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Nat Lipstadt Jan 2017
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.
Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.


~~~

faint knocking at the door to 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 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,
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 consumer?

one voice, answers,
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 to 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, delve deeper,
into the consolable chasm tween divine and mortals,
all those who are poorly constructed
in his image

he, who has earned his place, his best rest,
his works adjudged sufficient,
he, who best answered
this judging,
this calling out,
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


                                                    ­| | |
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.
Yom Kippur this year was celebrated on Oct. 12th 2016.

Leonard Cohen passed away on November 7, 2016.

^^"A Kohens ancestors were priests in the Temple of Jerusalem. A single such priest was known as a Kohen, and the hereditary caste descending from these priests is collectively known as the Kohanim.[2] As multiple languages were acquired through the Jewish diaspora, the surname acquired many variations." Today, with no temple, the limited role of the Kohanim is to bless the Jewish people on the high holy days with a  special prayer with abeloved tune,  instantly evocative (see wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing) The Kohanim are still revered, honored, and always called up first to the Sabbath reading of the weekly portion of the Old Testament

A thank you to Bex for proofing and encouragement.
Part I of a trilogy
For a  more detailed analysis of the roots of the song, "Who By Fire," and its origins, see:
_____________________________________________
http://www.leonardcohen-prologues.com/who_by_fire.htm

He worked on the song Hallelujah, arguably his most famous composition, for ten years.
st64 Jun 2013
icy particles
deep in the snow
flurry of rain
gusts of wind

to me
you are so beautiful


1.
Deep beneath the tiers of rock
He found within the earth's cavity
A substance akin to wax
Collected enough to carry armloads
And *protected
it from sun.


2.
Once outside again
With feet upon the ground
He set to work so feverish
And sculpted a humanoid shape
This figure unknown to him
Yet, guided by some unseen force
The dimensions became distinct.


3.
Once done, he sat back to look
And nearly recoiled in shock
He thought he almost recognised something
But it just couldn't be
It just could the hell not be!


4.
He reached forward to make sure he felt it
Sudden presentiment untimely
and with thoughts assailed
He reached forward to touch
But it appeared he was afraid....


5.
When he touched its ***** gingerly
He found he couldn't let go
Then, he felt the winter sculpture gain a presence
Which had but been there all along!


6.
It seemed to be eclipsing his mind
And it felt so delicious
He felt the fingers of its thoughts
Pressing into him
Digging hard
Exploring all his patterns...
Making such strong and heady waves
And leaving him stunned and reeling!
Ideas turning into windmills, racing on
It touched his lost dreams, assuaged his fears
Made him realise so many things....


7.
What was this?
What is happening?
A figure twisted out of wax
Having such sudden control?
Yet, he was afeared that it would melt
So he kept it close to cold
Making sure no-one ever saw it
Nor even touched it.


8.
Months rolled by and he discovered
More life-like features on this thing
And when, the winter rolled to a close
He fretted so much and wrung his hands
Concerned for its survival.


9.
Yet what he failed to see
Was this mere figment of wish...
A kaleidoscopic fragment of himself
Projecting so powerfully.
He was often restless afore
Without really understanding why.

And with this 'new' presence
Helping him see what he needed all along
He found some release in toppling from reign: old, deep struggle.


10.
Snows melted and rain stopped
Sunrays still tame and people came
Icicles on the eaves dripped, like tears.
He dreaded the fierce rays would blister
All this hard, deserving work.

Yet, he always willing let things go before
He wouldn't let this go.
He couldn't.
So, he battled rather valiantly to save it
Yet, in vain.



(Well, he needn't have worried
For, as the sun blazed ridiculously hotter trails
Across the way
And fate saw he was willing to let go...
To understand, to finally see....
And then,
His translucent figure...started melting....

And there,
right before his very incredulous eyes
Out of it, stepped.......  

gasp!

The impossible....)







sun may shine
upon the earth
yet, I will see you always
in every sphere

to me
you are so very beautiful






S T, 06 June 2013
came in a vision...of half-sleep just now..

funny how life is, hey.

when ye least expect it, things happen....



sub-entry:

'gain galore'

1.
whichever way we look at it
certain things hardly happen.

when it does, regard well:
it is a pure .....gain galore.


2.
when we fail to entertain failure
there's only one option:
success.
Kyle Kulseth Oct 2012
The motions--
We're going through emotions (right?)
'Cuz there's not a better thing
           to do on Sunday
night. This place has lost
            religion
            ritualistically
And I think, realistically, it's time to do
                                                 the same

Overbooked, yet, overlooked
And on the hook for debts
                       outstanding
But you commanded my attention
            So stay unstained
I've been attaining second chances
     for unforeseen circumstances
So I'll drum if you keep dancing
             Just stay unstained

Intentions--
Can undergo declension
Yours and Mine are genitive
                  on dative Friday
nights. Some folks can lose
              their vision
              visionarily
So I'd say, cautionarily, "forget to do
                                            the same."

Aptitude for rectitude:
That may be shrewd, and yet--
                    while prudent
Rings no bells 'til midnight chimes out one
                more mortal year
Afeared, I fear, ad mortum. But we
     just keep pounding on pulsing heads
So let's drum on; keep on dancing--
                       Remain unstained.
Richard Riddle Aug 2015
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
A Dutch Lullaby.


WYNKEN, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!"
       Said Wynken,
       Blynken,
