"rabbi" poems
The Jewish brothers in Defiance were definitely tough.
One wanted to **** many Germans, the other to save many Jews.
The German soldiers were expendable, unmarried, unremarkable.
Each little death was very little, a little spittle in a big wind.
Fast forward to my friend's son's bar mitzvah or daughter's
coming of age ceremony. Food is abundant, the music frenetic,
the rabbi paid. Gifts generous but not obvious.
Wealth does not obviate death and we know it.
Here too we have natural leaders. Youth basketball coaches,
school principals and, again, interpreters of prayers. When
violence comes to the neighborhood they are who we'll first look to
for governance and guns. Unless have you read The Admirable
Crichton?
Boredom, boredom conflated with loneliness, may be a sign
of good luck. To live a good length or light year away from man's
bad breath, allergenic perfumes, sickening flatulence and shed hair.
But you are drawn back into the debate about perfection by your own
********
While teaching at the old city jail I have learned this: only meditation
upon the periodic table can save your soul. From itself.
Imagining the world without the self will make you whole.
What else is there to say. Do less until one thing's done well.
After the war the brothers started a small trucking company
in the Bronx. Grateful for such peace, the accounting
was relaxing. They thought back to how they met their wives, naked
before the bombs and bullets. How they lost and found themselves in
what happened.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
dear black folks i
want to be white
dear white folks i
want to be black
dear biracials i want to be
black and white
at the same time
(much love to my kids)
dear jews i
want to be a muslim
dear muslims i
want to be a jew
can you help me out
brother?
can you help me out
sister?
can you help me out
rabbi?
can you help me out
habibi?
i need someone
like you folks
who is aware of
DSR
Nov 17, 2019
Nov 17, 2019 at 1:25 PM UTC
The short-order cook and the dishwasher
argue the relative merits
of Rilke’s Elegies
against Eliot’s Four Quartets,
but the delivery man who brings eggs
suggests they have forgotten Les fleurs
du mal and Baudelaire. The waitress
carrying three plates and a coffee ***
can’t decide whom she loves more—
Rimbaud or Verlaine,
William Blake or William Wordsworth.
She refills the rabbi’s cup
(he’s reading Rumi),
asks what he thinks of Arthur Whaley.
In the booth behind them, a fat woman
feeds a small white poodle in her lap,
with whom she shares her spoon.
"It’s Rexroth’s translations of the Japanese,"
she says, "that one can’t live without:
May those who are born after me
Never travel such roads of love."
The revolving door proffers
a stranger in a long black coat, lost in the madhouse poems of John Clare.
As he waits to be seated,
the woman who owns the place
hands him a menu
in which he finds several handwritten poems
By Hafiz, Gibran, and Rabindranath Tagore.
The lunch hour’s crowded—
the owner wonders
if the stranger might share
my table. As he sits,
I put a finger to my lips,
and with my eyes ask him
to listen with me
to the young boy and the young girl
two tables away
taking turns reading aloud
the love poems of Pablo Neruda.
4.9k
i was wrenched from a bed
that was not my own to begin with.
into the sunlight, they dragged me,
hands yanking at my long hair.
i clutched my body.
jaw set, i silently vowed not to cry, to take it
like a woman should – to look them in the eye,
to stand unashamedly in front of my neighbors,
my mother, and my sisters. to stand in front of the town,
and face the inevitable.
the Pharisees threw me to the ground, gave a swift kick
to my side – gentle, compared with what would come.
the women, eyes glossed with icy detest, spat in my face.
*so the ***** has been caught*, they hissed.
But i refused to give them the satisfaction.
i wouldn’t close my eyes during it.
couldn’t.
Jesus, they barked, *we caught her sleeping
with a man she doesn’t belong to*.
you know what to do.
the little children and the rabbi and the mothers
and the sons, they felt the ground
for smooth, heavy rocks.
i bowed my head slightly, as fingers trembled over
new, prune-colored bruises
on my ribs, my stomach.
i unlocked my knees and lifted my chin,
met his eyes.
he paused for a moment, nodded his head slowly.
If you are without sin, please, cast the first stone.
i bit my lip, waited and watched,
squinting in the sunrise.
the Pharisees grumbled, the townspeople eyed me, but said
nothing, until they left, one
by one.
that Jesus, they mumbled,
He’s always finding loopholes.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 4:56 PM UTC
433
Knows how to forget!
But could It teach it?
Easiest of Arts, they say
When one learn how
Dull Hearts have died
In the Acquisition
Sacrificed for Science
Is common, though, now—
I went to School
But was not wiser
Globe did not teach it
Nor Logarithm Show
“How to forget”!
Say—some—Philosopher!
Ah, to be erudite
Enough to know!
Is it in a Book?
So, I could buy it—
Is it like a Planet?
Telescopes would know—
If it be invention
It must have a Patent.
Rabbi of the Wise Book
Don’t you know?
4.6k
Spewing hate as usual
Desperate for attention!
Creepy Duchebag rabbi
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
See the Rabbi. See him tormented by choice. See his people. See them wracked by hate. See the others. See their anger radiate outward in glowing spokes, exploding firebrand in a tinder city.
On a night like any other, the moon at sixth house, fulcrum of pinwheel zodiac, the Rabbi, awash in lidless starlight, rises somber and makes his choice. And when the sun is furthermost, he and three of his others gather at the murmuring riverbank where the brown clay is most pliable and begin to dig, sifting rock and root from trundled earth. Hours spent exhuming the clay, molding it, kneading its muscles, tracing its veins, baking its skin in the starlight. More hours spent in whispering prayer, the words bent and somersaulting over themselves like tumbling books.
See Truth drawn on its forehead, life etched from clay and word. As the sun rises, so it does, wavering at first, but steadier, lapping at the river, and their faces move slowly across the water. See the Rabbi speak to it, his words winding its mechanism. See it stride past the ghetto, wade through the market, and into the borough, siege unto its own.
See the others scream for mercy from the kiln of its stare, from their flaming tenements, their crumpling rooftops.
See it wade back through the market, past the ghetto, back to the riverbank to kneel in the underbrush. See it tilt its head to the lilt of a stranded daisy caught in a vagrant gust. See it caught, too, and see it see. It sees the colors of Eden in the ferns. It hears the river churning sediment, fossils, gravel, whirling over driftwood. It touches moss on a rock; gently rotates its hand to let a grub complete an oblivious circumference. See it sit in silence.
See the Rabbi meet with the others, then his others. And on a day like any other, when the sun is at its apogee, they slip down the riverbank where it still sits, still. It ignores their autonomous logic, their homunculus rationale. They are perversions of variety cloaked in righteous intention. So it remains.
See the Rabbi and his others gather at the murmuring riverbank, shadow conclave in shifting sunlight, then rise somber and decided. They pin it to the earth as the Rabbi chants, invoking the void in which forbidden knowledge spirals. It squirms under the power of the Word, mind-forged manacle as incantation. See the Rabbi draw to a close. His hand is arbiter, swooping down to smudge Truth from its forehead. What is left but Death.
See its hand crumble in its passage as it reaches for the stranded daisy. See the colors of Eden darken in its eyes, its own body the dust that denies it light. See it collapse into itself, the clay that was once animate spilling onto the riverbank. See the Rabbi and his others shimmer then fade into city grey.
The daisy stands still.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 4:22 PM UTC
”against your will were you created,
against your will were you born,
against your will do you live,
against your will will you die, and
against your will will you stand in judgment before the
King of kings, the Holy One, blessed be He.”
Rabbi Elazar HaKappar (C.170 - C.200 CE)
(Ha Kappar: the one who made and gave atonement)
<§>
***in these, the years of my erosive declination,
when the noble prize, time for introspection,
once was a chore of delaying, now no longer can be off-put,
the certainties of Elazar, offer guidable satisfactions***
***the nighttime review, resurrecting my life, the gaps,
the untaken actions, those dream-schemes speak loudest,
memories of what should have been, are a litany of what ifs,
prosecutorial accusations of crass wastage***
***against my will, the charges brought,
against my will, plead guiltily my innocence,
against my will, knowingly, time’s erasure judgment,
secures my fate, all the granular cells causal dissipation***
***my warped willingness to be a coward,
it was my meditative, to natural be the lesser man,
choosing the safety premise, the road most oft trod,
the addition of my meager totality, willing given***
Even if all these land mine/roadblocks
and summary judgements are against my will,
willingly do I confess, in all innocence, my guilt,
“if it be my will”
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
Once upon a time:
An aged rabbi talking with two men
Asked them about their holiday in Paris
The first man said: Oh, I hated Paris
There was muck and filth everywhere I went
Stray dogs and prostitutes roamed the foul streets
And the Parisians were incessantly rude
The second man said: Oh, I loved Paris
There were flowers everywhere I went
Artists and beauty, writers scribbling away
And the Parisians were so kind to me
And so:
The rabbi said to them (his voice was kind):
Each of you found the Paris you wanted to find
(Worked up [or down, or sideways…] from a story Rabbi Joel Goor, a visiting lecturer at the University of San Diego in 1975, told his students.)
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
a duet
Palestine and Israel
To the tune of Home, Home on the Range
(Palestine)
***Oh, give me a land where no Hebrews stand
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land without Jews
where Palestine could live and shine
where seldom is seen a Rabbi or ‘stein
and Jerusalem could be all mine***
(Israel)
***You don’t understand, God gave us this land
where Palestine would hate and whine
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem should be all mine***
(chorus)
***Land, land of the Jews
where Palestine still hates and whines
where seldom it seems, peace is a dream
and Jerusalem shall be all mine***
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
The 8 Days of Hanukkah
On the first day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - A Torah portion that I can't read.
On the second day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - Two loaded bagels and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the third day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - Three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the fourth day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - Four Shabbos goyim, three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the fifth day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - FIVE Maccabeats, four Shabbos goyim, three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the sixth day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - Six mohels brissing, FIVE Maccabeats, four Shabbos goyim, three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the seventh day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - Seven Jews a-kvetching, six mohels brissing, FIVE Maccabeats, four Shabbos goyim, three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.
On the eighth day of Hanukkah, my rabbi gave to me - 8 burning candles, seven Jews a-kvetching, six mohels brissing, FIVE Maccabeats, four Shabbos goyim, three spinning dreidls, two loaded bagels, and a Torah portion that I can't read.....
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
Sometimes I wonder,
Sometimes I ponder,
Why do I love her.
At one look she's valentine,
and the next... she's somebody else
But like a spectre on Holloween's day,
its all but a mask.
A mask that someone else used to wear.
A mask filled with fear, grief and pain.
Masks that fills up the small dents in her heart.
I ran, she glimpsed, I reached, she smiled.
A great story it is. Yet another,
I ran, I reached, an empty look from her face.
A story that makes me cry and kneel to the Lord.
It's a difficult love indeed and temptations are real and big.
Yet, I could not find a reason to steer and drive away.
And against all logic, Love compels me to stay.
The love that compelled my savior to be hanged on a tree.
A love that never gives up,
a love that is defined by no other word than love it self.
Is the love that keeps me going.
It is because of love, that I could not let go.
Because, my savior himself did not let go.
Even at times that I betray and spat him to his face
He did not let go. He held on, He struggled.
He pulled me, He embraced me.
My Rabbi once thought me,
that love is both sweet and deadly.
love in its ultimate form, will lead one person to die.
"Die to self" my Rabbi says.
Until when can I die to my self?
Scarry as it is, I am ready to die in the name of love,
Scarry as it is, I am ready to die to show one person love,
To lit the light of hope in her, to light back faith in her heart.
As great purposes awaits her, to be a sign of hope is a great pleasure indeed.
So am I crazy enough to lose the world in the name of love?
