"roth" poems
Sometimes I wish I was Margo Roth Spiegelman
I want to be able to follow my heart and do the things I've always wanted to
I want to dance with wind
Feel the grass beneath my feet
The stars to blanket me with sparkle
And the moon to light my face
I've always wanted to run
And never look this way again
To be the captain of my own soul
Seizing all the hours of my day
I have feet because I know I wasn't meant to stay on the ground
I wasn't given wings because I know I am no angel
But I knew I was destined to fly
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Over protective parents are the enemy of the free wanting child who only wants to run and explore everything the world and its inhabitants have to offer. I am the Maro Roth Spigelman of Mandeville, Louisiana. As much as i do love this place, i want out. But see, people and places are two different things to me. One, i always want to go and explore and come back eventually and find somewhere i dont want to leaveforever; the other i want to find and keep with me physically and mentallyand in my heart and to have travel and run with me and love me for my little things and spontaneous attitude and want for adventure. i want someone to love me as much as i love the world.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
i have plenty of unread books
from Roth
to Palahniuk
supposed have been read
at a good nook
these books I have
are stacked on one shelf
cause time hasn’t given
a minute for myself
these books I have
are my companions
when I’m split into halves
amid destruction
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
***Put on your yamaka, it's time for Hanukkah
So much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights.
But when you're the only kid in town without a Christmas tree, Heres a list of
people who are Jewish, just like you and me:
David Lee Roth lights the menorah,
So do James Caan, Kirk Douglas, and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli,
Bowzer from Sha-na-na, and Arthur Fonzerrelli.
Paul Newman's half Jewish; Goldie Hawn's half too,
Put them together--what a fine lookin’ Jew! [Esus]
You dont need Deck the Halls or Jingle Bell Rock
Cause you can spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock--both Jewish!
[Esus]
Put on your yamaka, its time for Hanukkah,
The owner of the Seattle Super Sonic-ah celebrates Hanukkah.
O.J. Simpson-- not a Jew!
But guess who is...Hall of Famer—Rod Carew--(he converted!)
We got Ann Landers and her sister Dear Abby,
Harrison Ford's a quarter Jewish--not too shabby!
Some people think that Ebeneezer Scrooge is,
Well, hes not, but guess who is: All three stooges. [Esus]
So many Jews are in show biz--
Tom Cruise isn't, [tacit] but I heard his agent is. [Esus]
Tell your friend Veronica, its time to celebrate Hanukkah
I hope I get a harmonica, on this lovely, lovely Hanukkah.
So drink your gin-a-tonic-ah, and smoke your mara-juanic-ah,
If you really, really wanna-kah, Have a happy, happy, happy, happy
Hanukkah……. HAPPY HANUKKAH!***
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
i am abrasive
personality functionality deficit
yet i attract
beautiful women
to befriend the hermit of solidarity
will you go out with me
brought answers on no
my friend i could not lose
yet for the end of altruistic bargaining
i end up ahead
with false promises of a beginning
to an end my own personal
apocalypse
david lee roth would understand
that as i write in this
mindset
brought on by reading
778 comics in 12 hours
and a 4 day binge of job for a cowboy
my mind wanders
as insomnia sets in
would i be one of the great
dissociative poets?
a dose of the unrequited free associative minds
free thinking form of diet coke with a side of purple strawberries no i meant blueberries
my mind wanders
and yet i look forward to pad thai on wednesdays with cute blondes whom with i stand
the chance of a bat in the mosh pits of a metal band
suckers
i win
for you all know the taste of yellow mustard
ramble ramble ramble
this indie pop poem
would it be ironic to like it
if one truly hates the wording
and yet loves the idea
one of lives greatest life mysteries
alcohol i bid thee a fair welcome
nimble bubblegum monkey wrench
how long will you read?
enough to to see my lack of coherent sentence structure
or that i am a flawed creation
going on and on about existential non existent problems
for i shall exist regardless of my best intentions
as the wheel continues to roll on despite the moss covering this ice slicked track
metal boar slayer of a thousand suns would be a good metal name from sweden
the mooring dove coos to the beat of an undead drum
boo hoo boo hoo cries the witch at the stake
i am done
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
The excerpt below is from an interview Philip Roth gave to Daniel Sandstrom, the cultural editor at Svenska Dagbladet, for publication in Swedish translation in that newspaper, and in its original English in the Book Review of the New York Times (March 1, 2014).
It was laid out in normal article (paragraph) form, but I chose to re-present here, line by line, sentence by sentence, for it struck me as I first read it, as a prose poem, and a source of inspiration for me. But then I realized, I could not improve upon his words, just risk diminishing them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The struggle with writing is over” is a recent quote. Could you describe that struggle, and also, tell us something about your life now when you are not writing?
