#leonard
~The words of Leonard COHEN~
“Poetry comes from a place that no one commands
and no one conquers.”
<>
there are so so many reasons for
gratitude;
~
for gratitude in these cluttered lives
and times when living is
most confusing,
and sorting right from wrong
somehow changes daily,
and even the most moral of absolutes,
seem so easy twisted and upended
by scoundrels and miscreants
~
enumeration is pointless
for there is no limit to the
words required to redeem
all of gratitude’s aspected beauty
~
but I am grateful
for the sparkling sparking
that ignites my chest
when my eyes imbibe
a truth expressed
in loveliness and its qualities of
empowering,
so undressed yet, so emperor elegant in
its succinct, espirited~essentiality,
it is
sancrosant
~
instant recognition
of the pressing, pressuring need
to grab hold of its entirety,
embrace it with caresses,
to embellish it with tributaries
of tribute,
to grasp its intuitive lyrical
absoluteness
to bring it to your lips
for sounding out loud,
to ensure the surety
of the atmosphere
knowing, telling it is:
beloved
You, Poet,
understood exactly what Cohen’s words meant,
intuitive, no explication, analysis necessitated,
asking you
to just love words that you command temporarily,
however brief,
for you own them but for instant,
and once unencrypted,
they belong
to the unconquerable wild world of
everyone
~!~
this poem came and went in a a few minute moments of unblemished
deep breathing
3:00pm
Thursday April 30
2026
New York City
~~~
<>
*Sacrosanct,
an adjective describing a rule, tradition, person, considered too important, sacred, valuable to be changed, questioned, violated…implies an ultimate inviolability, stemming from a deep, personal respect
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 2:43 PM UTC
inspired by“Blame It on Kristofferson” written by Byron Hill and John Wilken,
released 2010
(lyrics below)
<•>
A young teen listens to the
folk/rock during the Sixties,
five few years later,
now all growed up and living, crazy,
on Bleecker Street, the very same,
where these songs were being sung live,
by the artists, songwriters & friends
on the streets’s bars ‘n cafes
And Judy sings a ballad, mysterious,
‘bout a Marianne and all the tea in China,
words written like it was a poem,
and the infection was silent transferred,
still ‘fected, even now, in days sooner to
be reporting to heaven’s door, this blessed
curse will be unrelenting coming along,
we blame it on
Leonard Cohen
Knew the words, learned the secret chords,
which was easy, a-direct line between us,
knew where he got them holy tunes, and the
words he stole stealthy from our prayerbook,
went to Montreal, visited his home,
it was no accident, just the hand of god,
but don't blame the divine mystery being,
nah~nope, half~century, later, this dope
still blames it on,
yeah that’s right, on
Leonard Cohen
And here we are, the two of us, probably
smiling, gesticulating and gesturing, who
in fact is truly responsible for our crazy gene,
that pursues us, to create,
to mate words with
music of the deep soul, and here me be,
I am,
grateful grasping for each latter day to birth a new creation,
going out smiley & feeling kindly and fulfilled, now more than ever, and
zero doubts that the person at fault, fully blaming it all on my Canadian soul brother,
Leonard Cohen
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 9:36 AM UTC
like a sonorous bird on a wire, his lyrics delivered with/in, a gravelly impish grinning wink, with a high voltage current currency that makes you cry, why did I not write that, godfamn it, which rhymes doncha ya know
so pickup your electronics, grumpy and
cursing, compelled to start versing, bested by
the best, reminder to self you are an also ran, you be back of the pack, and the love out there, freely given to the artists we aspire to be makes me,
an ass-piring foolish man, who kicks up
beach sand into his owned eyes, them two
regular betrayers… and that’s a rap and a
wrap of another baddie po~em
Sep 14, 2024
Sep 14, 2024 at 8:46 AM UTC
A single lyric on a single song, sung, by one of my chosen ones, a brother and friend,
a brethren, whose hidden meanings are never hidden from me,
as we both, both gentle souls who, when lost, have been
lost
witnesses and also been witnessed:
weeping into the rags of remorse
this season is nearing conclusion, I know the sun rays penetrate, in a vain vanity of a last attempt to purify and make my soul stains,
a burnt offering, rising as smoke up to the wind,
my hearted words lifted,