       and Nod.

The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in the beautiful sea--
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afeared are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
       Wynken,
       Blynken,
       And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
       Wynken,
       Blynken,
       And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
       Wynken,
       Blynken,
       And Nod.

Eugene Field
Joseph Hart Jul 2014
I wish the bride were blushing,
but her face is pale, as she looks
at the perfect sunshine, as she looks
at her groom, whom she refused to see
till today.

Today she will be married,
I can not give her any promises,
but the sun does shine bright,
merrily, and the sky seemed to
make her deepest worries careen.

Pale, her face, like a ghost,
afeared someone would pass,
but they watch in dazedly peaceful silence,
And so the ducks keep out of the air.

Nervousness, the flower girls weren’t given bread,
they wanted to throw crumbs into the water for
the ducks to gnaw upon, but one couldn’t get pieces of flour
on her veil. And until the vows were said, completed,
soon over, soon finished,
the little girls could throw all the bird seed,
to please the ducks they called their friends.

On the bridge she will be married
the priest will bless their names at the top,
and therefore I hope the truest vision
encapsulates my predictions.

Under the bridge swelter two pools of water,
and sprays of water come up. Around the duck pond
there is a side path, where the guests wait, eagerly,
for the bride and groom’s wedding cake.

Curious ones will gather on the hill behind, or on the
gazebo. No sound will they mimic, for things are
found in quiet.

The bride, she makes her footing, on the other side of the
pond, at the entrance near the road, walking on her way
to meet him at the altar, but watching in a way,
to be certain that her aunt is breathing. Her aunt is ready
for leaving, and from her pale face, the veil hangs down
closer, as though a branch filled with water,
bursting her eyes, almost bursting, with hope clenching
tightly, to her solemn breast; the bride hopes her aunt will live
just one bit longer. The wedding had to be moved
for the aunt to see the girl marry, the tube that draped her lung
long, could not supply more air than a dying body can muster
thinning breaths.

Pray the sunny day will keep her close from dying.
God, hold that last little thread from snapping,
Pray, after the wedding ends, after she is given
wedding cake, for a breath longer, breathing ‘till
more breaths are no longer feasible,
and some more time
before she has to pass.

Where is the ring to put on his finger,
she’ll take his name you know,
be leaving behind her old life,
as her aunt decides to go.

Her aunt took care of the bride,
and kept her in her house,
home, she sacrificed everything, when
she was the only one protecting
the girl, before she was a bride.

Being once a little girl,
the aunt took her along to sit while
she worked, as she was kept
from the neighborhood.

Mopping, scrubbing, brooms, floors,
vacuuming, on her hands and knees:
no more partying for her, for she had a little
girl, and it was her most wonderful
blessing. She could not have kids,
she liked no men, and had no luck with
the things she found.

Growing up, going to school,
All mundane, filled with thrills
and chores. Nothing special happened,
until her mother came back
demanding her baby girl.

The aunt knew where the girl would be,
her mother was almost pitiful
enough to mourn for,
and her mother could not keep a house,
and never gave up, like the aunt did,
on finding a suitable partner
(That never worked out).

“Let me have my little girl,
Let me have my little girl!”
No, I have kept her longer than you
would have, I have all the paperwork,
the custody rights, the little girl,
she stays with me and no longer
will she ever be your little girl.

The little girl, 11 or 12,
Wanted her mother again,
And fought her aunt
tooth and nail
to be with her mother again.
The aunt decided to relent,
she gave into the 11-year-old’s
wishes, and the girl went to
live with her mother.

“One month, two months,
she will be back.”

She lasted three,
And came back.
She would’ve had to change
schools, and summertime
kept her mother too close,
and the ‘daddy,’ as he insisted,
much closer.

Now she was back, and she’d
finish school, inconspicuously,
walking across the aisle,
or the pond, that her groom
insisted upon, where they met eight years
before; she still in nursing school,
he a broker. Throwing bread,
bobbing her legs, she took the same
bench, he gave the same
smile, “What kind of bread do you throw,
White, rye brown?
You throw like a granny;
throw lightly, and it will hit the pond,
or hit somewhere the ducks will tear it
apart, and shred it to crumbs.
The birds are contented with
shredding gluten.”

They were in love, they met
every sunday ‘till fall,
then soon they’d meet for
coffee, and later coitus,
and intimacy, and love.

Do you take this man
to be your husband?
“I do, I do.”
Do you take this woman
to be your lawfully wedded wife?
He looked into her eyes, to find
one more regret, and stomach his
vows: “I do, I do, and you:”

The veil is cast, the bride is kissed,
the husband is happiest, or the *****’ll
make him contented with the rest of his
life, I am not worried that this wedding
will end badly, but paint yourself
the pictures of their hands holding in the
sun of a storm.

Is she alive, the aunt the wife was worried about?
Instead of rushing to the car, she sits on the bench
beside her. Was she breathing, or living,
and not dying, and seeing, what would be her only
daughter (her mother is probably over, the next city over,
lying around, nothing from nothing, nothing to show
and nothing to be but a will of the wisp. If God doesn’t
blow her away, then like he will take the aunt away,
and she flies away, as she is released with angel wings,
as she is released into her comfort,
and bodies that are rampant,
disease flung and broken, choking life away,
she died within the day. She saw her own one
away, tonight, while the once-little girl dances,
and let her be sentimental, because she is death;
The niece is now dancing with her prince,
and he holds her tightly, she mourns over that devotion
her aunt had given to her, when no one else could ever
give a ****).
To Lindaleigh
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2016
Flight #177 / Seat #7C - where I'm bound/I have been released

the final part of the trilogy,
re broken lives,
some finalized,
some revitalized,
some, their score,
incomplete

