day

when we will be
rescued,

lifted up

by the giddy
brightness

of the sun.

Jill Haber Pallone
20 December 2019

Memoir

Tonight,
while you are
sleeping,

I slip away
into my Bad Old
Days,

and call them up
before me.

I do not intend
to undo them

or smooth their rough
edges
away—

just to see them
again
and search
to find words

for their extremity.

Some strike me
sideways,

leave me
reeling.

For though I know
they are there,
I don’t see them
coming.

I had almost
forgotten
how it felt

that day
when all was lost
and the air
tasted
like iron

and I walked
half-naked
through the snow.

I had almost
forgotten

the panic
in my father’s
eyes

as he tried
to strangle
my pain

then locked
the door
behind
him.

I had almost
forgotten
the texture

of those days,

gritty
as ash,

steely
as a razor
blade,

and how it never
really occurred
to me

that they would ever
end.