Sadly, I'am still incapable of loving like my savior does.
For he is perfect and I.... am being perfected.
We are of no comparison,
He was innocent, yet I was guilty.
guilty as accused.
I am but a mere speck of dust compared to His glory.
O how can I find love in the eyes of my valentine?
I cried out and He answered,
"You don't" He says,
For love is not about you,
but it is about dying to your self
With this love that I recieved,
I am on my way.
Fighting fears, lies and struggles,
I am on my way.
As love compels me to be,
Therefore I concluded that
I.... must be..... Half-Crazy.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
*( Loki )
1
All ills you have wrought
Mischief maker in the dirt
No shower will cleanse
2
Poor Woolfy Spirit
******* in actuality
You ARE Beryl Dov
3
Thor is your new name
Psychopath reinventing
Same old *** trickster
4
Who is following
The fortune cookie writers
Such lame phony names
5
Fragile ego here
Pages of Wolf and Beryl
Drama queens reeking
6
Even as he leaves
Tireless self promoter
Lowers the banal*
Note:
Wolf Spirit IS Dire Wolf IS Toreanus Pinwinkle III IS Thor IS Beryl Dov IS ******** ( aka ******* ) Rabbi IS soooooo many others - a many-faced pest and pariah, previously banned on other sites for being stalkers and sociopaths !!
See:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1530102/wolves/
&
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1516652/breach/
&
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/832663/beryl-dov/
&
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1527822/not-a-poem-an-open-response-to-wolf-spirit-and-wolf-spirit-dire/
Basically anyone who follows these massive-ego predators is probably them !!
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
"Every single morning
for past forty-three years,
with a greased head
and a goofy smile,
he appreciates and ponders
about silly things:
his milk cartons,
all rusty pipes,
Rabbi's vintage car,
the berry shrubs,
and
her warm smile."
"Sweet Pea,
little did he know
that
she loves him too."
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:30 AM UTC
********* Rabbi crows
I am 'poet laureate'
Internet yawning*
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
rock smashes scissors
break our swords
Scissors cut paper
tear up our poetry
paper covers rock.
shielded by policy
we have our voices.
all rock, all scissor, all paper.
all spock, all lizard
we do not play games, we Speak.
We throw spock hands like Gang signs
spit parsel tongue at pride haters
we write love letters to revolution
We cut red tape with our long fuzes
Hit rock bottom, more bass in our
Voices than god knows what to do with
So we tell him exactlly where it should go.
Rock Paper Scissors Lizard Spock
They hold their pens like scissors
carving history books into erasure poems
We would swing our pens like swords.
But no leader we trust has been elected yet.
We would have a leader to guide us
But snakeoil salesmen plague our trenches.
There would be no snakeoil salesmen if
we had a stable government
We would have a stable government
but the stability was sharpied out of our history books.
And To history, loud voices sound
like the fires of god.
And are we not the voices with more bass then God knows what to do with.
without words on the wind,
There is no flame
so aren't we fire.
We all have tealights waiting in cold oven hearts.
stone hearths begging for Ignition
eager for bootleg promises of warmth
The orange rhetoric of our future
no warmer than tinders logo.
or a video recording of a fireplace
flickering on a flatscreen at best buy.
We are distracted constantly.
misdirected by Houses of paper cards
origami swans we don't dare unfold
Staying ignorant of the tire track liner inside.
origami swans are so much more beautiful
when they have secrets, right?
I have a matchstick
watch me strike it lit
flare this paper swan into a pheonix.
And hold it in my fist.
there will be fire.
and it will not be a metaphor
But It will be a revolution
And it will be a pheonix
and the pheonix WILL be a metaphor
The Rabbi at Temple Beth El
said when a mans consumed by gods fire
it is a severance from faith, a spiritual death.
what have we done
if not lost faith in our government?
Been consumed by the fires of god.
and why not tattoo pheonix feathers
on our backs?
at least this death gave us warmth.
a home in the world's ashes.