~~~


on the road again,
crossing the continent,
from sea to shining sea,
from one set of Eastern grandkids,
off to see the wizardry
of the West Coast variety

six hours six minutes,
flying high time, weather's fine,
a voices inform us, that will be
our mutual time of peaceful co-existence,
on this particular traversée journey

I've done harder time,
30 years ++ with no parole,
except for poetic verse,
them words,
I learned to parlez-vous parlay

never been afeared of flying high,
even amidst the wickedest black pitch,
tar and feathered thick, which is all the
ovaltine shaped window of the
exterior world, cares to reveal
at thirty thousand feet

the oxygen level in the cabin,
as it usually does,
says hey!
feeling heady boy,
so get good, so get ready,
write us a poem, a new shiny toy,
another of your airborne verbal medley

I've got little upon
to expound,
currently limbo'd
tween fresh, death-revived,
past memories of imprisonment and release,
by the jailers of L'Ancien Régime
and
the soon to feel,
happy anticipation of
Frisco fresh young lives re-greeting us,
long distance visitors with joyous screams,
loud, clear and that may cut
the muddied gloom internal,
like a pair of welcoming,
gleeful, liberating scissors

my windowed widowed refraction,
directs my carpaccio-thin guise
to pierce onwards a well trod state of
deeper reflection

noting that we will soon be flying over
water poisoned Flint,
in the state of Michigan,
just missing by an inching,
Paul Simon's sung request,
his "all come to Saginaw" dare

yet, I don't know where I am,
though the course trajectory
pilot-officially programmed and set,
ticketed firect  through to
San Francisco

nonetheless, my internal organs all feel lost,
misplaced and turned down around,
passing directly over cities heard of
and yet never seen or footed,
can I still claim to have been there?