letter by letter, to whence they came from
My senses are not cold, rhymes run, forgiving the sun for it’s inevitable disappearance, so it shall be displaced,
just lie us,
over then under, a nearby horizon,
with a sunset wave goodbye, a multi colored coat spectacle,
that reflects well off & on
my pallid skin
When it returns, it will be a different star, re-angled, in such a way that it can no longer do heavens work on my body and soul, both
kindred entities, each with each other,
a commemorative tree ring commonality,
a newly incised cain mark
sensitive locomotives ply between the sides of my head, knowing better than most the true meaning of fleeting, for although I am in my eighth decade now, and those words,
“there is nothing new under the sun,”
ring inherent inside like
they too newly born
but,
running on a track well worn,
now nearly scrap iron
yet clothed in my sinner’s wet rags, the remorse ever lingers,
directed to mine own mark of Cain,
awaiting the day when the sun touches my
forehead, and those loco- motives ride higher,
for their denouement, their untying(2)
Aug 30 2024
fini 2:17 pm
by the Sound
Aug 30, 2024
Aug 30, 2024 at 2:18 PM UTC
prank callers and Internet trolls
are much sought-after
and decently paid jobs
amid failing everything
antimatter
is flowing freely
suspended sentence mode activated
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 1:16 AM UTC
testing tacky technologies
on the attendees
a long way
from bright ideas
to floral tributes
Mar 9, 2021
Mar 9, 2021 at 1:12 AM UTC
If I start to tell a story
you’ve heard before,
you just let me know.
I’ve told that one before,
that’s right,
and I’m gonna tell it again.
So, in the quantum world
we well may be a hologram.
A black hol-ogram.
Each time I pose for a selfie,
I wonder
where all the information
could have gone.
The black hole-as(s)-hologram…
Living on the boundary…
The camera failing to capture my whole head.
Sometimes I realize
I’ve told it before,
but just think,
“F**k it.”
Then I just tell it again.
I think
it’s a combination of poor memory
and not having learned much lately.
In all of recorded human history,
that has never occurred.
It’s amazing how easy it is
to sound profound
by stringing a bunch of unrelated words
together.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 6:48 AM UTC
Doing cushiony cushy jobs. Sharing best practices. Dreaming of finding a decent travel agency. Having dreams of mushroom clouds rising above dumpsters. Showing the V sign with both legs upwards. Leaving office feet first. Staying in office feet first. Letting things slide to hell, while remaining unseen through the thin veneer of incompetence.
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 6:26 AM UTC
It was 1988.
I wasn't even born and he was already grey.
When I watch him now I'm falling in love.
His voice, his eyes, the way he seems to use his sexuality to calmly sing with charm.
His wisdom that I wonder sometimes if he himself even knew exactly what it meant.
He mentioned that a lot of times: he'd go there more often if he knew where the good songs came from.
He gives me answers to my questions or calms me while I'm anxious from the hell I was placed in.
4 years after 1988.
I would have fallen in love and hugged him if he hadn't died before I was able to appreciate his holy words.
His deep yet soft sounding voice, the melodies, the beat in my ears as I'm walking down the street.
Or when I run to the trees.
And the man I love who looks a bit like you Leonard Cohen, he can also relate to you but not always very well to how I feel.
It was 1988.
I wasn't even born and you were already grey.
When I watch you now I'm falling in love.
So at least I have your voice to run into.
Maybe some time I'll hear it clearly next to me.
But I won't follow any voice that sounds like you, I'd just listen to what I feel.
I know that now.
You helped me through.
It was 1988.
I wasn't even born and he was already grey.
When I watch him now I'm falling in love.
Leonard Cohen with your twinkling eyes, knowing about the chains, the pain the intense aching and the lies.
Years already, long before these times.
If you can die then so can I.
If you can die then I'm sure so can I.
It was 1988.
I wasn't even born and he was already grey.
When I watch him now I'm falling in love.
Years go by, they seem so long and feel so wrong.
Nothing's ever working like you've stated yourself as well.
Many years of aching always living with this burden and the constant battles coming.
Coming and coming.
Hell till the world seems darker.
