"chaim" poems - Hello Poetry

Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice

0

Mar 12, 2020

Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Chaim Nachman Bialik "On The Slaughter" translation

Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter" by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him— Pray for me! For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue; my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has wilted, undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck— rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although we—the chosen few— were once recipients of the Pacts. Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize— strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain drenching your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever. If there is Justice—quick, let her appear! But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace. You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth's rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice

36

It’s good to be hated! But I know my name… hate, blackened, misshapen, ugly, unnatural, yet how it clarifies the mind, like a cupped hand carrying clear, cold, brook water to dry mouth, to shock, enliven, resets resets, all your priorities with alacrity, a word I prefer cause it is an intuitive combo of eagerness + alarm, suddenly much of the trivial is no longer worthy of your ‘to do’ list, you, without thinking, DNA filter your filters, those screens that digest, then reject & reflect the inputs ongoings around you, and you are now reclassified! by the hate surrounding, it declassifies the time wastrels, reinterpreting most everything on a bipolar scale of 1 or 10, there are no shades, the middle ground of gray be fully eliminated, just like those who wish to eliminate me. in a palette of black or white, your e +e, (essence and existence) cannot be ever a gray area, yes, of course, the sunshine is yellow bright, and the grass is spring flushed green, the multicolored daffodils newly define colors varietal, and the waves of the Sound, roll relentlessly, but hate can be coated, camouflaged and subtle disguised, but we know, oh how we know, and how we wanted to ***forget, our “sins”, our original liabilities of our multi colored skins, our religion, our race & ethnicity,*** but NOT our names! the Rabbis tell us that God nearly did not keep his promise to Abraham, to rescue his progeny from slavery in Egypt but saved them only because: ‘On account of four things Israel was redeemed from Egypt: they did not change their names, they did not change their language, they did not speak slander and not even one of them was found to be promiscuous.’^ I know my name; and though you cannot distinguish me by dress, know not my moral life, but now you know my name, given to me by my parents, in the language of my ancestors: Mordecai Netanel ben (son of) Eliyahu Chaim Per my family lore, as told to me by my parents, our family fled from Spain because of the Inquisition (1478), settled in a small town in Germany on the banks of the river Lippe; and from the shtetls of Poland, and those who survived or avoided the Holocaust ultimately left Europe, came here, to the land of the free, the United States of America with names, in their language, with memories intact. I will not flee this country, for I know my true name, inscribed in my pores, in my DNA <> (but should I have to…there is a sanctuary.) May 2 2024

0

May 2, 2024

May 2, 2024 at 9:24 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

It’s good to be hated! But I know my name...

It’s good to be hated! But I know my name… hate, blackened, misshapen, ugly, unnatural, yet how it clarifies the mind, like a cupped hand carrying clear, cold, brook water to dry mouth, to shock, enliven, resets resets, all your priorities with alacrity, a word I prefer cause it is an intuitive combo of eagerness + alarm, suddenly much of the trivial is no longer worthy of your ‘to do’ list, you, without thinking, DNA filter your filters, those screens that digest, then reject & reflect the inputs ongoings around you, and you are now reclassified! by the hate surrounding, it declassifies the time wastrels, reinterpreting most everything on a bipolar scale of 1 or 10, there are no shades, the middle ground of gray be fully eliminated, just like those who wish to eliminate me. in a palette of black or white, your e +e, (essence and existence) cannot be ever a gray area, yes, of course, the sunshine is yellow bright, and the grass is spring flushed green, the multicolored daffodils newly define colors varietal, and the waves of the Sound, roll relentlessly, but hate can be coated, camouflaged and subtle disguised, but we know, oh how we know, and how we wanted to ***forget, our “sins”, our original liabilities of our multi colored skins, our religion, our race & ethnicity,*** but NOT our names! the Rabbis tell us that God nearly did not keep his promise to Abraham, to rescue his progeny from slavery in Egypt but saved them only because: ‘On account of four things Israel was redeemed from Egypt: they did not change their names, they did not change their language, they did not speak slander and not even one of them was found to be promiscuous.’^ I know my name; and though you cannot distinguish me by dress, know not my moral life, but now you know my name, given to me by my parents, in the language of my ancestors: Mordecai Netanel ben (son of) Eliyahu Chaim Per my family lore, as told to me by my parents, our family fled from Spain because of the Inquisition (1478), settled in a small town in Germany on the banks of the river Lippe; and from the shtetls of Poland, and those who survived or avoided the Holocaust ultimately left Europe, came here, to the land of the free, the United States of America with names, in their language, with memories intact. I will not flee this country, for I know my true name, inscribed in my pores, in my DNA <> (but should I have to…there is a sanctuary.) May 2 2024