I stared at the dragons fire that stormed towards me
thanked it for the oppurtunity
to walk out of this world
holding dragons eggs
Like Daneris Tygareon
and they will be real dragons.
incubated by REAL fire
despite this crumbling cataclysm
you call a great america.
Spock handed Lizards larger and louder
with all the rocks
paper and scissors they need
to set the world on fire.
To Finally see something beautiful be born.
A Home that keeps them warm.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 12:53 AM UTC
Reflective intercessions
With my Rabbi teaching me lessons.
Thinking about my undeserved blessings
How at times I stumble
And is it not humble .
When I think my living is impressive
Ponder my past push play in my perspective
How can I see a mirror and just be partially reflective.
Guess its the fact that I see my body and think I have grown.
I should look into my optics..
The windows to my soul.
There are only two options
Serve God or Sheol
Deep down I know..
Life and death.
The truth is real don't suppress it
Now check the lyrical expression..
Satan is waiting
Anxiously anticipating
For me to fall he loves corrupting Gods creation..
He wants me big headed feeling myself like ************
While he eating my soul, mastication
But to Jesus my life shows dedication
Walking with God I don't identify with procrastination..
Yet time passes...
And how do I hold God close..
Attacked by worldly passions
Time is hand and hand with deaths approach..
Control fate like when we crush crawling a roach
Its cool to be a man's man
But if Christ was one, would there have been holes in his hands
Cause clearly it was in line with Gods plan..
Holding on to what is cool its like holding on to sand ....
Pointless ...
Nevertheless..
I am giving it my best...
Reflective moments only partial when I am looking at flesh
God is using me
Satan wants to abuse me..
Entice me with demonic opportunities
Like have *** with that chick with the big *****
Challenges but I am not stupid
No I am not stooping
To a level below Gods standard
Reflective to see if I'm walking in Gods planning
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
4
Mi
Mum
Like two crows fighting over the box seats of the telephone wire.
raGe ragE guilt guilt ..
peck, peck... punch.
Dear Mr. Rabbi, its Hanukkah my good Sir. Merry Christmas:)
.....Wheres my sugar.
Shackles tear my mi skin, holding my heART hostage.
W
H
Y
?
Must i...
kangaroo Christmas cup
take out anger on you?
i dont try,
I
H A
e e r
a t
r t
You.
But I hurt you.
Bruises of blue stain mi heart.
Dominate genes
Plague the Playground.
AIR RAID she's on the move.
Boiling, toiling, troubl
tinsel.
Clinton masks, smiles not included
Sick joke.
(APLAUSE)
....not funny.
eyes of ice, melting out in Spring...drip drop
let's go kids, track marks, and tick tocks.
My body the "Land of the Free" call the editor, false statement.
I'm giving it all away, im giving in,
My Godzilla temper. Peace and love, my mum.
"No, Thank You"....im not fond of___________ soup.
Your little Satan,
M.E
(From the deepest cockles of my black heart.)
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 14, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
The best actors, with the best directors and producers are in church.
We just play along to make it work.
We all have sinned during the week.
Then get in church and pray for a change.
Just to get out and do it again.
Only fooling ourselves and a few others.,
But not fooling God.
Scams and schemes he plays no part.
We all know those that holds position within church.
Mainly because others don't want the pressure.
Comedians jokes about them.
And we laugh.
Especially when they talk about the ministers ,sisters, elders and deacons.
Even the rabbi and the priest.
We all are actors of this earth.
Pushing on an image to please others.
The only real ones within the church, are the children.
After all, God has stated a child should lead us.
And they are the ones not to be called pretenders.
We have various actors ready to jump.
And claim they doing it in the name of the lord.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
The year was nineteen forty six, the memories still raw,
Europe’s Jews were still encamped as they had been before.
True, they now had food to eat and decent clothes to wear,
But in that Displaced Persons camp, little else to spare.
When Lilly told her fiancé about her dream one night;
her standing beneath the chuppah in a flowing gown of white,
Ludwig promised Lilly that her vision would come true,
but in a displaced person’s camp that might be hard to do.
A former Luftwaffe pilot proved an angel in disguise;
Ludwig traded, for his parachute, some coffee and supplies.
Miriam, the seamstress, swore to do her best
to fashion the silk parachute into a wedding dress.
Some miles from Bergen Belsen lies the little town of Celle
Its desecrated synagogue would serve the couple well.
They made an Aron Kodesh from a kitchen cabinet
A Rabbi, flown from England, would officiate their fete.
Lilly’s gown was beautiful, the bride felt like a Queen
Within the battered synagogue, her wedding matched her dream.
Miriam’s creation would be worn by many more;
Girls from camp made brides in white that year after the war.
The Gown’s in a museum now, the bride now old and gray.
She lives nearby in Brooklyn in a house down by the bay.
Her lovely great granddaughter, her loving heart’s delight,
now has the dream of being wed in a gown of flowing white.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
The night you died
I held my breath in your honor
or in anger
I can't exactly remember, only
a dropping of the gut, the swollen amalgamation of numb and comprehension and
more confusion than I have ever swallowed whole before
I hope you cursed yourself when you realized what you did
your hand closing is a picture I played a million times in my head
your eyes rolling back is one I tried not to but
every time my eyelids met
I saw yours gasping for air
Your mother, a glass vase splitting on hardwood floor
I can promise you she is still stepping on your pieces
the truth is I know you never meant to cause damage
the breaking is just what happens when so much is left behind
When the rabbi said your name
I thought about laughing, how
you certainly would be at the seriousness of it all
the level of despondence floating
in the room
the oxygen, thick in its lack of,
a density unlike any other
I remembered the time we got high on one of the holiest days of the year
I thought maybe this
is god playing a joke on us
I thought maybe this is
just his sick revenge, an attempt at humor but
there was nothing funny about your leaving
For the first few months
losing you was drowning every night in my sleep
and waking up alive the next morning
friends asked what it's like
to have this gap of almost stretching inside of me
I asked if they had ever accidentally touched something hot
and to recall how it felt when the burn started setting on their skin
Most days I miss you without trying
some days I don't think about you at all
there is a life that is full without your being in it but
it isn't mine to call my own
I am forgetting your laugh like a song whose words I can't remember
Today is your 22nd birthday,
facebook had to tell me
there are no shots being taken and nobody is making a cake
today you would have been another year older
I wish you could have stayed to be it
-from the one who loved you
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
FEW POETIC REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE
Dear Poet Friends, after a long break, I have composed a few lines as a very senior citizen and a lover of poetry. If you like the same, kindly Re-post this poem for wider circulation. Thanks and best wishes, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
It has been often been said that old age is that period of life,
When all bad habits are given up on doctor’s advice,
And yet you don’t feel all that good while you survive!
Yet I do try to take some solace from Robert Browning’s poem
‘Rabbi Ben Ezra’ which says;-
‘’Grow old along with me!
For the best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made.’’
Despite my grey hairs and wrinkled face,
With creaking joints and scattered aches and pains,
‘’Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress’’,
In thanks giving to the Lord and sings his praise;
As I recall WB Yeats’ ‘Sailing Byzantium’, - that
lovely poem from my college days.
As our biological clock continues to tick incessantly,
Getting older becomes compulsory.
But becoming Wiser in wrinkled years remains optional,
A choice our free will has the opportunity to make!
I recall what Agatha Christie had once said,
That an archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get,
For the older she gets, the more interested in her he
becomes;
With due respect to our women whose age is impolite
not ask.
Here I recall what the Pulitzer Prize winner Robert Frost
had once said,
That a diplomat is a man who always remembers a woman’s
birthday and not her age.
I recall the observation of Sartre the famous French philosopher
who had said,
That more sand that escapes from the hourglass of our life,
The clearer we should see through it as a blessing of time!
It is true that we live in deeds, not in years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial, - as James Bailey had said.