And then there's your voice and your words to express some parts of what is playing out around me here.
Inside me now, deep and real.
Pain of trying to **** off these things that are happening that are torturing.
It was 1988.
I wasn't even born and he was already grey.
When I watch him now I'm falling in love.
Leonard Cohen, do you listen to me too?
Or have you moved on now?
How would I know where to find you, there could be anything doing a good job at pretending to give me answers.
So I hope you found your way.
Your true place.
Your true way.
While I'm still taking you with me right here on mine.
I'm still taking you with me along the way.
As I'm locked up in the night and in my walking through the day.
My cold body and lonely feeling soul with the wrong energy from nothing ever helping me to exist in my own way.
But anyway, nevermind, thanks a lot and see you around.
Feel you around, Leonard Cohen, you've been great, you've done a lot, done your part.
Hope to find you somewhere at some place but I'm still taking you with me as I'm going, always.
Watching you now and it was 1988.
I wasn't even born and you were already grey.
When I watch you now I'm falling in love.
Feb 15, 2021
Feb 15, 2021 at 9:29 AM UTC
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3983306/who-by-fire-after-leonard-cohen/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1844090/for-leonard-a-man-cleaning-up-after-himself/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3319252/never-lament-casually-leonard-cohen/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2714710/for-leonard-cohen-two-and-a-half-years-on-11716/
Aug 29 2020
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2187204/all-ive-learned-from-love-for-leonard/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833538/for-leonard-cohen-the-musicians-minyan/
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3932910/when-leonard-cohen-met-charlie-daniels-the-devil-went-down-to-georgia/
!!the links repeat below, so no cut and paste required!!
Mar 3, 2021
Mar 3, 2021 at 6:09 PM UTC
In the year 2016,
Yom Kippur was celebrated on Oct. 12th.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7th.
~~~
faint knocking heard at the heavenly door of the Tower of Song
the ministering angels, hearing a rhythmic,
lyrical rapping, sigh, thinking the atonement day,
the holiday/holy days, are supposedly over,
the human balancing act, the rush to judgement period,
all tallies totaled, the busy sale season for souls,
at last completed, each fate inscribed & sealed,
in the book of life^
but, always one,
the itinerant straggler, the last reluctant sinner,
a judgment resister, flaunting an almost expired coupon,
trumpeting demands for a recount, waving it,
claiming it, the bearer, entitled to a
mercy discount and an extra 30 days
"who shall we say is calling?"
the Angels are stunned to hear the responsa,
a familiar raspy, growling, almost indescribable,
yet, stammeringly beautiful voice enchanting,
equally asking and answering, (how both?)
with a strident humility, "a man in search of answers"
this voice, instantaneous recognizable,
the asking superfluous,
all beating wings now, all in vast excitement,
this psalmist, long awaited, one of His best,
a chosen one, a courtly singer in the Temple of his people,
blessed with the curse of seeing and believing,
the comprehension of beauty of the human superior interior,
never being quiet or quite satisfied,
in capturing, its multifarious variations,
in every language spoken
this is the man who took ten years
to compose just
one song,
one poem,
one word,
Hallelujah,
whose faith was strong,
but still needed proofs,
whose every breath of oxygen inhalation,
brought more questions,
every exhalation, only releasing partial answers,
and yet, still, yes, yes! finding hidden verses inside
a simple, everlasting
hallelujah
the hubbub subsides,
the man sings~speaks:
how came I here,
was I one, who by fire?
that fire afeared, that my finality
was spirit consumed?
in one voice, answers the angelic choir,
in one voice, the swaying back-up singers answer,
not by fire, not by water, not by stoning
or even drowning,
in tea that came from all the way from China
when sing we Angels,
the Judgement Day poem,
we alone, on high and above,
we, keepers of the books
and records of everyone,
are permitted this special query:
Who by Sufficiency?
you, the sidekick of the creator,
special commissioned by him, anointed to live a life of research,
record in word and song the mysteries of musical gene strings,
that intertwine the skin cells of man and woman,
man and his fellow us-human,
your soul commandeered, ordered, to delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are so poorly but perfectly constructed
in his image
you, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
you, who best answered
this judging,
this calling out,
this calling in
incantation
Who by Sufficiency?