same question differently couched,
providing this passenger's headache,
I was there, of this world,
for the almost forty years plus,
though I wasn't really present,
merely accounted for,
finally learning that "freedom"
is just another word

and though the Angel of Death,
scheduled, made a pre-flight pick up,
he left part of me behind
and on board,
to pick up after,
steward some of his and my
messes

the eyes, the brain, the whole noggin,
search for secret signs,
potent portents, turn indicators,
that this gloomy doom,  cloud thicket,
this too shall pass,
this last shared repast of shards,
this,
my so long now song
an au revoir to
"sad eyed lady of the lowlands"

noting that I am outbound and seated,
on a bunch of lucky sevens, flight and seat,
could be my luck is youthful changing?

where I'm bound
I can't tell,
I'll let you know when I get there
when I know, how I'll know,
I don't know, maybe some
extrusion of new words will speak,
at landing time, a different voice,
where and when I'm bound,
that will cry out


"now unbound,
at last,
at last,
I have been released"
**

~~~
2/11~12/2016
started while over the Great Lakes, Michigan, and Wisconsin;
completed over Tahoe, Carson City, & Sacramento
"With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,

Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?


Oh, how could they ever mistake you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,

How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day
just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,

Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,

My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?


Read more: Bob Dylan - Sad - Eyed Lady Of The Lowlands Lyrics | MetroLyrics
Dawnstar Apr 2018
Wide awake in shadows of the night,
I spy a moonlit spectre on the right.
The left, a brazen horse of fiery rage,
Styled in ebon ink upon the page;
Trampling prudence down where it may trod,
Spiriting the righteous unto God.
Mane as black as hills beneath the mount,
Where ashen sands and lava wash about,
To gently take the will of those who've come
Afar to find withdrawal from the sun.
Bristling, glistening, shrieking 'neath the moon,
Whistling as it sprints to usher doom.
Afeared my soul appear a facile theft,
I meekly pull my conscience from the left.
Danielle Feb 2023
I'd wish to know, if we're only an idea of tall tales that meet the skeletons in both our closets and thus, it solely goes romanticizing my tarnished land.

In fury, my escapism brought me home away from home and there he was, he's the familiarity I'd wish, I never know.

So dear, he's already 'a home',
I'd live and die at times he's all I have and so this borrowed chance, as to what I afeared of, my love is building; a labyrinth, I'd never wish to escape.
CJ M Oct 2015
A special decision as if she’s being pondered. She’s a wonderful surprise to one who is scheduled.  
And she’s special to me.
I love her, Yes, I truly do. But I’m afraid she won’t feel the same. I’m afraid she’d deny me because of something else, or perhaps I’m inadequate like microwave meals. But the thought of me being so inadequate forces me to try to improve for some unseen reality.
What is my reality, though? I’m afeared of what I don’t understand, and yet, I don’t understand her and I’m so intrigued. What is it that’s happening in my brain? Is it that I’ve figured her subconsciously and can’t access it consciously without thinking of harder questions.
Can I call this Irony or can I call it fear? Can I call it infatuation or love or maybe even intrigue?
Or can I call it ridiculous and call it a day?
Figurative thought.
jessiah Oct 2014
funny to think I have been so caLm and together
amidst the greater untogetherness of my life
the laughing audience in my head cackling
at the laughable audience following my cracking

if it were set in sides of a scale
I'd be afeared to watch it balance

mayhap some creature of diRe
would erupt in a tangle of talons

that's what I'm afraid of after all,
that I am the pungent void that consumes
the eyes that glide low in the grass
and rise up with hate and ******
the teeth that bite with unclenching malevolence
bite biTe BITE YOUR WEAK ******* FLESH
AND SNAP YOUR WORTHLESS PILE OF BONES
SNAP
SNAP
SNAP
CRACKLE
CRACK
DON'T
YOU
EVER
COME
BaCK

HURt YOuR neGLiGeNT sOULs wITH thE PaIN
yOu alloWed to hIM to iNFLict On me...