60

茶 Cruciform character; flowering daughter of orient Wisdom’s delight A hymn to thee, beloved bush and Tree of Life, I raise. May thy plucked leaves forevermore renew their gracious budding Even as thy captured progeny produce, in death, thy praise Like captive Hebrew exiles driven far from Zion’s hill Loving still their Judge and punisher, recalling golden days… In this cup of glorious elixir, infusing life with cheer Asia’s attributes unveil, while I upon her marvels gaze. Serenity enfolding, I forget all those before In a rapturous caress I swiftly yield to her embraces Nevermore to recall the ****** bean of Abyssinian lore Ethiopian witch and desert hag, dark seed of nomadic races! Now I hail the truth, whose leaf I love: L’chaim to the brew I adore So sit with me and sip some cha. Let us kiss her myriad faces. I scribe these lines in gratitude to that plant who soothes and inspires Sweet Camellia, my love… I read in the leaves your ascending triumphant traces.

0

Sep 10, 2015

Sep 10, 2015 at 10:11 PM UTC

connecthook

Chá

茶 Cruciform character; flowering daughter of orient Wisdom’s delight A hymn to thee, beloved bush and Tree of Life, I raise. May thy plucked leaves forevermore renew their gracious budding Even as thy captured progeny produce, in death, thy praise Like captive Hebrew exiles driven far from Zion’s hill Loving still their Judge and punisher, recalling golden days… In this cup of glorious elixir, infusing life with cheer Asia’s attributes unveil, while I upon her marvels gaze. Serenity enfolding, I forget all those before In a rapturous caress I swiftly yield to her embraces Nevermore to recall the ****** bean of Abyssinian lore Ethiopian witch and desert hag, dark seed of nomadic races! Now I hail the truth, whose leaf I love: L’chaim to the brew I adore So sit with me and sip some cha. Let us kiss her myriad faces. I scribe these lines in gratitude to that plant who soothes and inspires Sweet Camellia, my love… I read in the leaves your ascending triumphant traces.

18

Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is good for thee, thinking moderation then, success. Ah, the analyst's probe, is it satisfying? Child mind alerts, perks up its ear, single minds have single ears, child mind focus state, un monitored you, recall, child minding your own business walking in the road. Accepting having RSVP'd, we'ld wonder at first, did we actually ask for this, or is this all made up? Child mind cocked sure, I know. We are all an alien probe learning the questions. Each letter holds an American English phonic response… and we… the elite sharers of knowns gleaned from scripture. --selah, also means let it rest The precedent for a post temple social order arose, and the minds required for that task arose as well, but as you know, knowledge was closely held, sacred codes, cost of being called and chosen, male alone, bred to the bull. Bred to the king of beasts, wed to the dragon whose bones we have found in the gullet of beached Leviathans… tribe of Bill Levy, sudden psy-psi dead guy makes a suggestion, remember the yen to yank reality aright, and think it funny? Jes' yankin' y'chaim, only be having like a child's mind, pedo-meter counting steps away, flee the birthing trauma, do the dying well. Earnest Becker, take a chair, I think I felt you linger there, death divined most fine state, just wait, settling, you feel.

0

Oct 19, 2023

Oct 19, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Rank Analysis at the edge of autolysis

Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is good for thee, thinking moderation then, success. Ah, the analyst's probe, is it satisfying? Child mind alerts, perks up its ear, single minds have single ears, child mind focus state, un monitored you, recall, child minding your own business walking in the road. Accepting having RSVP'd, we'ld wonder at first, did we actually ask for this, or is this all made up? Child mind cocked sure, I know. We are all an alien probe learning the questions. Each letter holds an American English phonic response… and we… the elite sharers of knowns gleaned from scripture. --selah, also means let it rest The precedent for a post temple social order arose, and the minds required for that task arose as well, but as you know, knowledge was closely held, sacred codes, cost of being called and chosen, male alone, bred to the bull. Bred to the king of beasts, wed to the dragon whose bones we have found in the gullet of beached Leviathans… tribe of Bill Levy, sudden psy-psi dead guy makes a suggestion, remember the yen to yank reality aright, and think it funny? Jes' yankin' y'chaim, only be having like a child's mind, pedo-meter counting steps away, flee the birthing trauma, do the dying well. Earnest Becker, take a chair, I think I felt you linger there, death divined most fine state, just wait, settling, you feel.

28

After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt... Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, but now it's been lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, eloquent soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers twirled; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart falters before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great was the pain! There was a man — now, **** he's gone! The music of his life was suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him, somewhere, but now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873-1934), first name also Hayim or Haim, was a Jewish Holocaust poet who wrote in Hebrew. Bialik was one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew poetry; he came to be recognized as Israel's national poet and the foremost modern Hebrew poet. Keywords/Tags: Chaim Nachman Bialik, Hebrew, translation, Israel, life, music, violin, song, string, strings, heart, mate, love, pain, lost, forever

0

Mar 12, 2020

Mar 12, 2020 at 2:55 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Chaim Nachman Bialik "After My Death" translation

After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man — now, **** he's gone! He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt... Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, but now it's been lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, eloquent soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers twirled; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart falters before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great was the pain! There was a man — now, **** he's gone! The music of his life was suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him, somewhere, but now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873-1934), first name also Hayim or Haim, was a Jewish Holocaust poet who wrote in Hebrew. Bialik was one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew poetry; he came to be recognized as Israel's national poet and the foremost modern Hebrew poet. Keywords/Tags: Chaim Nachman Bialik, Hebrew, translation, Israel, life, music, violin, song, string, strings, heart, mate, love, pain, lost, forever

36

I should realy give you a candy, For every time our eyes meet. I smile and you eat. I should also read for you stories and look at you when you speak... You come to me crying because someone told you You dont fit Ever so sensible your big brown eyes got wet so fast But I told you've done good at your test. So I hugg you and kiss your round cute face It s okay sweety ...Now its time, say Shema and lets go, And you of course tell me NO Then you stop,and you listen and you go to bed. Sweet dreams Reful I love you Good night. Click bang ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Good night.

0

Apr 9, 2012

Apr 9, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC

libe-tarschish

Reful Chaim

I should realy give you a candy, For every time our eyes meet. I smile and you eat. I should also read for you stories and look at you when you speak... You come to me crying because someone told you You dont fit Ever so sensible your big brown eyes got wet so fast But I told you've done good at your test. So I hugg you and kiss your round cute face It s okay sweety ...Now its time, say Shema and lets go, And you of course tell me NO Then you stop,and you listen and you go to bed. Sweet dreams Reful I love you Good night. Click bang ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Good night.

14

haint gonna mock ridiculous science asper to be bled dark practices to leech out mailer daemons, not so laughable nor in cred double, when oppressed diabolical dread oompah loompah fealty l'chaim fled as hand grenades explode within my head mettlesome monsters make mercuric chrome dome feel like a led zeppelin with fractured stairway to heaven in stead... delivers me zombies, where angels fear to tread cuz, the devil and psyche did wed shotgun Swedish crow did house mafia style wrenched, wrested wretched mental state most intense (no croc) dial shattered, slewed, splintered sanity, thus practitioner with "FAKE" know how aisle apprentice Aunt Roadie, who will skewer me evil spirits den da deuce till I beak home one sacrificed overly cooked goose a burnt offering shish kabob no longer able to raise cane on the loose like a red bull rocky on the shoals of a frantically angry moose livid with rage (akin to diary of mad a housewife) entropy written, where death will be only truce pyromaniac qua ramshackle shanty (tinderbox) unleashes wicked zeal hellacious incendiary juiced ride up plies noisome rubbery odor, sans hot wheel along the outer limits of functionality explosions precipitate like drops of molten steel routing hunger, searing nostrils, tearing tenuous fragile tethered tendrils self cannibalizing via tooth and nine inch nail linkedin with nauseousness as thine meal exemplary asper full blown panic attack lodged within mine genetic blooper print deal.

0

Apr 25, 2018

Apr 25, 2018 at 11:27 AM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

desperate call for a witch doctor

haint gonna mock ridiculous science asper to be bled dark practices to leech out mailer daemons, not so laughable nor in cred double, when oppressed diabolical dread oompah loompah fealty l'chaim fled as hand grenades explode within my head mettlesome monsters make mercuric chrome dome feel like a led zeppelin with fractured stairway to heaven in stead... delivers me zombies, where angels fear to tread cuz, the devil and psyche did wed shotgun Swedish crow did house mafia style wrenched, wrested wretched mental state most intense (no croc) dial shattered, slewed, splintered sanity, thus practitioner with "FAKE" know how aisle apprentice Aunt Roadie, who will skewer me evil spirits den da deuce till I beak home one sacrificed overly cooked goose a burnt offering shish kabob no longer able to raise cane on the loose like a red bull rocky on the shoals of a frantically angry moose livid with rage (akin to diary of mad a housewife) entropy written, where death will be only truce pyromaniac qua ramshackle shanty (tinderbox) unleashes wicked zeal hellacious incendiary juiced ride up plies noisome rubbery odor, sans hot wheel along the outer limits of functionality explosions precipitate like drops of molten steel routing hunger, searing nostrils, tearing tenuous fragile tethered tendrils self cannibalizing via tooth and nine inch nail linkedin with nauseousness as thine meal exemplary asper full blown panic attack lodged within mine genetic blooper print deal.

40

this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects being ma late mama's boytchik (now, she long since deceased, whose cremated remains of day scattered to all points on compass) fondly referencing both sisters as dabchick incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue, especially when angry, she quickly segued from mild expletive fiddlestick the latter playfully aired, when kibitzing wit bubeleh reminiscing being dirt poor, nonetheless zee mother every now an again homesick regaling the whole mishpokhe (meaning us brood of kids) interrupting herself with frequent non sequiturs discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects as if external forcefield jimmying a joystick interleaving disparate threads with subsequent tangential linkedin snippets with feigned lovesick chatting 'bout cockamamie "Grandpa Moishe" and his chaim yankel posse (to escape hen pecking nudnik "grandma Rebecca"), a trenchant termagent bubba, not averse to incorporate dreck in the same sentence with zayda ostracized him scoring figurative placekick, whence upon his schlepping back home met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick king atmosphere choking tearfully "mother" recounted farblunget anger thick lee palpable extremely discomfiting, particularly when ("mom's") girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt, where penury churned moribund thoughts viz empty cupboards devoid of bare necessities a figurative apropos yardstick.

0

May 31, 2018

May 31, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

A Bissel Mashugga

this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects being ma late mama's boytchik (now, she long since deceased, whose cremated remains of day scattered to all points on compass) fondly referencing both sisters as dabchick incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue, especially when angry, she quickly segued from mild expletive fiddlestick the latter playfully aired, when kibitzing wit bubeleh reminiscing being dirt poor, nonetheless zee mother every now an again homesick regaling the whole mishpokhe (meaning us brood of kids) interrupting herself with frequent non sequiturs discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects as if external forcefield jimmying a joystick interleaving disparate threads with subsequent tangential linkedin snippets with feigned lovesick chatting 'bout cockamamie "Grandpa Moishe" and his chaim yankel posse (to escape hen pecking nudnik "grandma Rebecca"), a trenchant termagent bubba, not averse to incorporate dreck in the same sentence with zayda ostracized him scoring figurative placekick, whence upon his schlepping back home met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick king atmosphere choking tearfully "mother" recounted farblunget anger thick lee palpable extremely discomfiting, particularly when ("mom's") girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt, where penury churned moribund thoughts viz empty cupboards devoid of bare necessities a figurative apropos yardstick.

