a-n-friedman
I love the sound of words and how they form together. Often, my poetry consists of doodles of words or phrases that interest me, then I look down later and they ponder on how the lines relate to one another. The poems usually do not take shape until they are a few lines in.
I shot for the stars and hoped to reach the moon
But I passed the moon
I passed the stars
I passed the time and passed the space and ended up in this space
This space with your face at your place.
This past space and past time at your place in your bed
In bed where you said the things you said and
I said the things I said and your bed and my bed became our bed
Our bed that we bought for our place and our place
And our place which had more space for more beds and more heads
And little heads to be put to beds that we built with friends
In our space and our time.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Meshiach
When Meshiach comes, what will she see?
When Meshiach comes, who will he be?
Will she see us waiting, wanting, writhing?
Aching, forsaking, wanton dying?
Will he be judging, nudging, vengeful, mad?
Hateful, cold, disappointed, sad?
Will she see us forgetful and himself forgiveful?
Will we recognize her face, and him our grace?
Will she see children trying their hardest?
Will we see a father home late from his job?
He she see hands reinforcing shoulders,
quivering with each woeful sob
siblings caring for each other
Latchkey kids with snacks did steal
To stave off hunger as they await
Parent’s arrival and evening meal
The ancient books tell us, for peace and holiness to strive
For it is only then that Meshiach will arrive.
We are left to ask, “if we can soothe our sore,
Then please tell us what, we need Meshiach for?”
Perhaps it is when we cease to fight
And all the conditions are perfect and rite
And the need for Meshiach has ceased to be
That it shall be discovered that Meshiach is WE.
5.17.16
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
What grows inside is something new
From something me, and something you
From something borrowed, old and blue
What grows inside is something new
What grows inside is a part of me
But what sort of me will they be?
I hope they’ll smile, I hope they’ll love
I hope they’ll wonder about something above
Will they sing? Will they write?
Will they cry, yell or fight?
Excited and scared for who they’ll be
‘cause what grows inside is a part of me
What grows inside is a part of you
but what parts will prove to be true?
Your compassion? Your prowess? How you dance? How you laugh?
How you champion the choice of the less chosen path?
Will flavors be their palate and their canvas a plate?
What will be their favorite color? Who will be their first date?
I know I’ll love them and I know this is true
‘Cause what grows inside is a part of you
What grows inside is a something new
From something borrowed, old, and blue
What grows, it grows because of our love
Which spans far below and high above
From place of fact and places of lore
And all of the places we have yet to explore
Sure, laughs have been had and tears have been shed
But the greatest adventure lies ahead
‘cause the best of me and the best of you
Is what grows inside of you.
1.27.16
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 2:47 PM UTC
Could barely get out the door today
Funny, ‘cause I walked away
Amazing how fast you get used to things
How comfortable you get with what the weekend brings
And how fast they end and go away
Left alone to face a new day
Now all left alone with all of this time
Feeling like this will be my last rhyme
Where once there was warm flesh,
Now only cold pillows and dusty blankets
Where there was comfort and company
Bad TV and empty hours
Methodical release and dark sunny days
Punctuated by corporeal storms
Half smiles with the Pyrrhic comfort
The knowledge that this time I did what was best
I stood up, I stand up, I gaze around proudly
And see that I am still an island.
With waves rapidly eroding my shores,
Dents in my harbor from boats that came to dock
And left far too soon
Sun shining on my face to attract new visitors
And I sit and wait,
Trying impossibly to be happy
with just being an island.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Making hay while the sun’s a’shinin’
Stealin’ cake while the others are dinin’
Feeling the pull to peep through the wool
Or was it the sheep through which the lies seep ?
The chaotic bleat that flows beneath the feet
And arises up the spine like cavitations mal- divine.
Emitting up and out a sound hole plucking strings in our throat
Unconscious aural conformation
Till one living sweater-shrub ceases to bleat out of consternation
Something has changed, as things sometimes do.