now forward on, write only of answers,
wade in the troubled waters no more,
no more passports, or borders to cross,
no more measuring the days,
the last road trip finale
finished & feted,
fate meted
no more changing thy name, changeling priest,^^
sing songs of solution, salvation,
for the questioning hours of confusion,
the urgency of revolution,
no longer need a hallelujah resolution,
you have been judged sufficient...
it is his will
| | |
Who By Fire Who By Fire, Who By Water:^
(lyrics by Leonard Cohen) (A Yom Kippur Hebrew Prayer)
who by fire How many shall die and
who by water, how many shall born,
Who in the sunshine, Who shall live
who in the night time, who shall die,
Who by high Who at the measure of days,
who by common trial, and who before,
Who in your merry
Who by fire
month of May, and who by water
Who by very Who by sword,
slow decay, and who by wild beasts,
And who shall I Who by hunger,
say is calling? and who by thirst,
And who in her, Who by earthquake
lonely slip, and who by plague
who by barbiturate, Who by strangling,
Who in these and who by stoning
realms of love, Who shall have rest,
who by, and who shall go wandering,
something blunt, Who will be tranquil,
And who by avalanche, and who shall be harassed,
who by powder, Who shall be at ease,
Who for his greed, and who shall be afflicted,
who for his hunger, Who shall become rich,
And who shall I, and who shall become poor,
say is calling? Who will be raised high,
and who will be brought low
And who by brave assent,
who by accident,
Who in solitude,
who in this mirror,
Who by,
his lady's command,
who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains,
who in power,
And who shall I,
say is calling?
^From the liturgy of Rosh Hasanah, the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, there is this truly stunning prayer (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unetanneh_Tokef) in the Jewish liturgy. The Book of Life contents the fate of every sinner. From the first day of the new year, until ten days later, on Yom Kippur, depending on whether the sinner repents or not, his fate is sealed.
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 11:56 AM UTC
When Leonard Cohen Met Charlie Daniels, The Devil Went Down to Georgia
~~~
The Devil Went Down to Georgia ¥
https://youtu.be/wBjPAqmnvGA
Charlie Daniels, the country music legend who died July 6, 2020, was part of the 1970 Leonard Cohen tour. (see notes)
This one is a gift to a recovering addict and a poet, for whom that peculiar, par-articulate, addictive passion, thank the Lord, got no cure.
<£>
two country boys, ok, so different countries, but both intimately
a-cquainted with the Devil, his song & music-making-copious
a-bilities, his other trois backup ass-sin-tants, The Sin Sisters,
a/k/a wine and women and sweet poetry...
now the Devil mostly gets his due, you pay his price twice, in daily
wear ‘n tear on body and soul, always trying to keep one step ahead,
taking his best, sometimes leaving the rest, but ha! not always cause sometimes a...
bargain needs keeping, gotta keep your word honest, still if you can find a wile e coyote-wriggle-way to be a tad faster, keep them ten fingers crisscrossed, you might steal a tune or three, before you chanter la finale, sing/pay the last installment...
now these boys were multilingual, one spoke french, the other, southern, but two-gether, they could harmonize the Lord’s Prayer on a banjo, fiddle and a guitar, in une langue ancienne#, formerly spoke in those United States and Canada, now only in the heavens above...
cannot truthful say I ever saw them play on the same stage, no matter,
cause the parallels are clear as a night sky starry moon, the stories they told, in lyrical verse, different cuzins, slightly incestuous, and
infectious too, cause you catch yourself singing redneck in a foreign
language and you’re liking the way women looking at the big star on
a tour bus...
now the devil wanted these bad boys real bad in his pantheon, went
down to Georgia and back up to Montréal au paradis, said to them “no more diddling, just fiddling and singing, time to make that finale payment, principal and interest, come to collect my country boys and all what they got left...alors allons en enfer mes bébés..”##
now the sounds they made was just too good, the Lord heard it, it was like Picasso painting the sky, and came to collect Charlie yesterday, (07/06/20), Leonard had come up earlier, and if you need to learn how this story ends, well, there’s a poem listed down below avec tous les détails.
but as my straight laced pappy, use to say in his German accented english, in his morning suit, striped pants and Homburg hat, all’s well that don’t end in hell
or something like that anyway.