but dEath still coils a leaf slowly to the ground
even for such thiNgs
Mike Essig Jun 2016
Or Why I Left Medium.com

Sing, Muse, the futile war betwixt genders.
Hate, stupidity, intolerance, PC *******.
Femmes Afeared* of contradiction. Shout.
Their castrato sycophants. Here, *****.
Nannie and her harridan hyenas. Attack.
On Medium you will be well done. Fried.
Hordes of Harpies hurling lightening.
Petulant little girls. Stamp feet. Pull hair.
Free to agree; otherwise, shut up.
Hidden behind PC barriers, they snipe.
All men are potential rapists. Factoid.
All women are helpless victims. Fact.
Millennial milquetoasts. Everywhere.
Do exactly as you are told
or take your evil ***** and fold.
Pearl Feldman Mar 2014
1)  Thou shalt have reverence for Life, for that Life flows through you, your neighbour and all the Kingdoms of the Universe. Yea even to the very Source of all Life.

2) Thou shalt let Life flow and fear not, for there is a definate plan which shall lead you and give you that which is right for you.

3) Thou shalt not get so emotionally involved in Life that you forget the purpose thereof.  It is an experience to open your Divine Heart to an even greater love. It is a way to gain understanding and a greater experience of enlightenment.

4) Thou shalt enjoy Life for it was meant to be enjoyed, and can only be lived to the full by serving others in joy and love.

5)  Thou shalt have compassion for thyself, remembering that if you cannot love thyself you cannot not truly fully love anything or any one else to the full - for all is One and all is Love

6)  Thou shalt hold onto the positive for by holding onto the negative you make it strong.

7) Thou shalt not bend to earthly desire for power, wealth, food nor drink - in  excess these are not good for you.

8) Thou shalt not punish yourself or another needlessly - you have paid past debts back by suffering - and now have wiped the slate clean. Remember too that you are held responsible for all new debts incurred.

9) Thou shalt not be afeared by mass media which pollutes your mind and springs from a mass of polluted minds.

10) Know that ultimately you have power over nothing material - and nothing material has power over you except that which you give power to.
Remember too that one cycle of Life is but one season in Eternity. Therefore LIVE, LOVE and ENJOY the NOW yesterday has been, and cant be changed, tomorrow will come bringing its own changes.
Never of failure afeared, but of
Trying nay at all. To fail final
It is not. Success from botch enough
Come. Though life has an outlook dismal,
Nevertheless with persistence and grit
And prayer, things bleak will turn bright.
No head afraid can achieve any feat,
Which sees not at the tunnel's end light.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2020
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.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1833523/for-leonard-cohen-who-by-fire/
this first version first published Jan. 2017

^^"A Kohens ancestors were priests in the Temple of Jerusalem. A single such priest was known as a Kohen, and the hereditary caste descending from these priests is collectively known as the Kohanim.[2] As multiple languages were acquired through the Jewish diaspora, the surname acquired many variations." Today, with no temple, the limited role of the Kohanim is to bless the Jewish people on the high holy days with a  special prayer with abeloved tune,  instantly evocative (see wikipedia.org/wiki/Priestly_Blessing) The Kohanim are still revered, honored, and always called up first to the Sabbath reading of the weekly portion of the Old Testament

A thank you to Bex for proofing and encouragement.
Part I of a trilogy
For a  more detailed analysis of the roots of the song, "Who By Fire," and its origins, see:
_____________________________________________
http://www.leonardcohen-prologues.com/who_by_fire.htm

He worked on the song Hallelujah, arguably his most famous composition, for ten years.
betterdays Apr 2014
our lives are balanced on if
  our recorded time is only
a tool, a feathery pen we
must  grow, mayhaps, then we can, we could
scrawl and scratch and scribe and write
to give our hearts freedom to just
fly and soar, for a moment in grace by
the simple act of laying
aside our
fearful and muddied fingerprints
we move forth, we move on
gifting to our otherselves the
liberty, of a  pristine, white, page
to do with, what we will, this
is what the insecure self, the afeared,  would
most like to  avoid
the nothingness that comes after  hurt
the numb, null, nothingness we
do not desire, but, none the less,  incur
as we delve in
to the heart, of  ouselves questing
wanting, needing, hoping for
a tiny, ephemeral spark of  originality
some thing, to state, emphatically regardless
of creed, of colour, of birth we are  of
one breed, one clique, one clan, one tribe the
voice of truth, so unaware, of inherent *costs
this is  golden shovel write,
the poem in italics is one i sourced from
The Poetry Transalation Centre
http://www.poetrytranslation.org/
the original poem...

Empreintes
Si l'on pouvait écrire
just en apposantses
empreintes digitales
 sur la page  
cela éviterait  
 le mal que l'on se donne  
pour rechercher l'originalité  
  à n'importe quel prix

....written,
in french,
by poet
Abdellatif Laâbi
Aias Agapios Aug 2014
...We knew only the dark, dying, thirsting for a glimmer of the light

We are those who have no reason, except to seek a sliver of soulful life

We gave up our hearts, we sold our ego, white eyes still see, we feel no more

Sound ears still hear, sore tongues still wag, proud fingers still hold on
But the inside is dead

Afeared of loving, of a pain too strong, afraid of living, in case we did it wrong
 
Plastic bubbles were made, cosmetic shells, metal gears to hold on to our shattered selves

Scriptures written, unspoken words that have no sound
Marking our arrival into light, as we create a foe over-strong 

But the day is bright! The day is long, 
And in the 'Light' we saw that our visions were gone
In the light we saw that their vision was wrong

A people spent, lives passed by in existence, wasted away, as the Word had said
Words written, and left unread, as His Word forced wisdom into oblivion; as, oblivious, lives were spent

Stone churches rise, tall steeples proud, grey towers piercing our white-grey clouds
Preaching answers to our souls, tolling bells that splinter hearts, spinning webs that blind the perceptive arts

Enter, man, and mindless, heartless, unmade, depart
Enter, man, destroyed, debased, unnatural, depart
Enter, man, let the Word tear lives apart

Witness the rising of mausoleums for free thought, 
Bleak cemeteries ensnaring once natural souls

Entranced, entrenched, bewitched, under spell
In the 'light' where dying hearts lay in eternal rest
In the light, unthought dreams, at once, suppressed






From the sounds of the trees, and the whispers in the leaves,
Till the breath of stars, where we find who we are

Fear the shadow of the light, over names, bicker, fight
Till the sky turns away, and Destiny weeps at folly's height

Seek then, again, and in seeking look to find
The stars in your heart, and the forests of your mind
Seek then, again, and in seeking look to find,
Words and tongues and dreams and thoughts, dancing shadows; unseen sights

Words that tear through what we know to be true
Thoughts to define the visions of our minds
Dreams that let you see the path to set you free
As free men constellate, sharing visions with the blind

Until at once the dream is done, the night has passed, the Light has come
Men abound, their hope undone.
Set aside, and cast away, until the Meraklis entered the fray
"Be calm, be free, shed your shackles! Be brave
Unbowed, unbroken, against the morality of their lies 
From unseeing currents that tie stone to sound
Seek your truth as she walks upright and unbound"
First part in a tripartite series
Jennifer May 2020
clouds tumble gracefully across
the velvety expanse
like some frightening titan
reaching down from
the void of heaven,
blackened and ghostly.

breaking apart and
welding together,
some mighty, sickening
war must be bringing that
chill, that quiver in the air;
storm’s coming.

dark Nyx, my soul trembles
when i think of eternity,
the vastness of beauty and
of trepidation that hang over
our heads like some spinning
mobile.

i am so afeared i could weep
or dance.
Joe Twichell Oct 2016
Dear dear Melania,
You came to us as Slovene.
Your anchor hubby has a mania
By which he daily vents his spleen.

Oh dear me, Donald J. T.,
Your mummy's Scottish, your papa's German,
Yet you say "What have you to lose?"
To native folks you treat like vermin.

Yet from these lands they long have hailed,
Many generations shackled and sold,
While you only recently