Something is different, something is new.
Random, spontaneous, serendipitous growth
Unexpected uninvited, unrequited hope
Once begged for freedom from oppressive tyranny of choice
Now beg for shackles through curdled cackles to get back the voice
Till beg no more, upright from all for
Decision passed from hooves to hand
From grazing grass to breeding land
To breed ideas, but not new race
To evolve, revolve, revolt with grace
But still a sheep, not more no less.
Did not run, did not egress
The sheep that ceased to bleat and began to speak.
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 9:15 AM UTC
I see a flower in the sun.
Bright and yellow
it blows back and forth in the wind.
In short, staccato vibrations
It moves like nature's metronome
To a beat I cannot hear.
I am caught briefly by it’s radiance,
It’s beauty.
I hope to capture it in a memory
One that I can reflect upon
And hope to bring me peace
In times more frenzied.
And yet to do so would be futile.
To do so would be to disrespect
The ephemeral nature of such beauty.
It would cheapen it with presumptions
That I could own it,
Carry it with me.
Like nature’s rhythm,
It is unknown to me.
To see it is to hide it.
To want it, is to offend.
To me it is beauty,
Yet it’s experience is one of turmoil,
Battered by the wind,
Wilting before my eyes in the heat.
It’s scent is cleansing,
But for the flower,
It is odor.
Inviting predators
To violate it,
To cut it down
To take it from it’s family.
It is a promise of pain.
And yet that pain is inevitable.
The futility of my desire to keep it
Is the flower’s futile desire to remain free.
And so I pass it by.
With a gentle nod,
I acknowledge our intertwined destinies,
That neither of us shall know peace,
And that in knowing this
We have found it.
The wind gusts up
The flower bends low to me
Then whips back aright
As if to say, it knows too.
Apr 2, 2012
Apr 2, 2012 at 5:29 PM UTC
Feeling free as a way to be
Become the feeling feels to me
As I can't hear and I can't see
From all the ones to form a We
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 12:56 PM UTC
Where are the heroes
From days of yore?
Remain do the arch foes,
They fought before.
Still here the cold,
Still here the heat.
Gone the valiant old,
But not from defeat.
Were they abhorred
Or did they die?
Or were they absorbed
Into a lullaby?
And though songs like these,
Keep us as babes sedate.
Grow old and thus appease,
Cruelties grow and virtue abate.
But in random saintly moments,
Recall youth unconscious thus.
And melodies not sang to us since,
Awaken heroes still in us.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:27 AM UTC
Wake up, sweet lilly.
Don’t hang your head so low.
For the world is waiting out there
For you to let your petals show.
You have me to shower you with gifts,
And the sun to give you light.
The world is a great big place out there,
But there is no need for fright.
And for all your wayward ways of past
You sadly do atone
It feels as it shall forever last,
But you are not alone.
You have those who planted, and those who cared,
And those who look upon you each day.
They looked with awe, for what they saw,
They had no words to say.
So don’t deprive the world your beauty,
For soon you will regret.
For as pretty you are (which is pretty by far)
Is not close to as pretty you will get.
So wake up, sweet lily.
Don’t hang your head so low.
For I am the gardener and I have come
To help you grow, and grow.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:26 AM UTC
a man danced with his shadows
on a bright and sunny day
the expression he wore was sallow
cause he couldn’t find his way
so he followed his ground-bound friend
and circles defined his trail
he found his steps at the very end
and thought that he had failed
he cursed and burst and through a fit
deeming the day a waste
but then the answer seemed to hit
and a smile crept cross his face
he figured out the reason
that his path had been so hollow
it had nothing to do with season
but who he’d chosen to follow
so now he’s changed his ways
and thus left behind his fright
he works and sings and plays all day
but he dances only at night
and instead of walking round the ground
that never takes him far
he grins, holds his head up high
and takes voyage with the stars.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 8:25 AM UTC