Born in Chicago, Illinois, Mel Goldberg earned his MA, taught literature and writing in California, Illinois, Arizona, and at Stanground College in Cambridgeshire, England. For seven years, he and his artist wife lived in a small motor home, traveling the US, Canada, and Mexico, selling their creations. They have called Mexico home for 20 years. Mel has published four novels. His short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous literary magazines.
Mel’s book of 100 sonnets, Gold-Berg’s Sonnets, from which these poems are drawn, is available on Amazon. The cover is a reproduction of the 1609 edition of Shake-Speares sonnets
WHEN OLD FRIENDS DIE
Now my old friends have all begun to die,
and take their memories with them to the grave.
Some left without even a quick goodbye
so suddenly, I had no time to wave
at their eternal souls. The lusty girls
who bloomed in the twentieth century
and strutted wearing diamonds and pearls
exist now only in my memory.
Soon death’s sharp scythe will swing to cut me down.
But friends and family, make no mournful sound
or wear a sad expression or a frown.
Think of me on a new adventure bound.
This life fulfilled, I’m going far away,
looking toward a fresh inspiring day
******
I DREAMED MY LOVE AND I WERE DEAD
One night I dreamed my love and I were dead.
Death’s awful hand with pressure gripped my heart.
I saw one grave become our final bed,
yet our eternal souls drifted apart.
Hers flew to glory and in peace did dwell,
but when her soul sought mine, it was in vain.
Mine was fast shackled in the pit of hell
And it knew nothing but torment and pain.
From Paradise she cried and tear-drops fell
to earth, absorbed. For each a flower grew
that made the sulfurous, burning fires of Hell
as cool and moist as any earthly dew.
I smiled and breathed a sigh. My shackles broke.
“Thank God for love,” I shouted, and awoke.
******
MY LAST LOVER
The hooded one will come, my last lover,
to welcome me home when all the others
have abandoned me, and she will hover
near and take my hand. Like patient mothers
leading children to soft untroubled sleep,
their heavy eyelids hesistant to close.
She’ll still my pain, and in the silent deep,
keep watch, and grant a quiet, last repose.
No other lips could promise faith like hers,
waiting in silence by my final bed.
When every page of my book of life blurs,
I understand where unpaved paths have led.
She offers me a dreamless silent sleep
with no more vows or promises to keep.
******
FORGOTTEN
In some forgotten place the year turns dry,
the once green growth turns brown upon the hill.
Then oranges whither before my eye
And turkey buzzards wheel and yet seem still.
When apricot trees grow but bear no fruit
and doors and night skies all around me close,
then I will probe to understand the root
of all things from the thistle to the rose.
Against world’s most valuable things –
the mountains and the valleys and the earth,
the faults, volcanoes, and eternal springs
I’ll take my measure, understand my worth.
Then all may comprehend I made a space
And know I once inhabited this place.
Published in Great Little Things, March 2021
******
LAST DANCE
My granddaughter, just old enough to stand
alone at her first birthday party, clung
in giggling pleasure to my wrinkled hand
as we both waltzed across the room among
an anxious family, poised to intervene.
No relatives attempted to explain
the nonsense sounds they all heard pass between
an old man and a child. Yet it was plain,
beyond enjoyment of their festive dance
they understood one certainty as true:
At ninety I delighted in the chance
to hold her little hands in mine, but knew
with stalking time’s unstoppable advance,
I’d be compelled to leave before she grew.
Published in Deronda Review, March 2021
******
MEXICAN DRUM CORPS
Ekphrastic poem based on Frederick Remington’s 1889 painting
Drum Corps, Mexican Army
Once you had glory, now you bang your drum,
And march through Mexico in sandaled feet.
You did not think about the hell to come –
the end of drumming down these dusty streets.
Then, with Juarez, you fought against the French,
a thousand years of war experience
against some peasants in an unmarked trench,
to cleanse your land of foreign influence.
Your names may be forgotten, but your deeds
Live on. What though with patriots you lie
in lonely graves with flowers strewn? The seeds
of unborn soldiers take your place to die.
Thus it has always been, and so will be
Until each man, in his own way, is free.
Published in Autumn Sky Poetry (art issue), October 2009
******
WISTFULNESS
Each sunset causes me to pause and stare,
feeling vague discontentment with my life.
The past is gone, yet I still feel the strife
of past regrets. which I shall always bear.
They haunt me like the wind sighing at night,
persistent thoughts that pluck at my heartstrings,
a dreadful song of what the future brings
a phantom melody that gives me fright.
It’s said time heals all wounds, but that’s untrue.
Time only softens what it cannot cleanse,
and shows all through a magnifying lens
that forces us to live sorrow anew.
But given all the heartaches and the pain
I long to live those bygone years again
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After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
- Poetry Niche – September 2026 - August 30, 2026
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