To our shores have sailed?

Muslims and Mexicans, migrants and mosques,
Catholics, Congregationalists, Quakers and queers:
Oh my, Mr. Trump, you're so **** weird.
Of what exactly must we be afeared?

So Donald, when you talk about your *****,
Please do not wave your hands between us.

Joe Twichell
(with apologies to my cousin, who is a real poet)
Senthil Rhaj Jun 2020
Winds became scary, clouds became haunting,
Birds clinging to nests, trees dancing as ghosts,
I was ten, when I was lost, that evening
What I had been cursing ere, is for what I was crying
Running in road I ain’t known, alone,
Torture devils methinks — are my guardian angels, realising then,
Sunken in rain, doomed life — in one pass of cloud
The fall, could I sever my tears and rain?!
running in road, drenched, yet thirsty,
My spine frore afeared, I could fall in ambuscade,
The place I dispraised, that I wished to leave
Was my heaven in truth, I realised then mooncalf I was,
The very fabric of my bane heart, torn asunder,
The darkness filling my eyes I behold, that something billowed,
Dight with doit?! — not even hope,
Hopeless, perhaps I might got end up with rags and pigs,
It went to night, when I found a light yonder,
Did I ran, or did I flied or did I jumped to,
That bedlam, there was a house across a meadow,
A woman, quoth she, waited until, my tears and rain stoped,
The woman portaged me back to my place,
Back to the arms of my guardian angel — the warmth,
The clouds cleared, no more haunting, in my eyes — my guardian angels!
charles Mar 17
i'm afeared of a thing i can't see,

naught in this circus can be held;

dissolving in the dizziness of you,

whatever ache my brain abides,

the foolish heart has conquered life.
Ken Pepiton Oct 27
-------be it cool of the day, or twilight, last star, first, ---------
I appear,
back at my theory
that it's a game, not simulated,
actual factual competition
with machines,
like us, told that the knowledge
of good came
with the knowledge
of evil, and that's fundamental
the child's story, culturally required,
by commonalities enforced, at least,
since Frank Capra, we suspect,
as far back as
Edison, the plan, in Tesla's day,
was evident to any with a wit
of intelligence,
ears everywhere,
even then the bums net
worked as it works
to this day, see, we,
measures, see,
anything smaller than
a jug, is a bottle,
and a bottle is plenty,
to night, dark side
of today, still some say
at the third star we wishta see t'night,
this night of certain cultural acceptance,
what ifery, afeared in Pentecostal circles,
five weeks, five points, five senses, plus
this sixth,
you use to test poet's licenses.
Ai, aught, indeed,
we might wish a way we might, feel
the function
of the riches
of the wicked,
laid up, as it were,
in the word
of God, go see,
for the just, iust to think, used to
think, for just an instance of just is.
These mingled wines,
these recycled ***** dreams,
from the era of spirits at war,

the second great awakening, they
who write the anointed chronicles,
ai, yes, aye, indeed, we take time,
and we make time, we use time
to make knowing happen, once
and again, at second glance, we knew
knowledge towb ra' was all good.

the riches of the twisted,
for that's what wicked always means,
twisted
in order
to intwine the agreements,
see, we both, me and you, I and thee, indeed
the same knowing needful
for agreements
to function, drunk,
on a strand
of otherwise,
sure, each line prepositioned
pure, and mere, completely as if
what any drunk shall swear is true,
as when we play a video game, and ****
perfectly strange entities we are supposed
to pretend, as ender did,
in training, also known as education,
under the auspices
of old city minds
metasocial,
after all's been said and done,
held
in memory, inscribed
on the skin, processed
during drunken rejoicing,
inclusion experiences, some
came slow longing
for the order
of qwerty and capslock
breathing deep on high
no commas, or commas
between/ and .
that, granted,
with fairy godmother grace,
makes good sense,
when you exposed your child
to the Stravinsky suite, did you
ante or anti
cipitate
the effect
of such exposure,
after three generatoins? Today
imagine how many children, boys and girls,
succumb
to the tradition
of any Disney,When you wisht
upon a star, you were eight and I was nine.

this is the world that turned to color
as Oz did for our parents, all magic, indeed