Everybody has a hard job.
All real work is hard.
My work happened also to be undoable.
Morning after morning for 50 years,
I faced the next page
defenseless and unprepared.
Writing for me was a feat of self-preservation.
If I did not do it, I would die.
So I did it.
Obstinacy, not talent, saved my life.
It was also my good luck that
happiness didn’t matter to me
and I had no compassion for myself.
Though why such a task
should have fallen to me I have no idea.
Maybe writing protected me
against even worse menace.
Now?
Now I am a bird sprung from a cage
instead of (to reverse Kafka’s famous conundrum)
a bird in search of a cage.
The horror of being caged has lost its thrill.
It is now truly a great relief,
something close to a sublime experience,
to have nothing more
to worry about than death.
------------------------------------------------------------------
http://www.nytimes.com/2014/03/16/books/review/my-life-as-a-writer.html?_r=0
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 12:18 PM UTC
for Harlon
who recalled them to me five years later, asking for the all of them...
only on Mother’s Day +1
and for Miriam
———————————
My Mother is Dying July 2013
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
So I'm drinking the red wine
I had those cut-up peaches
Soaking, fermenting in for 3 days.
A nice summer evening buzz,
Just back from my evening walk
Within the gates of my over-55
Lunatic Asylum.
On my rear porch in Hemetucky,
I chaise lounge the hours,
Listening to the mourning dove
Nesting in the bottlebrush bush.
I know she's there, having
Fired thru my duck blind,
My latest weapon of choice,
My new-fangled Flex Hose,
It expands when turned on.
Which got me thinking that the
Flex Hose inventor guy must have
Whacked off a lot as a teenager.
An Alex Portnoy protege, perhaps,
If familiar with Roth's book.
Portnoy's Complaint:
Most of us read it;
Some of us lived it.
It is pointless to speculate.
12 ft. Flexible Water Hose with
Nozzle-flxh-25 (4-00268...Home Depot
www.homedepot.com/p/12-ft-Flexible...
Hose-with.../204818892/The Home Depot
Rating: 1.8 - 14 reviews - $19.97 - In stock
"The Flexible hose automatically expands with water flow and contracts back to its original shape for storage. Lightweight and durable. The Flexible Hose will ..."
(That's right, a commercial right in the
Middle of the ******* poem.
This Poet refusing to die in the gutter,
Having finally figured out how to
MAKE POETRY PAY.)
But I digress.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
The Quiet of a Pickwickian World
By Sy Roth
In the silence of my Pickwickian world,
A transcendent quiet stands vigil.
Left to its own devices it rattles around, a
lonely brown-suited courier,
Hefting weighty cargo from one sooty corner to the next.
Seeks tranquility in a world where,
Fettered by golden reins
Hobbled by unceremonial chain mail
Lanced by coronets of thorns,
Astride, a long-in-the-tooth steed
Spurred on to wrestle shredded windmills,
A cavil of unrepentant correctors rest.
And they still come--
Tidal waves of disturbances,
Tsunamis that rip ashore and sweep all away
Into a loathsome pile,
Bilious flotsam of a generation bereft of empathy.
A forced silence clings to the dusty rafters
Where sages once stood
Hanging like KKK castoffs
In a closeted Jim Crow attic of rules and regulations gone mad.
A quiescent quiet demands quiet.
Nestles behind muffled screams
Of ages of piles of rotting flesh.
Dolorous vision of a peaceful world
Where peace packed for a long vacation
To Edens that exist only in fairy tales.
Bring with them untruths of understanding
Swaddled in ****** soiled bedclothes.
Leave me to my silence,
Lave me of the Ash Wednesday smudge
Where realities come home to roost in the dim corners
Where the highwaymen have no access.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:03 AM UTC
coffee rings stain the tablecloth
empty creamer pods pile up by the silverware.
the old man finishes his omelet off
while his grandson rocks in his chair.
the new dads outside smoke and cough
avoiding their wives' disapproving glare.
the waitress sits me at a tabletop
and I take in the fullness of the air.
the light in the room takes me like a moth
a moment fleeting is still a moment worth the care.
I eat breakfast every Saturday at Roth's
this diner where all our stories are shared.
Nov 9, 2024
Nov 9, 2024 at 12:05 PM UTC
I use to have a friend but my she is DEAD
dyed with 16 butterflys in her head
she was starved and skinny
bleached and blond
but she NEVER smiled...
Her brother was a gansta WANNABE
when ever I saw her, he looked at me
I never knew why she hated him
I never understod why he call her MAGOT
or why being her friend ment i shall
NEVER look at him...
