Flowers (poem)

Flowers
8 January 2017

It was never quite so clear to me
as it was to
the confident sprout, sticking its head
out of the dirt
the confident bud, collecting what it needs
through the dirt
the confident flower, showing its colours
over the dirt, sharing its seeds
which each holds only the secret
of the flower
and not of the dirt.

I never could quite see
where the author's message ended
and the message of the author began
and where the author ended
and the message for me began
and where the message for me ended
and my own message started to speak.

a dirt of many flowers
each forgotten, each unique.

Looking Up, Looking Down — The Darkly Spectacle

Looking Up, Looking Down — The Darkly Spectacle

Day 315, Year 11 (by the MagicDuel calendar :D)

 If the waters shimmered downward

and we were looking up

would the times at all be different

would they be less rough

yes, a line was drawn below

based on literary taste

those preferring newer wisdoms

outside the line were placed

but a line was drawn above

no less vicious, though it lost

I don’t think the leader mattered

both are driving, though we’re lost

a line of taste in instinct

shunning those who lost its thread

do not think that this was better

or left any fewer dead

nor believe it was erased

(if you took the other side)

we are still in awful danger

of two kinds of slaughter

Where The Mountains Meet The Sea

Where The Mountains Meet The Sea

December 4, 2016

Dolores, your image reminds me of me

and a story I once drew

of where the mountains meet the sea.

(sound familiar?  Then we agree.)

the tallest peaks, the cracks of the earth

deeper than most of her many flaws

long after a conflict has ended

they still stand so proud of it all

and hand-in-hand

the sea and the sand

such a different story.

rocks that yield to the waves

shattering, falling, rounded out

made by forgetting their maker

till each is like the rest

so strange that the stories are one

just as the mountain is proud of its past

each grain of sand, so proud to be tiny

and yet to be strong, since it’s like all the rest

The wheel becomes stronger

whenever it bends

the mountain is stronger

when history rends 

Let us be like the wheel

let us stand till we bend

let our hearts always reel

at the pain we will send

Let us build and be broken

resisting our end

let our love be like water

and turn us to sand.

--

(yes I've been watching Westworld...but this image predates that)

Where I Sit

Where I Sit

November 25, 2016

Where I sit, the air is cold

winter is here.

The air is dry as dust.

The ground is forgetting its warmth.

But elsewhere, the sea is warm

and the cold air touches the sea.

Elsewhere, the air is wet

and the warm air gathers to me.

And clouds are forming

it’s winter for me.

The snow is falling

and melting away.

The colors are hiding

falling away

ground cloaked like a baby

from every display.

The drink is coming

I wish I could stay.

I lift 

a precious drop

of water to my lips

a long-thirsted song

on how the water drips.

We are 

not alone

whether or not

we like it.

We are

who we are

and also

who we are not.

The sky

and the sea

what is cold,

yet what is hot.

(inspired by Elad Nehorai’s “Jews Are United, Whether We Like It Or Not”

and by Aryeh Kaplan’s Sefer Yetzira:  The Book of Creation in Theory and Practice.)

—

הורים — הרים — מקום קיבוץ השלג.  מקום המעינות.

The Prince of Gems

The Prince of Gems

Burn like a candle fierce.
And when your foes the tzaraath pierce
shed the sister's slanderous lies
lift each vale, and each disguise
prove the sage's words were true
and that the gems turned into you
with kindness turn the clock anew

(centered on a story from Rabbi Nachman, by the same name)

Soul

Soul

 "Your bloods are red," I have been told.

"And over top them rides the soul.

Forever bought, it's who you are, whether shy or bold."

But time and again, I feel like gold.

I am neither slaughtered, encouraged, nor stilled.

Forever lost, never bought, forever sold.

I am neither recognized nor roled.

"Alone" is not even the word.

Not a soldier, forever a sword.

Drawn across time like a cuckoo bird.

But then I closed my eyes, and all I have seen went red...



(updated 6/24)

from freshman year (late 2012) in reaction to a school shooting...sadly there have been enough that I don't know which

School Shootings

The blood of the fallen is scattered. 

 It calls from the hearts of students and a teacher standing in the schoolyard. 

 It screams from the tiles and from the ground beneath. 

It burns in the eyes of a country.

The eyes of the fallen are closed now.

They do not see what a witness saw and they fail to take in the schoolyard.

They stare back at the years woven, the parents who made them.

A pluck broke the strings, strings of time

The tiles clean, the soil hidden from view.

Under the yard where hopers breathe abandoners air

voices from above shout all mistakes and breaking human mind.

There isn't any music.

Buried in metal that is witness to nothing

And it all seems so simple, a world displaced from a world

or an item moved from a store shelf

a lie transferred, hand to hand

and the soil ironed with a sprinkler.

Falling lead, the sound of nothing