ERICA MICHAELS HOLLANDER - POEMS

Erica Michaels Hollander practiced law for 33 years,  taught speech communication, and is a trainer, educator and practitioner of psychodrama, sociometry and group psychotherapy.  She also paints and occasionally sculpts.
She lives near Denver with ther husband and the World’s Foremost Dog. ​

Women’s Ghazal poem

They are only vehicles for children--
The choice to bear is not up to women.

First they burned their bras and stomped and raged.
Since then other means are used by women.

Tide of thought has turned these days to hating 
Harassers instead of blaming women.

Who are these grabby, show off, bully men
Whose power and status give them women?

New high school needs a top notch principal
All Board members know not to choose from women.

You cannot put her in charge.  She cries and
She will be just like all other women.

What do we want in our public offices?
What say we turn from has beens to women?

Let those who do not bear children rule
On who bears them and when for women.

Don’t argue, be ladylike, smile, smile,
That’s how we expect you,always, women.

Shame Trump was elected when we could have
Had a perfectly competent woman.

Pay some workers less and save your money.
On account of their sex, don’t tell the women.


Backstabbers, nasty asses, cowardly,
Just competing for men, needy women--

You cannot trust them, without principles,
Treacherous, conniving, striving women.

At the Brown Palace at just 4 o’clock 
The lobby is full of hats and women.

You want to talk something through?  Something hard?
Not men, seek the company of women.

Decorated with face paint and pencil,
Earrings and jewels, see all the women.

Breasts pushed forward and up, brows tweezed, guts trim,
Hobbling in shoes made of pincers, women.

​

​Pale purple poem

Lavender scented colored bath soap,
Lavender breaths on the wind.  Fleeting,
Soft, pale, bluish tones and 
Elaborate, lacy, frilly, girl things,
Flowering, full lavender blue lilacs--
Really, the only true kind of lilac.
Lavender stuffed pillows for closets,
Eyes so deep they seem to be lavender.

Lavender, the color of fine restraint,
Grace, polish, elegance, hauteur, satin.
Lavender tea and lavender liqueur.
Fields full of lavender in the south of France,
Row on row of bright lavender bushes. 
Lavender clouds at the edge of the storm,
Lavender tinted golden sunsets,
Lavender sachet in my lingerie.

The willingness to sense inner beauty,
To enter lush lavender whispering dreams,
Muted, humble, mysterious, wispy.
Seductive, engaging, gentle, hopeful,
But never adamant or demanding.
Lavender adult sensibility
Beyond those primary colors and tones,
Delicate, mature, marvelous pastel.

​

​This is not my country

This place looks like home, but It’s not my country.
My old country was far from perfect, but 
We tried to do the right thing when we could.  
My country was welcoming 
And offered safety to the dispossessed.
It used to strive toward toward its own betterment.
It treasured difference and measured human worth
in contribution, not in fame, dollars or deceit.
It honored service and recognized what
Was given and at what cost. Slippery was
Never its aim.   It praised courage, honor, 
And rewarded dedication.  My old
Country had many flaws, but loved variety, 
Allowed eccentricities,
Respected effort, needed dissent, 
Tried to care for its children, and protect its people,
Treasure its wildernesses, nurture ingenuity.
The melody of that country was hope and aspiration.
The lamp lifted by its golden door
Shone through the fog of harbor
For those who came for refuge.  
We did not tear gas those at the border, separate families,
Or write numbers on bare arms of children.
I cannot recognize this country.

​