I finally conclude by quoting the first stanza from ‘Beautiful Old Age’ by DH Lawrence;
‘’It ought to be lovely to be old
To be full of the peace that comes of experience
And wrinkled ripe fulfilment.’’
-Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 11:04 AM UTC
How To Dress For My Funeral
black or white, hot n'pink,
lavender always a fav,
at a fun funeral rave,
lacy or plain, your choice,
tho clean would be nice,
won't matter to me very much,
the color of your underwear.
but do not fail to recall, the dead,
their vision keen, can see all!
funeral gravity rules to be strictly observed,
snickering and giggling to commence in the
back row, when holy pomposity gets uttered,
let it wend its way forward from the aft,
until y'all better be
laughing your ***** off
anyone who chooses to speak,
must commence with words,
"Did ya hear the one about"
or be haunted by my spectral shadow
tickling both feet at midnight, or,
worse yet, reciting this awful poem
in their head, like Henry the Eighth,
I am, I am
perhaps a hora dance might be nice,
a mamba line, butts, holy rolling n'shaking,
past rows of rock n' rolling tombstones, guitar-playing
some Metallica,
while the rabbi intones somberly,
Let's get this party started, gad ******
if my untimely hour should arrive in July,
I humbly request that flip flops be the ped-modality,
if January should be my season
of absence treasoned, use some reason,
please stay home, and let the paid professionals
suffer in fine phony, professional, seasonal frigidity
at the post partum party, should that occur,
I humbly repast request, barbecue be the cuisine,
in the hopes you all recall to place
a generous helping, repeat, generous helping,
inside my sauce- proof pine wood casket,
with extra napkins for the long trip ahead
now these are all post hypnotic, post breathing,
helpful suggestions, not requirements,
but honor or disparage, cry or vent,
curse or bless my perma-absence,
don't matter to me, as long as somebody
reads this manifesto at the festivities, first and last.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
you see bob delahunty, one da7y developed this website, where he takes people on quests
to find out whether or not really exists, and first stop was jerusealum, where he spoke to a rabbi,
and bob asked the question does GOD exist, and the rabbi said, i can be your saviour where
whenever you need any answers, i can show you, ok,
after that, bob went to the BUDDHIST temple in taibet, and the buddhist nuns said, god is just
a couple of easy answers, we need people to understand that the answer is to mend every blade of grass
and bob left thinking mmmmm interesting, and the muslims said, god, there is no god, but there is mohammad,
and he is the same, as this GOD, and bob went away singing
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD, THE DEVIL, ANNNND BOB
the next part of bobs quest was going over to the catholic church and after 12 minutes of hearing the boring catholic morals
bob went over to the priest, how many children have you ****** today, and priest got offended in what bob asked, and through
bob outside, with the tune going, god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD, THE DEVIL, AND BOB
bob was kicked out of every religious place in the world, so he decided to gather some religious freaks, to form his own religion
going out on the underground to meet different religious people on the street, first was wendy sweeeeet lips who was a ****** by night
nun and helper of the poor by day, and she was nice to bob, ands bob said, i can get a decent **** out of this pretty lady, time and time again
and when the nun was asked to leave the catholic church despite her keeping the ****** bit to herself, she decided to join BOB, religion
by a man named bob, bob had this philosophy, no ugly wannabes, just **** legs and pretty faces
bob asked the hooker-nun, do you think GOD exists, and they said, we don’t hate any religion, but, we hate catholics, because, their morals
are against our good work here, we don’t have a GOD, policy here, we are the face of the devil, but the devil brings happiness,
you know to angry *** crazed men, aren’t they needed to wipe off the angry look, and bob went away, who cares, and sang his song
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
god is the devil and the devil is bob
GOD THE DEVIL, WHO IS BOB
and bob said, who cares if i’m the devil
i don’t look at the symbol of jesus nailed to a cross being a symbol of peace
jesus exixts, but the way he is killed is the REAL DEVIL
BECAUSE, all together now
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
god is the devil, and the devil is bob
GOD, THE DEVIL, AND BOB
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC