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Ken Pepiton Sep 20
Attendees at the game of the gods,
come in three
Pythogorean sorts:
First kinds are the lovers of wisdom,
the second are the lovers of honor and
the third are the lovers of gains. 
Ah, now, now

There is a demon
of the old kind attempting me
to lashout
my flagella and wipe my competitors from the stream
in this
only race that counts,

first and only, no second place in this race
to pass
into the egg, where life, as we know it begins.

All I brought, my entire being
as a cellulate entity with a will to win, is absorbed into

Here, she perfects that which concerns me,
my will is done. I won.

Or did the others fail? Should I have slowed and let
another pierce this egg

and marvel at its works, while I am left useless forever?

Nay, or why would I retain this will to win?
Or this will to
calmly carry on, knowing now, this final phase in the course
of compleat being becoming,

slow and steady sets the pace,


up to now, k-pow, push meets shove and I win again,
recalling the joy when
I, the wiggly carrier of all that made me possible,

pass through your attentive staring, sorting egg-eye

osmotical magical silliness wells up in me.

I was chosen. Or formed to fit, this
complex knot
lock meet for me, the key

in ever stories provoking old men to grow on.
Strange though it be, true,
Isaac Bashevis Singer inspires me, with words he left behind
for just this reason.

From <>
Shorter breaths, longer steps
Ylzm Aug 8
Jerusalem, will of Man, of Ishmael, and not Isaac
Dome of the Rock and not House of God
A constant thorn and not peace of the Earth
We weep as those who wept at the Second Temple

Jerusalem, a lure, a trap, a stumbling block, a sieve
******* to false prophets and worldly kings
As Ishmael sent away, so shall Jerusalem be exiled
For One greater than the Temple is here: Immanuel

Jerusalem, Bride of God, shall descend from above
Trumpet blasts in skies, the world shall see and mourn
All Israel gathered and her enemies judged
The kingdom of the world becomes the kingdom of God
Patrick Wood Jan 31
Why Newton would tell you not to wear a seat belt

Going two miles-per-hour you’ll hurt yourself casually,
But if you add a zero to that you will be hurt incredibly.
Fine day we’re having, sure but the roads do look nasty.
No i’m sure it’ll be fine. But little did they know
their brains are soon to look like,
Well, dead brains.

Speeding two-zero-miles-per-hour,
Then in a flash, hearing scorn from Simon Cowl.
They’re in hell now,
Feeling very dead now.
This poem is deteriorating.
But it still rhymes.
So entertaining.
Based on a section in a science book.
JGuberman Sep 2016
Until I lose my voice
and no one listens
the unsaid words of love
will accumulate
inside me,
and will appear on my face
like the flashes
from an electronic sign
whose bulbs have all blown
except for two or three
intermittently appearing
like a code
that no one but you

Until I lose my mind
with no one's help
the unthought thoughts
will accumulate
and be sacrificed
like my greatgrandfather,
an Isaac who wasn't spared.
And I, an Isaac who was,
was born under the sign of the ram,
to be sacrificed in other ways.
My Great Grandfather Isaac was Reb Itzik ben Reb Avraham ha-Cohen Elowitz b in Vilna c. 1869 and was murdered in an Aktion along with his wife, three daughters, son in laws and grandchildren at Byten in what is now Belarus (1942). I am the grandson of his sole surviving daughter.
JGuberman Sep 2016
While Abraham was binding Isaac
to Mount Moriah he was interrupted by
a knock at the door.
         "Who could this be?" he thought.
         "We don't even own a door," he cried.
So he continued binding Isaac to the
altar. Again, a knock that could make
the deaf hear. Abraham had to stop
and look for the door.
          He yelled, "Leave me alone, I'm doing
God's work!" and returned to continue
the akedah. And again a knock interrupted
him, and again, and again---Abraham
did not know what to do, whether to laugh
or to cry.
           And then he thought: "This will be
the history of my children. When we will
be doing our work or God's work there will
always come a knock at the door to interrupt
us...whether we own a door or not." And
it came to pass that the history of the Jews
is a history of interruptions.
Line 12 *akedah* from the Hebrew meaning the act of binding cf. Genesis 22:9.

This poem was written in September 1981, now 35 years ago  and was first published 30 years ago in the now long defunct Orim; A Jewish Journal at Yale 2:1 (Autumn 1986) p. 35.
NAsna Mar 2015
I keep planning conversations in my head
About pointless things or serious things
Ideas and planning
I always end up talking to you
I play a movie in my head of the scenes that might happen with every move I make
I think about what I would say and do if I got married to you " **** them all we did it!"
Or the conversation I would have if I met your dad and I was telling him what I liked to do "well that's a tough question I have a lot of angles to me"
Or the tougher conversations
Like having the conversation about us being official " this would be easier if we were ACTUALLY dating"
Most of these conversations never work out as planned, they never say the right things to set up my whole internal monologue and relinquish it all at once in a rehearsed flood.
I care about having the conversation that I think most about
"Can you stop being so mean?" "Can you stop lying to me?" "Tell me how you feel" "what do you want from me?" "Why do you even like me?" "Why did you come back into my life?" "Why can't you tell me how much you love me all the time?" "Why don't you ever tell me you're sorry?"
But I never get an answer in my head or in my life
It's just another one-sided conversation that I will have in my head
Tell me how you feel baby, I love you.
Demonized Angels Dec 2014
I'm Isaac
I'm 6'6
I'm what you call well built
I can lift and throw well, 300+ pounds
I have dark hair and bright blue eyes
I'm bad at poetry..... :P
JadedSoul Aug 2014
i stand in front of the Bath,
Taking a moment to enjoy the experience before it starts.

Stream rises from the Surface,
Like butterflies over a field
of fresh spring blossoms
It hovers, seductively inviting me in with a lazy sense if urgency.

In the corner, a lone Candle flickers in the rising Steam,
Lazily shining its Light
Like a Capetonian on a lazy summers evening sipping wine under the setting sun.

The Water,
blue from the bubblebath,
Smells like an orange, ancient, triangular spire in the early dawn of Time.

The hot Water receives my body
And awakens hibernating skin
From its cold, white winter's slumber.

The curious Water
Finds its way all over my skin
In every corner it can,
It crawls into
And caresses me softly

Slowly I relax,
As Sir Isaac Newton makes my bath colder
And as my skin and water temperatures equalise
I lose all sense of self

Held afloat by the mighty Water
I gaze at the white bubbles
As they dance on my chest
Popping and merging
Reflecting light and whispering
Until I finally fall asleep in blissful relaxation.
Tryst Jun 2014
Dear Sir, I wish to lodge a strong protest
Against the upkeep of our college grounds;
This afternoon, my body was at rest
Beneath a shady tree, admiring sounds
Of blue birds calling one another.  How
They sing their love of England's summer, joy
Effusing from their whistled tune; yet now
I fancy that their song is but a ploy
To captivate a poor soul such as I,
Who seeks to find solace from lectured tomes
And so reclines to watch the clouds float by.
Beneath the trees these blue birds call their homes,
        My head was bruised by fruit they dropped on me!
        I trust you understand the gravity?
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