A day in love is like a thousand years,
With a heart beating but time moves no more.
I know the timelessness of loving you,
Is God-like as in Psalms ninety verse four.
To be in love with you gives me my soul,
Your love is the breath of life from Heaven.
The love my lungs breathe is like the spirit
God breathed in Genesis two verse seven.
Your love shows me mercy, grace, good and truth,
Patience, forgiveness and absence of hate.
It awes me like when God showed Himself in
Exodus thirty-four seven and eight.
The more I love you the simpler it gets,
It’s something I just naturally do.
Love’s forever inscribed in my heart like
Jeremiah thirty-one thirty-two.
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I remember my dreams of a holy place,
a library where I ran, just a little boy with other boys,
with a great stained glass window filling up the space
on the pointed ceiling above the sacred text
that left me perplexed
and mouthing a few syllables when I could understand,
and wishing to feel the soft cloth on my head,
over a short haircut that I didn't have.
I can't truly say if it was a dream,
but I remember walking outside into the desert with those little boys, feeling jealous of their kippahs,
and eventually we stopped at what I thought might be like a stream,
but was only a canal in the wasteland.
The tumbleweeds whispered and rattled,
but no snakes slid out of them with a tail that rattled quite the same.
I grew up though, far away now,
with the heavy weight of knowledge on my back
and the feeling of sweat on my brow.
I have heard a lot, and that soundless world where I spent all of my time looking and none of my time listening
is gone. I listen and I look now,
and I tell a girl about my observations
while she marvels and tells me what to do with them,
but there is nothing much to become
when despite my ambition
I hold myself back with the most unholy things.
2318 jan 10 2019
To be submerged in world and Word, in Word
That is the world, in words that are the Word
Written in holy fire, the eternal Song
In which and through Whom the world is breathed into being
The Torah scroll unrolls the years of creation
The pages of the Talmud frame the law
As in the statute-structure of the ark
Or as a tabernacle of the soul
To read the words, to chant the Word, to sing -
To be the yad in the great Hand of God
"You are Beer-sheva, the garden of the seven lights, and I desire to dwell in you forever." Your lips recite sparks of light clothed in mystical words, your body is an esoteric tent, and the wise meet to observe you. Your golden skin, a scroll where the angels write the desires and the care of the heavens.Your beautiful ******* are divine sphinxes that hide the honey of Wisdom.Who will be worthy of you to feed? On what lips will you distil the sweet and sublime honey that flow That I may be worthy to drink of your honey, and that my mouth have merit to prove the waters of your fountain, for you are the Shrine of the Divine, the dwelling place of the Holy Presence in this world.You are Beer-sheva, The garden of seven lights and I eternally desire to dwell in you. " Sipra Shefatai Tevuna (Lips of Sublime Understanding)*
Deepak Sankara Veda
Tara'a is a term of the Zoharic Aramaic and means Sentinel - angelic creature that has six wings and that guards the Gates to the Upper Palaces (Heichal'Ot) of the Tree of the Lives.
A branch of the tree,
split of the yoke.
Bee of the mouth,
heart thus bespoke.
New year crisis of men,
fire works, fire, smoke.
I have heard The Calling,
-anguish of The Woman.
"If You engage War and the spirit of the Lord is with you; then the wind of his spirit shall blow open the mouth of the Dragon bringing victory in order."
In ancient language the, 'Bee,' represents god's word or the divine message of the Lord. 'Branch,' is the descent of man from the garden or tree of life.
Vor dem Gesetz steht ein Türhüter.
This is a day
like the many days I've spent
among the shadows at dusk
that cast no reflections
in the reflecting pools
and hold no illusions
as to what really is illusive.
But on this day my illusions
imagining that for once my world is based
upon three things;
The rule of law
The five books of your hand
And you, the prophetess that wrote them.
And as required
I will build a hedge for you.
And if this hedge
should ever over grow,
I will then trim it
like a true guardian of the law
Allowing none other entry
and I alone will hold fast
to the five books of your hand
and the only other existing copy.
a slightly different version of this poem was published in EUROPEAN JUDAISM (UK) 25:1 (Spring 1992) p. 59
after Yona Wallach (1944-1985)
Let's have it!
I came for the show!
Strip the Torah
to its essence
where not one word can hide
caress it with your Yad
singing in a lovers voice
an ancient burlesque
and when it's done and dressed again
parade it dancing through the congregation
a fitting encore
to a fine performance
as we almost fall over each other
to touch it
slipping spiritual dollars into its belt
the temperatures rising
like a finished prayer
that even makes the Malachim sweat
in their heavenly heights.
Yona Wallach was an Israeli poet known for her suggestive and sometimes explicit work that was often both sacred and profane.
Yad is the pointer used to read from the Torah
Malachim are "angels".
Goddess of my Awakening dawn. Let me observe your illuminated skin, the divine and sacred scroll on which God wrote my mysteries.
Your golden follicles, the infinite world light receptors and creation, are the crowns on the letters of the Holy alphabet noted on your wonderful body.
Your nakedness is esoteric and when you gently Spending my eyes, revealest your sphinxes, angelic hieroglyphs are the notes in the score sung by Serafim.
Goddess of the dawn of my awakening. Your lips are the divine Edenic sources of heavenly delight. Your kisses are horseback riding chariot igneous creatures, souls sparks coming through my mouth to rest in my spirit. What could be more sacred than emerjantes kisses of your mouth? What could be more divine than your beauty and the light of your sensuality? Es, therefore, the object of my poetry, awakened in my mind the esoteric view of your magnificent *******.
Goddess of my Awakening dawn, Princess Christed rof aurora of my soul. Kiss me and make me your scribe, the immortal annotator of your mystical sensuality.
Esotérika II - The Poetry Of The Wakening by Deepak Sankara Veda
"Perfumes up, who poetess for a woman, it makes her as a mystic rose, exhale about themselves, their fragrance of her sensuality."