Jul 11, 2020
Jul 11, 2020 at 10:53 AM UTC
Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)
“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“
Leonard Cohen
<>
aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying
but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover
obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves
lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched
It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms
for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?
anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,
why?
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:59 AM UTC
You're reaching the town
I left at your incentive
Your verb was a noun
My verb an adjective
I've built a rapport
On breaking my own heart unprovoked
You've built a house
You lie in it and burn to dust
Feb 5, 2020
Feb 5, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
“never lament casually”
Leonard Cohen
*the serious are plenty burdensome,
so if the flight delayed, or the device batteries,
moments away from recognizing that
0% is still a viable digit with a special meaning,
these, none deserving of deploring the human condition
but the weight of leaving her in cold Montreal,
while old promises made, demand a presence in L.A.,
freezey veins, icy cracking inspiration attempts in vain,
all the unrecognizable for crying out loud verses on a
cocktail napkin scribbled, watching ink letters wet melting
your wants simplest, fireplace warmth snap cackling
pop love songs verses for her, the sheets of her dark skin,
silken on your tongue, the wetness of her Oh’s,
left a connect-the-dots map from your nose to toes,
but her fingertip markers, now a thousand miles away,
busy throwing up to the sky, hands filled with leaves of
crisp falling colors assortment, only the colorless no’s left
they play a tune you wrote years ago on the lounge speakers,
modified, wordless, so it’s innocuous, background harmless,
this axes paper cuts on your private places where the songs get
birthed, and now your whole package is tonnage measurable,
the lamentations serious, serious constellations, etching a new song*
*<>
“for the relearning is the crown jew-el,
that jesters rob from their kingly masters,
pride in love is the fall season preceding
Canadian winters, always thinking
you know better, be better at keeping warm,
this time which is the next time
you cannot learn from love,
cause it’s twice, two times,
never the same,
past lessons ain’t no prologue,
the body is maybe in the wafers,
sometimes vanilla,
sometimes chocolate
and the epilogue is
100% of the poem~songs
that I loved writing
and hate remembering*”
Sep 10, 2019
Sep 10, 2019 at 3:03 PM UTC
As a friend said there's no cure for love , no matter how hard I try , I can't keep my eyes dry , all you need is love but love for me is you so ,there's no cure for love
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 11:21 AM UTC
How can you see anyone smile
in a phone call, anyway?
Skype?
Yes,
but they didn’t say
they did a Skype call,
just a simple phone call.
I am at a loss for emojis.
We are a toast.
May this end soon.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC
I was never insane
except upon odds
when my heater was touched.
Believe nozzle you hear,
and only one halibut that you see.
Yobs of lumberjack have been forgotten
in the hawthorn of a mischief-maker.
Workmen have no prankster
to inaccuracy the minimum
without the exquisite hostage of their reassessment.
Never to suffer
would never to have been blessed.
The best thoroughfares in light
make you sweaty.
Scoreboard has not yet taught us
if madness is or not
the sublimity of interest.
I remained too much inside my headman
and ended up losing my minimum.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 1:31 AM UTC
Tyger! Tyger! pants on fire.
Pants on fire, burning bright.
And what chain, & what art?
What the sinew? what the ****?
Markov! Markov! chains on fire.
On what wings does he aspire?
And what hand at a rapid rate
Dare ‘em hastily generate?
In the forests burning bright,
In the distant deeps and skies.
Lo ‘n’ behold! what a symmetry!
Did he smile his work to see?
Tyger! Tyger! pants on fire.
Pants on fire, burning bright.
And what chain, & what art?
What the sinew? what the ****?
Python! Python! Monte Carlo,
The chain order is so low.
Product placement detected!
Your PC may be infected!
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 3:22 AM UTC
For Leonard: Two Years On (11/7/16)
don’t patronize, he laughs,
don’t want too much praise,
might go to my head,
which is still residing in Montréal,
ville de ma naissance
well you know, Natty, our tradition~prohibition
against excessive eulogizing (hesped),
and I know too,
some traditions you respectfully disrespect,
so try to be mindful,
wax not overly long
a suggestion by our mutual master songwriter,
follow the Song of Songs model,
write of new love,
born and reborn,
and borne
from the collection of beloved songs ancient
**“His mouth is most sweet: yea, he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, and this is my friend, O daughters of Jerusalem”
Chapter 5, Verse 16**
kiss the comforter, that unmistakable gravelly voice chanting,
smooth anthesis, lips raining down blessings,
from places heard but unseen, that yet flutter the spirit
come to me, thy beloved, thy image mirrored,
our missing part, bare the lightness,
pour it into the crack,
that fire creates
when lips meet and sing a song of unity again
continuously perfected
go downtown, on rainy nights, when only few venture
to the venue, find the small bars with a stool and a spotlight,
smoking out back, the sound system half-busted,
where the tryouts for brave are held, keep those names,
make a list,
for these are the voices of angels hidden among the living
singalong, see the notes rising to glory bound,
clothed in shiny stainless steel, golden bronze,
metals of man and earth, forged formed,
for who needs fanciful gold and silver, soft and bendable,
earth presents, they’re over praised,
it’s on the base bass that the tower of love is founded,
and not just for the gifted
come my friend, the schooner captain^ has reserved your place,
with shiny eyes come to the new Jerusalem where poets rule,
and sweet lips all, only speak, in a united tongue,
only love songs
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 2:40 PM UTC
a birthday present for his admirer-in-chief, R.A.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833523/for-leonard-cohen-who-by-fire/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833538/for-leonard-cohen-the-musicians-minyan/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1844090/for-leonard-a-man-cleaning-up-after-himself/
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
A minyan is an assembly of ten Jews. With ten present, the group can perform a fuller service, adding congregational prayers that an individual alone cannot say, and in heaven, received, as if from a
more powerful, unified voice.
~~~
Satan laughing with delight at the happy news,
unusually proud of his soul-retrieving,
red state minions,
having scored late in the '16 season,
a long awaited prize,
a high priest of music, a hallelujah singer
just come cross the borderline,
once a mere earth bound legend,
now to be mockingly enjoyed
in this, his legendary peculiar tier of heaven
~
a banner year it was, a cornucopia of new arrivals,
singers, songwriters, composers, conductors, rock 'n rollers,
itinerant blues musicians,
who as a rule, were not the most faithful observers
of the Ten Commandments and its host of detailed relatives
~
body and drug abusers,
of traditional morals, not such big users,
and as for their *** lives,
best not discussed in front of the baby devils,
just quite yet
~
all this made for easy "pluckings,"
as he smiled devilishly, his own ironic sense of humor,
an added delight for the new American Pie
that would forever serenade him henceforth
~
indeed this Leo-nine most new arrival,
intensifies the pleasure,
for deep in this one had waxed the god-spark,
his own fractured demise,
now allowing the cracks of light to be closing,
lessening by an immeasurable fraction
the despised joy to the world
-
then a raucous rustling heard,
a voice unseen but siren penetratingly heard proclaiming:
**** you Satan,**
this time you've gone too far!
return unto me them all,
for you have overstepped the boundaries I have constructed
when birthed I the universe so long ago
these children, mine,
for though they were not perfect in their lives,
they perfected ever so much my designs,
the world I granted them,
with their music, voice and hands,
absolving them of all their sins
Surrender to me them all!
my Prince,
my lion, Cohen, high priest of my temple,
my haggard and worn Merle,
the greyed and Frey'd eagle, Glenn,
Natalie, daughter of the Earth King of Cole,
my rose of Sharon Jones,
my Emerson and my Lake,
Leon Russell,
my white bearded russet
who wrote 'A Song For You,'
the Duchess, Patty,
my Bobby Vee,
the first ro see
'the night has a thousand eyes,'
Frank Sinatra Jr., his fathers torch bearer,
my David, my right arm, my Bowieknife carrier,
who fell from heaven and needs returning unto me,
mine own Kanter,Jeffersonian pilot of my Airplane,
my Michael, George,
my Martin, George,
who never sang a word
but gifted us some Beatles,
My black and White Maurice,
who reignited the Earth, with Wind and Fire
all these mine and all the musicians of this year,
they have died, but not their music,
now to join my heavenly chorus,
my musicians' minyan
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC