In My Salad Days



Salad Days

Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.
                        ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Salad

Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.

All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.

All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.

Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when  you feed me in
My Salad Days.

The Days

Though it was a life,  decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.

Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.

The Salad Days

Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.

Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.

It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.

We should now tighten the gauntlet of marcona, thundering courage. All of us, like the blindfolded blind, are deliberately stuck in the gaping gloom.

Who would work in the pissy dawn of day, can't the unfortunate - God forbid - reach the meagre farthing for a pittance. Treading, among crawling roots, among underworldly terrors. On us every petty, telltale movement is now tightened.

And so the community called civilized, sluggishly dull and stagnant. Our lives, if we hang in the swamp of indifference in the air of tesped uncertainty as unworthy victims, hanging silently until the next tweaked relief.

Yet we feel our yarrow-life bliss among the hidden career beds, camouflaged ceda-romantics - making us Ariadne's thread of Existence the thudding beats of our hesitant hearts.

The greed for money demands our clarity, ever more violently. We might as well dream the American dream if we could - let us not yet stake our only life on these coveted, pink syrupy, temporary dreams.

It is not good for something to be right or final merely for material gain. Above the sinking souls there must be a winged angel to redeem and protect the light that shines with fragmentary light.

We do not deliberately ask for spikes of power that can be hurled at us. Let the gains of treachery be left to those for whom everything and everyone was but a petty plaything, and who are now all sons and servants of No Man! In defence of the feared Existence, it would be well to look within ourselves one last time!

I would say something else to you orphaned, eternal worrying kid, I have to get yourself up if they hurt me, people who are nothing. I would tell you something if you are dreading a crouching full moon at night, because you think you are just ghost or goblt, just be firm and brave and not show your wounded-*******, dreaded fears.

Many times I would call you a time-to-date machine mobile, if you would be a little more attentive to my wise, thoughtful words, which you still think would rather be discarded rather than meaningful advice; I know childhood may often seem like a two-way dead end, which sooner or later may fall or get lost, but you should always stay yourself and by no means let the absolute, Marcona adults sit or influence your Kobak head.

Put your childhood, playful curiosity with your sick heart, your liver, shaking hands and secret oath to yourself: _ I will stay for a couple of years who can know my friends so far! I will be loyal to myself. "_ - and while your aging, eyeglasses would look at the uncertain horizon, sillabising where the end of existence can be and how much more can happen. There are alms, sanding hands, sanda, nonsensical promises.

Something, even so many decades - would be good to tell you; You can never feel that they are mocked, deliberately shamed, mocked, evil, and if your grandchildren will not be ****** on your balding ping-pong head, you may have stayed yourself all the time!

He starts, starts every day, and the man is unable to wipe the rush from his face. Between two rushes, they have a finite judgment in mortal times. A prudent citizen clings to tomorrow's momentum in the swinging stream of tomorrow. And though you know it will lose forever - you can still pay attention to the solid throne of the dawn.

The happier life with a bread-scent cannot be the unfortunate, stumbling-stumbling shipwreck. Prisoners of warfare stands for watching a hunger at night…

In cool, snow-white robes, they are in succession from the memorials of unworthy past and good friends. The handshakes that can be obtained as a win-win gift also made each other a *******-alleged promises, thread, and light-blooded vows.

Darkness on the syrup puddles of everyone is welcomed by betrayal. It would be good to open the onion peel as a wise man to declare and grow more liberated. The reverse embodiment of Marcona's wax puppets constantly testify and remind me of shameful conscience.

There is an anxious hope under the bush hands or pearl nails. Often, they are desperate for yesterday, and they crave for time. There are no more prodigal refuge in the reality of objects. Most witnesses are cowardly, while judges stare either with a dead deafness or persistent, unstoppable indifference to the outside world.

The tabloid and social media are full of root-nasty calculating glances and unnecessary shapes. Whose solid and faithful friendship could have been disappointed in every bush when they go for the recesses of celebrities in the face of won!