essentially sublime, subtler than any beast.
is Wonderful to us, We are entranced,
by the sound, of musings, entrapped,
Marching silver dimes, at Christmas,
next year, Polio was gone, I helped
indeed, did we not all help as kids,
faced with a mission, fill this card, beg,
watch
wait, see
the iron lungs all breathe their last,
and we are survivors facing Nuclear war.

Outa our way, we say, turn on
tune in, drop out and bloom in dotage…
emotionally impressed to move on up

by a mountain mind,
in a family opposed,
to face fakest facist fanciest facis ever
on the backside
on the Phrygian cap dime
blade bound, handle bound, barrel staves,
enclosing the loosened will
to merry make,
roll out the barrel, let's make hearts
merry,
it's Christmas, all's forgiven, honest, wait
and see, suffer it
to be so now, deeper

we must make us pretend we went and saw

all that ever was stacked
for value, whying
science, and literal liars, prospering, stupid,
for the economy,
politically strategic intell,
it's swell,

let's have another cuppacoffee,
let's have a Nescafe',
eh?
O, sure, someday, we all can relate,
the idea, Instant Coffee, pre Kuerig,
pre death
of the jelly fish eating things,
all destroyed
in the jelly fish take over.
Wishing life lacked stupid rich people... we had fun with superstitions
Ala Goofus and Gallant
highlights my diametrically
divergent alter egos
always the reserved
obedient docile boy
afeared to stray outside narrow

circumscribed comfort zone
figuratively tethered
extremely short leash
choked me like yoked oxen,
albeit non red dually bullish
under bated breath

otherwise submissive
internalizing fury and rage
relentlessly lambasted
daily school bus ride
analogous highway to hell,
thus envisioned monstrous physique
linkedin to superpowers...

whereby giant beastie boy
within scrawny nerd
visiting jocular comeuppance
bopping "jocks" on their beanies
with rotten tangerines
(Tom Lehrer would be proud)

knocking senseless nasty brutes
gleefully pummeling rapscallions
casually, heroically avenging
purging immediate threat
while smugly jauntily
relishing carefree blessed awesome

fistpumping air joyous ride
duplicating bad *** daring
do dexterously doubling
(wishful) dream come true
one prior pipsqueak - yours truly
punishing pestiferous classmates,

who sadistically doled
out daily dose,
non USDA approved
cavalier fierce injustice
taken aback when mine knuckles
compress hoodlums opprobrious

wicked yakking (actually silenced)
fountainhead spewing toxins
exuberantly effusively ebulliently
cleaning principle ringleader's clocks
at long last
traumatizing measure for measure

antagonistic arch nemesis
inflicting insufferable torment
once passively quaffed ruffians threats,
now all's well that ends well,

no matter yours truly expelled
forever pleasantly humming
merrily merrily, merrily,
merrily, imagined life
tis but a dream.
. ghosts.

i tell you this. there are some do not believe
yet will not sleep there, while others will, and some
wish to be invited.
there is one that talks to them,
in the auditorium.

the seats are down.

some photos show nothing,
as does the work, i produce.

yet it means something, if
you go to look.

i tell you this, put on your nicest clothes,
go to the theatre , chase
your  ghosts.

there is nothing to be afeared.

here.

sbm.
Michael John May 27
when young i talked
to anyone who might
come along as mad
as i or straight
i did not ask why
and tried not to be
afeared for some howled
and laughed
and talked of hell
as if it was normal-
(i thought this way i
might learn something..)
and some talked of normal
like heaven and they left
me wondering-some did not
like me and some loved me but
i always listened and mostly said
nothing-so after a while they would
go..

ii

the voice will tell
and the heart will wonder
the given glory of now

now, i like animals more
for in the words of hunter
they don´t hire lawyers..
Michael John Oct 8
i

but on the positive
there is belief-
more of interest-

soon to be proved or disproved..
last word..?
o what a world!?

and into the void!
no more pain and no
more me..

ii

no more mornings
and little birds singing
coffee and eggs

no more silence
no wondering what comes
next

no more the tedious washing
up or off to the office
no more music..

iii

or writing..
no more nonsense
indeed-

no more senses
where o where will
they be..

are we afeared
****,we have lived
well..a tree..

— The End —