For Hettie Jones
Forever in motion, Hettie wandered against the flow of words
Framed without hesitation by her ambiguous glasses
Her sanguinary spirit, her soul unanchored in space
Born across the river in Brooklyn as Hettie Cohen
She moved through streets, passed whispered corners
On wheels, on foot, exploring through all seasons
With her pen in hand, she traced a path in half-circles
On her magic bike, or climbing the forest of chains
That she penetrated without the ripples of suffering
Her poetry spoke of lost days and jazzy nights
Of places seen, unseen and pain unfurled
Her heartbeat in the rhythm of endless roads
Her mind devouring warm earthly dreams
Now the streets are abandoned, the car gone and forgotten
Echoes of her footsteps linger on the Bowery
Hettie Jones, the poet, forever on the move
Through time and space, she travels still
In her poetry without pain, she always will.
Published in The Long-Islander (since 1838), Vol. 186, Issue 45
September 4, 2025