47

Lawrence Hall, HSG [email protected] “Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew” cited in -Stanley Kunitz Lyrics, Songs, and Albums | Genius To the Privileged Youth of Columbia University: As a child of situational poverty I am so grateful for all my Jewish teachers Including Moses Joshua Jeremiah Samuel David Solomon Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Saint Peter and the others in The Twelve Saint Paul Elie Weisel Chaim Potok Herman Wouk Leon Uris Franz Kafka Leonard Cohen Anne Frank Bernard Malamud Isaac Bashevis Singer Philip Roth Osip Mandelstam Saul Bellow Isaac Asimov Woody Allen Mel Brooks Edna Ferber Yip Harburg George Cukor Mel Brooks Oscar Hammerstein Alan Lerner Carl Reiner Rod Serling Franz Werfel Alan Arkin Claire Bloom Leonard Nimoy Chaim Topol Ed Asner Mel Brooks Peter Falk Werner Klemperer Jack Klugman Walter Matthau Tony Randall Mel Torme John Banner Kirk Douglas Lorne Greene Eli Wallach Sam Wanamaker Morey Amsterdam Leo Genn Otto Preminger Jack Benny Leslie Howard Ernst Lubitsch Cecil B. DeMille Mortimer Adler Allen Bloom Harold Bloom Irving Berlin Boris Pasternak Emil Ludwig Eric Wolfgang Korngold Elmer Bernstein Max Steiner George Gershwin Dimitri Tiomkin Samuel Fuller Alexander Korda Zoltan Korda Emeric Pressburger Erich von Stroheim Billy Wilder William Wyler Fred Zinnemann J. J. Abrams Peter Bogdanovich Michael Curtiz Stanley Donen Stanley Kramer Howard Caine Leon Askin Robert Clary Dinah Shore Stephen Sondheim Volodymyr Zelinsky Simon Schama Louise Gluck Siegfried Sassoon Isaac Rosenberg Joseph Brodsky Rob Morrow Vasily Grossman Stanley Kubrick Viktor Frankl And more, so many more, a cloud of witnesses Whose names are written in gold on a scroll in Heaven But somehow, in this world of beauty and truth And humanity’s aspirations to the good All you have found are bullhorns, trash fires, chants Clinched fists, obscenities, lies, and shrieking hate

0

Apr 19, 2024

Apr 19, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC

lawrence-hall

"Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew"

Lawrence Hall, HSG [email protected] “Anglo-Saxon Students Would Not Like to Be Taught by a Jew” cited in -Stanley Kunitz Lyrics, Songs, and Albums | Genius To the Privileged Youth of Columbia University: As a child of situational poverty I am so grateful for all my Jewish teachers Including Moses Joshua Jeremiah Samuel David Solomon Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Saint Peter and the others in The Twelve Saint Paul Elie Weisel Chaim Potok Herman Wouk Leon Uris Franz Kafka Leonard Cohen Anne Frank Bernard Malamud Isaac Bashevis Singer Philip Roth Osip Mandelstam Saul Bellow Isaac Asimov Woody Allen Mel Brooks Edna Ferber Yip Harburg George Cukor Mel Brooks Oscar Hammerstein Alan Lerner Carl Reiner Rod Serling Franz Werfel Alan Arkin Claire Bloom Leonard Nimoy Chaim Topol Ed Asner Mel Brooks Peter Falk Werner Klemperer Jack Klugman Walter Matthau Tony Randall Mel Torme John Banner Kirk Douglas Lorne Greene Eli Wallach Sam Wanamaker Morey Amsterdam Leo Genn Otto Preminger Jack Benny Leslie Howard Ernst Lubitsch Cecil B. DeMille Mortimer Adler Allen Bloom Harold Bloom Irving Berlin Boris Pasternak Emil Ludwig Eric Wolfgang Korngold Elmer Bernstein Max Steiner George Gershwin Dimitri Tiomkin Samuel Fuller Alexander Korda Zoltan Korda Emeric Pressburger Erich von Stroheim Billy Wilder William Wyler Fred Zinnemann J. J. Abrams Peter Bogdanovich Michael Curtiz Stanley Donen Stanley Kramer Howard Caine Leon Askin Robert Clary Dinah Shore Stephen Sondheim Volodymyr Zelinsky Simon Schama Louise Gluck Siegfried Sassoon Isaac Rosenberg Joseph Brodsky Rob Morrow Vasily Grossman Stanley Kubrick Viktor Frankl And more, so many more, a cloud of witnesses Whose names are written in gold on a scroll in Heaven But somehow, in this world of beauty and truth And humanity’s aspirations to the good All you have found are bullhorns, trash fires, chants Clinched fists, obscenities, lies, and shrieking hate

