"jael" poems
Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
I'm Salome, moon of the East.
Here in my soul I am Sappho;
Lady Hamilton am I, as well.
In me Recamier vies with Kitty O'Shea,
With Dido, and Eve, and poor Nell.
I'm of the glamorous ladies
At whose beckoning history shook.
But you are a man, and see only my pan,
So I stay at home with a book.
2.6k
Is this not prayer?
is this tool not the tool I hoped for? The pen
filled by the ever-flowing flowery ink
that re-news old knowns
left to ripen under bald and hoary heads
in stoney hearts softened by seventy years worth
of salty tears
and sad songs
"great was the number of them,
wombed ones all, who sang of the victory to be"
Miriam and Hannah, Deborah and Jael, who
retold those tales by the rivers of Babylon?
And who fueled the furnace seven times hotter,
to signal the unbelivable fourth.
being likend unto the son of god, though the
analogy seems
lacking evidence that the likeness can be reproved.
Look again.
This magi-tech converged from all the poetic,
pathetic
ethos of logo marks making proper
ification of a rythm's
un legit singin' in public,
on the corner, wit' Willie and the po'boys
beat me daddy six t' the bar---
Oh
--- those ethnic poundings on my skull,
--- send those feelings, urging, grow grow grow
--- 'til the roofs cain't hold hope in
then
hear come them ol' time thought cops,
wee gray dominees preparing dominoes for
one reason,
dominos are never stood to stand, but to fall
touching one, touching one, touching one
whisper, rest
the waiting is over, this is the time
to start all over.
Nov 24, 2019
Nov 24, 2019 at 11:37 AM UTC
Love unfeigned, how can it be
Truly known: by deed or by word?
Take old Sisera for example, my lady,
Who fled with his glittering sword
To the tent of Jael, the beloved wife
Of Kenite, from the face of Barak.
And of her requested he for his life
Water, and she in action was not slack
To offer him milk instead, and did cover
Him again with a blanket. Sleeping in peace,
She crept softly to him with a hammer
And nailed down his temple with ease.
Yet to her did he entrust his safety,
Seeking from the smasher vain security.
Consider Joab, too, how he by his fine
Speech killled Amasa his worthy cousin;
Taking his beard with his right hand
As though he would give him a kiss grand,
Whilst his left hand had a thirsty dagger
Waiting; and he pierced the good feller
Through with his wicked blade. How the tongue
Of men do flatter oft in order to do wrong!
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
you could say
she didn't know
I don't know, mebbe
but she knew
something
that wombed man,
I could tell
but she tells it better,
mysterious as hell, she says
I know a mother's love
no un-wombed, v. 1.0 ever can
even imagine
the pain
and the joy
knowin'
that head stompin'promise...
Remember that.
Aug 5, 2019
Aug 5, 2019 at 11:15 PM UTC
It rumbles and roars
The rage I harbor in my bones
Unsung song of contention
Bitter and bilious in my mouth
Because when I tried to speak,
nobody was listening
Boundries of consent are drawn at home
And maintained before being extended
To a world where Xanthippe is a slur
Between giving up a career and giving in to a creep
There isn't much of an option
Shame is the best weapon after fear
In the arsenal of patriarchy
Ammo of choice for its sari draped agents
To keep young women in line lest they
Sprout a tongue or mind of their own
Decades of silence has fed the fire of rage
Licking and moulding my contours
Till I turn into Jael yielding pen
Refusing to be a collateral any longer, ready
To nail Sisera, with or without a Barak to celebrate
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
The soldier and the sailor know
the price they have to pay-
the lover and beloved know
which heart will leave, or stay.
In a world where lies are truth disguised
and every Sisera has his Jael-
the people stand and watch, appalled
at the bitterness of betrayal.
Nov 14, 2016
Nov 14, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
Mrs Malaprop got away, a way, I mean, a way
wit words
she can say shitistic stuff as if stuffit were a joy,
when she says it, while
telling
still silken legs crosse demurely,
the delicate ankle
that made monks blush and blurt out
confession,
MY GAWD,
rolling, clockwise, as she sees it,
counter to my
FPS POV, but we both see the direction,
east, the earth is turning east from now
to then when
you become wel here in now.
Recall the lesson of flat land, whoever taught it
coulda been AE Wilder-smith hammered
Jael's nail home,
Couldabin, mightabeen Sagan made the killing blow
young earth shattered.
Fossils seeped their living substance into stone,
petrific, ter ific magnetic trick of missed percepticons
fired fully of the intention, I must mention,
stretching truth to cover conjecture when ideas
like what happened in the "Cambrian" being being
explosive become
purposeful in minds of men, wombed or un---
--- once
--- before you knew, that hapt.
--- and, god, did men make up storys.
on track. Back when men first imagined doing
making, art arose and
we all know
a rose, by any other name is a rose.
That's the idea in self evidence. It's a key to
the Declaration of Independence making sense,
at the level of we, the people, who know
self-evident non-thingables, when we hold them.
At first, they feel like sleepy puppies. These
truths we hold selfevidently right.
Sep 4, 2019
Sep 4, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC