Mindy moved to Israel in 1977, has a BA from Washington University (St. Louis), and an LLB from Hebrew University. She practiced law, but writing is her first career choice. In 1997 she won second prize in the Jewish Librarians' Choice competition, for a children's story. Her poetry, stories, book reviews and essays have been published in Wild Plum, Current Accounts, the Jerusalem Post, the Jewish Press and other publications both on and off line. Most recently Mindy has become the Israeli co-editor of The Deronda Review.





canopy of brittle brown fingers
under the carob tree

shaded path
children play spelling games with
fallen fingers
build road maps
crazed borders
along the sidewalk

a distant rumble,
keen lament
of ambulance
once again
carob seeds scattered wide

it is time to come in now, children
the time for picking carob fingers
playing games and
road maps
is over.



And then there is light
For my path
Called: Integrity
I pray it is mine

My walking stick has faith
Written on it
It keeps me steady
Though the path is narrow
My stick is strong
And I feel I can lean
On the light as well
A whisper
Comes from
The far end
Of the path
Perhaps a song
Shouting off to the side
Distracts me
Though only momentarily
My stick says,
Choose life
My path speaks to me
Song of salvation
Words in the distance
Is there is no way
To determine
Its length?



weeks before, they gather sticks
scavenging children
for anything flammable

just don't burn books,
I warn,
we don't do that

books kept us alive
no land -
no leader -
no icons -
only books

gather children
'round leaping flames
faces shine and flicker

fire transforms
dance into prayer
song into meditation
613 flames
leap up to Heaven as one!

our bonfires differ
our dances not the same
our children understand
that we don't burn books



at the edges of deep places
souls cry out
to be freed
fear steps back
but courage pushes through
reaches down
only to find
despondence shrinks back
from the edges of deep places

souls murmur and chant
echoes slice through
fear, courage, despondence
only a small opening
a crack
a slit
through which
most daring
saves the souls.



A Pantoum
These three times
He has pointed his ugly finger
Go, curse the Children of Israel
But I refused
He pointed his ugly finger
Why haven’t you listened to me?
But I refused
The voice of G-d came to me

Why haven’t you listened to me?
My faithful four-legged beast
Then the voice of G-d came to me
And I smiled upon them from the summit

How goodly are your tents, oh Jacob
These three times
I blessed them and did not
Curse the Children of Israel.


Every stone has a poem
There in the middle
Where the now-famous soldier
Scarred from war
Leaned his forehead
His soul
Dusty dirty
And cried the tears
Of his great grandparents
And others
Greater than them
Who watched him
Win the battle
From on high

To the right
A large unruffled stone
Where the sage leaned
When he blew the shofar
The first in years
The stone heaved
A tiny sigh

To the left
A stone drenched in loneliness
Caressed in repentance
By others
In a different battle

Every stone has a poem



I first hear about the Holocaust
when I am six and a half
at camp.

In not so many words
my childhood comes to an end -
in a story I hear
about other children
whose parents are no longer there
when they come home from school.

Children, like me –
no longer children,
search for their parents
up and down the rows,
endless rows
of identical hospital beds
with identical blankets -
parents are hard to find
with their heads shaved.

Away from home,
At summer camp
I think this nightmare
of lost parents
is no story at all.



agitated angry waters
swallow families whole
and leave a hole
where a village once stood

trees and houses bow down
before the wildness of the waves
cower and kneel
as slaves

the playground of Europe
lies in ruins
by a much larger force



I am a mother just
like the rest except that
I have seen more than they
And I have heard more,
Ridden a chariot into battle - been victorious.
I have been crowned the
Princess Poet. A torch
lights my way – Praise G-d!

Yet there are women stronger than I.
One who killed with the hushed swiftness
of a deer. One who crushed
evil with a millstone. There
are many women in harlequin costumes
with dark painted eyes. They
embrace fragrant oils for many long hours
in preparation for the prophecy
they have all nurtured. Their silence
digs deep into the soil of prayer.

Praise G-d for the women whose names
are their most precious secrets. They have
taught their children how to sing,
and dedicated their lives at the
Throne of The King. Women have fed
meat and flat bread to the angels,
and run with bare feet
to the harvest along the borders
of the Land. Whether slaves
or concubines or queens They
have danced in the vineyards and
given their lives to defeat the enemy.
Praise G-d!
Israel does not need a king,
when women always look to
The King of Kings.



champagne and stale glasses
huge bearded broom
soothes the floor
picks up confetti
sore feet massage sequined gown
with matching hat
scattered benches
fast asleep
a forlorn silk tie
loathe to leave its chair
sounds of dancing and joy
have packed away the musicians
as one last wire snakes around the tinsel
table cloths folded
into wig boxes
piles of cartons
in festive gift wrap
totter over shards of crystal
mazal tov
echoes from the door



Closest to my face
Is air
Next to that –
Not Nimes or Reimes
Not Makong or Pnom Pen
Very close
Miles away
Next door
Right here
Burned black cylinder
Centerpiece of war
Decorates nervous souls
Shake off shrapnel
Dandruff of death

International Jewish writers
At a conference
While I am busy sweeping floors -
Mine is no disgrace
Ancient words as modern ones
Full force upon me
Rag in one hand, pen in other -
But not in attendance
I have missed them reading their words
Aloud to one another
And rubbing shoulders; I have no time
To congratulate famous names
and wish unknown faces a happy holiday.
Now, like then, the buildings stand
Once full, erupting with life
With hope
Now empty
Art once sprung from the windows
Music flowed through the doors
Now only ghosts
Hazy images, so vague
That crazy people deny their existence
We know they existed
The buildings
The art
The music
All testify
Our children,
Bear their names
Brush their strokes
Hum their notes
Images rest in peace
In new buildings
In our place
Where we will never let it happen again.
I was raised on another planet
Forever thumbing my way
Along the cyber-bahn
Watching Earth wax and wane
Getting nowhere
Its civilizations
Like it tides
Inventions and ideas ride along
As my thumb goes numb
Waving goodbye
As each species becomes extinct
All in a day
My youth no longer extant
A relic of my mind
Preserved on silicone
And other inter-galactic substances