111

Have some confidence, smile a while and think of cuttin' back, think of how hard this winter is most places where it is winter now, and all the houses are rubble, we see we almost… in some ways… on some levels… true, we can feel we breathe the same winds, we hold truths self evident, by faith we found, sheer mind fog hedge hog white horse chase minding, hedged bets, we'll laugh every day, in joy, for strength, l'chaim peace of mind is what we stalk. We think we pray silently. We think we all do, hope and wish and pray all call fix it make it better for all, eh liberty, completely agreed to by most… we must imagine the old trick, freedom isn't free, inside the fence/ ---------------- How come we to be the first generation ever to breathe dust from Alamogordo and beyond co incident… in the scope of what we can imagine, Earth, as seen from Saturn via global science access. Any where such truths are not denied by law. How come is not the same query as why, because words mean things, ghost of Limbaugh. Being causal points, peak mind share, Superbowl .64% All eyes worth, all the value rushed to all the advertisers and stakeholders on the line, oh, you know, it could be money, on the line… 99.36% of all attention payers, paid none. But… stop think 127000000 or so, simultaneously hoping that's a lot, to high heaven they don't choke, oh, the thing e-feared holy hell we say some stupid blessing sneeze gnosisnot too fine to finally think gesundheit, so fine.

0

Feb 13, 2025

Feb 13, 2025 at 7:41 PM UTC

kenpepiton

Feeling drained, and small... virtually

Have some confidence, smile a while and think of cuttin' back, think of how hard this winter is most places where it is winter now, and all the houses are rubble, we see we almost… in some ways… on some levels… true, we can feel we breathe the same winds, we hold truths self evident, by faith we found, sheer mind fog hedge hog white horse chase minding, hedged bets, we'll laugh every day, in joy, for strength, l'chaim peace of mind is what we stalk. We think we pray silently. We think we all do, hope and wish and pray all call fix it make it better for all, eh liberty, completely agreed to by most… we must imagine the old trick, freedom isn't free, inside the fence/ ---------------- How come we to be the first generation ever to breathe dust from Alamogordo and beyond co incident… in the scope of what we can imagine, Earth, as seen from Saturn via global science access. Any where such truths are not denied by law. How come is not the same query as why, because words mean things, ghost of Limbaugh. Being causal points, peak mind share, Superbowl .64% All eyes worth, all the value rushed to all the advertisers and stakeholders on the line, oh, you know, it could be money, on the line… 99.36% of all attention payers, paid none. But… stop think 127000000 or so, simultaneously hoping that's a lot, to high heaven they don't choke, oh, the thing e-feared holy hell we say some stupid blessing sneeze gnosisnot too fine to finally think gesundheit, so fine.

48

Connoisseur Of Ethnic Cuisine Theme seems apropos during Holiday FancyFeasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion witching hunting - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of ****** harassment after substantial time. Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Though anonymous and hardly a substantially sized mwm baby boomer (which dual disadvantages partly explains lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks, yet hoop full to get attention from some well fed dame many popular rotund gourmands l'chaim tame their hungry beast – wa hood put me to shame vis a vis consuming in their one meal, what yours truly eats in a lifetime, none of those celery buddies, whom this non television watcher can name seen on any selective cable channel, I still revel in writing while on the hunt (during Red October) for a meme poetry and prose, and decided to introduce myself quite lame with NON GMO marginal uptick in any sudden fortune or fame, yet t'would be pleasantly syrup prized if interest from potential mistress didst exclaim desire to enjoy a repast, though said hypothetical gal need not be a high society dame, and if perchance such just desserts came via the kitchen maiden kitty, versus kit chin middens no boastful claim would be uttered by me, her intellectual company satisfactory aim.

0

Dec 9, 2017

Dec 9, 2017 at 6:02 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Food Glorious Food

Connoisseur Of Ethnic Cuisine Theme seems apropos during Holiday FancyFeasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion witching hunting - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of ****** harassment after substantial time. Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Though anonymous and hardly a substantially sized mwm baby boomer (which dual disadvantages partly explains lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks, yet hoop full to get attention from some well fed dame many popular rotund gourmands l'chaim tame their hungry beast – wa hood put me to shame vis a vis consuming in their one meal, what yours truly eats in a lifetime, none of those celery buddies, whom this non television watcher can name seen on any selective cable channel, I still revel in writing while on the hunt (during Red October) for a meme poetry and prose, and decided to introduce myself quite lame with NON GMO marginal uptick in any sudden fortune or fame, yet t'would be pleasantly syrup prized if interest from potential mistress didst exclaim desire to enjoy a repast, though said hypothetical gal need not be a high society dame, and if perchance such just desserts came via the kitchen maiden kitty, versus kit chin middens no boastful claim would be uttered by me, her intellectual company satisfactory aim.

34

As always when in the initial throes of writing what I strive to concoct viz pièce de ré·sis·tance, which grandiose whim fizz hills with utter futility, nonetheless this nondescript husband under scores comment, while pulling his grizzled hair of chinny chin chin, and emphasizing that mine literary effort ain't no **** whether expressing an insatiable hunger for factual national world events, weird news i.e. geico liz hard eats dog, (who swallowed homework) quiz sic hull varying from opinion/editorial, geopolitical related or showbiz, but breathe deep, while setting loose quiet riot of ideas, which profuse accursed process usually incorporates an overwhelming growing exponentially cerebral burst whereat impossible task looms large, asper how to zero on most agreeable needling threadbare notion to come first amidst the plethora of rampant analogous to horde of infants clamoring tubby nursed bajillion ideas touting joyfulness (re: l'chaim), or...mine envisioned sorrowfully immersed demise as select small group of family and friends accompany glassy transparent hearst (which...shh... keep on the Q.T. as figuratively utter by pursed lips), of course no corps (habeas corpus cited for no reason), but liver worst poisoning wrought unexpected demise, AND cremation (in a free nation) means body double coffin before your eyes doppelganger paid in blood money and french fries (duet to a solo salt craving) no lies, hence an none nee moose penniless chap dies in short shrift within schema of mortal guise ashes scattered all points on the compass one bitcoin player in the blockchain of life wise lee subsumed within world wide web, this fate hain't no surprize!

0

Dec 21, 2018

Dec 21, 2018 at 1:51 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

Bitcoin Player In The Blockchain Of Life

As always when in the initial throes of writing what I strive to concoct viz pièce de ré·sis·tance, which grandiose whim fizz hills with utter futility, nonetheless this nondescript husband under scores comment, while pulling his grizzled hair of chinny chin chin, and emphasizing that mine literary effort ain't no **** whether expressing an insatiable hunger for factual national world events, weird news i.e. geico liz hard eats dog, (who swallowed homework) quiz sic hull varying from opinion/editorial, geopolitical related or showbiz, but breathe deep, while setting loose quiet riot of ideas, which profuse accursed process usually incorporates an overwhelming growing exponentially cerebral burst whereat impossible task looms large, asper how to zero on most agreeable needling threadbare notion to come first amidst the plethora of rampant analogous to horde of infants clamoring tubby nursed bajillion ideas touting joyfulness (re: l'chaim), or...mine envisioned sorrowfully immersed demise as select small group of family and friends accompany glassy transparent hearst (which...shh... keep on the Q.T. as figuratively utter by pursed lips), of course no corps (habeas corpus cited for no reason), but liver worst poisoning wrought unexpected demise, AND cremation (in a free nation) means body double coffin before your eyes doppelganger paid in blood money and french fries (duet to a solo salt craving) no lies, hence an none nee moose penniless chap dies in short shrift within schema of mortal guise ashes scattered all points on the compass one bitcoin player in the blockchain of life wise lee subsumed within world wide web, this fate hain't no surprize!

53

Friction Isn’t fiction It’s great Things grate I surmise To hydrolyze, A basic strife, Gives us life. What seems mystical Is really chemical. To life!

0

Jul 21, 2017

Jul 21, 2017 at 8:34 AM UTC

james-floss

L'CHAIM

Friction Isn’t fiction It’s great Things grate I surmise To hydrolyze, A basic strife, Gives us life. What seems mystical Is really chemical. To life!

11