Her mom left 1 week after her was birth
she wished she was barried in the dirt
I guess she never held her
I guess she never loved her
all I know it is she ONLY called her *****
and only saw her 1 time
the 2 of them and crystal in there lungs...
Her dad was kinda scary
he drove a big big truck
he was a big big ****
he showed her how to play getar
and how to fight
he showed her how LOVE him
and how to HATE gerself...
But now this girl is dead
choked on her blood
drowned in her tears
cut in to SO meny pices
broken like she allways was and now to Roth...
I had a friend so beautiful
so fun and so alive
and the truth is she is not really dead
we only wish she was...
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 8:27 PM UTC
The crowning of queen Avril
Just the other say Avril Fuller died who gAve Cronus a new face into helping the next generator learn about Brian Allan. And as soon as Avril got up to Saturn last night there was a party, Indian theme done in her honour. There is plenty of fun for everyone, like Bollywood dancers and great Indian food, and methane rtippex all over it, this was a fun way to welcome Avril fuller to outer space and here is slim dusty, with his song for Avril, you've done us proud miss fuller
You see young dame Avril fuller
You have done us proud
You lightened up the world with
Your beauty when people feel sad
Whether we are naughty or when we are bad. Oh Avril fuller old lady yeah
You have done us really proud
You see mrs fuller you are my dame
I really love you oh yeah pretty woman your family will miss you yeah. Earth will miss you so very much, but when you are reborn we will see more life, that would be great. You see pretty Avril fuller you done is real proud and now my second song, I would lio have a green tea Roth Avril I would love to have a green tea with Av, you see she likes to keep her body healthy but still it didn't stop her from dying which says one thing to me. Don't say you will live forever. Cause that is not on, I would love to have a coke with her family, yeah the Fullers are do great, they make sure everyone is looked after, and then it's time for themselves you see we drink in the time of war. Mate as well In the time of peace, you see I would love to have a coke with their family cause to me they're good mates
And now we bring out our mistress of ceremonies to be crowned queen of Saturn. And Avril said, thanks everyone this has been great, I really really liked being welcomed up here. And I guarantee there will loads of stuff to do up here for everyone to party, ya know Bollywood style
It will be so much fun and I give Tony and Judith a big kiss, then Avril decided to grab Tony by the hand and did a little Bollywood, that was a great dance session for them and then Judith joined in and boy did they have a wow of a time, it was ****** cool, everyone was really happy and Tony and Judith were happy that Avril had found her home on saturn, ready to enter her next life in 9 months, it just sounds so cool mate
Sent from my iPhone
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 8:54 PM UTC
Don't doubt mute cause you kronor it's Roth
Code is back and uh t tÿ he's ready to slam
Yea... What madly You can't fight me,, und you can't tough me
I should do ill **** me
I'll send tat mess die to Yao mother, pang pang Ching young
Woe rhyming so how you bites you r bubble dust
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 9:36 AM UTC
Margo Roth Speigelman
Is the girl
I always wished I could be.
In reality,
I'm more
Like Hazel Grace Lancaster
Minus the cancer.
In the end,
I only want
To get out of this paper town
Come to terms with the fault in our stars
And the fact that I'll never find Alaska.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Go back to your black-and-white world
Void of color and warmth
And of depth and of passion.
Go ahead and crawl back behind
Pages of guilt and chapters of pain.
Hide your face with the cover
Of the latest Roth novel
And forget that color and fragrence
And feelings and senses
Exist.
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
America should accept how hard it ****** Africa
It posed as a solution to African joblessness
During the days of bi-bolar politics on a global stage,
When communism was the ideological song of the day,
And capitalism a commercial chant of the night,
America came sly and wily for African top brains
It rapaciously came for the young and energetic,
It scooped them away without any ruth, on promise of candy
Of the famous American dream, or economic glory,
It Americanized their everything, brain and testicles,
They were made to work day and night in order to make it,
As American tax and bills policy is cunningly crafty,
It makes success a will-o-the-wisp to all the immigrants
At most the blacks who have nothing to sell
Other than their desperate black labour, extra-erotic *****
Those who were lifted in the mid of 1900,
Are now desperate septuagenarians; economically forlorn,
They are now coming back to Africa like the tail of a snake
After being shaken out as labour leftovers
And being discarded as economic washouts
To solemnly come home to Africa
As zero-handed roosting eagles
Having wounded wings by the craft of the kite,
The white kite schooled in the Jewish games
Taught as poetry of property by Phillip son of Roth,
They are now a disillusioned lot and patiently wise,
Without a bulging tummy nor elbowy arms,
They are guilty and empty in the spirit
For having been duped to work for the enemy,
Against the self, out of softish folly,
They now learn African tongues with stupid discipline
Piecing back social pieces to create clan relations,
They wish to donate aid but they have no money,
They deeply wonder on how to de-Americanize the self,
In the holy pursuit of self re-Africanization.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
Put your lips close to mine, as long as they don't touch.
Breathe in me, but cannot see, the wounds that ache so much.
I'll let you linger in my space, lights dimmed so you can't fully see.
In this place I hid, and sins that did, purge the light from me.
Hearts are such a delicate thing, walls built so you can hide.
The side of you, that always knew, this luscious lullabie.
Age sets in and scars collect, imperfections on your skin.
A road map, of gnarled sap, from the spot we all begin.
Reflections always distorted, some how you became so shallow.
As I cried, and echoes confide, I made love to my weeping shadow.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
Golden haired and handsome, Joe seemed to have it all.
He’d won a PAC 8 championship just that previous Fall.
Surely the Heisman would be his; another prize to win.
He started strongly, at least at first, but would falter at the end.
Joe Roth had Melanoma and it ravaged skin and bone,
It was a lonely battle, the hardest fight he’d known.
Joe Roth was a gamer who would strap his helmet on
and go out on the gridiron though his strength was nearly gone.
He knew that he would not grow old, or play the game for pay.
In this final autumn of his life he merely wished to play.
. Despite fatigue and nausea he still made every start,
Until his game clock ran out on an overburdened heart.
There’s a moment when the cheering stops, when a man feels most alone;
blind-sided by a tackle while checking down against the zone.
When game clock seconds tick away and the outcomes not in doubt
Joe stood tall in the pocket even when it was a rout.
He gave the game the best he had, then it was his time to go.
He was an All- American, and no ordinary Joe
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
Soon, normalcy will come to an end.
Everything ceases.
There will be no more.
There are no ends to these sentences.
You may make it as deep or shallow as you need.
There will be no more Margo Roth Spiegelman.
There will be no more famine.
There will be no more late nights.
No more breath.
No more understanding.
No more lessons.
No more pain.
You must know that ends are not the end.
Life goes on, until it doesn't.
You will miss the days of normalcy past,
But some day...
There will be no more you.
Don't dwell on yesterday's happiness and the lack of the like today.
Live for this moment.
Friends come and go.
Friends change.
Life comes and goes.
Life changes.
And that is the only normalcy you should expect.
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
I love blueberries. I love the groves
of almond trees
you see as you drive up to
Sacramento.
I love anchovies and
raw broccoli.
I love Spanish wine and the feel of
your tongue when I am
down between your legs.
I love Jacques Brel, and the piles of peaches
that appear in stores late
in the spring. I love gin and tonic, Alexander
Calder’s
mobiles, and the
early novels of
Philip Roth. I love laying in
bed with you
looking at
pictures of
Greece.
I love smoked salmon,
especially on a bagel toasted
with a little bit of butter.
I love lemon drops,
Frank Sinatra, and e.e.
cummings.
I love the smell of
eucalyptus trees and those
long,
flat
strips of
bark
that
peel
off
their
trunks
like
paper.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 12:07 PM UTC
Roth was a great lover of music
Old-timely big band show times that evoked memories in living rooms across white America
Provoking melancholia for what was assumed lost.
He was a master of writing technicalities
Knew the stitchings in a pair of men's brown leather driving gloves
Like they were poetic metre
Knew the nervy velocity attended to the beating of a heart through a stethoscope .
He wrote more novels that can be read in most lifetimes
As he had five different versions of himself to think through.
He wrote half a novel in the voice of an actual ex- lover
He was not particularly good at writing women.
He was unsurprisingly/surprisingly good at writing about the realities of race.
He often cared little for reality
but could tautly pierce at the authenticity to be found
in "social realism."
He wrote standing up
Cried that novel was dead when really he was dying
He was both acutely aware and ignorant of this
He will be buried outside of Newark, presumably.
His career trajectory is unique in American letters in that it crystallized the vogue for American letters, ****** up the body, peaked and troughs with death, surveyed the end of American Innocence over four decades and closed at a summer camp.
His themes, in that order : Heartache, *** Motherlove, Therapy, Body Horror, Satire, Egomania, , father hunger, Death, the state of the nation, regret, race, life inside the academy,fascist media darlings, liberal terrorists destroying their family narratives,Death again, old *** absolute suicide in words, adolescence.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 7:45 AM UTC
Upon the day of my death, my last wishes are inscribed here.
I wish for Tyler Roth my closest friend, to hand down this will to whomever he sees fit, by chance I outlive him. Please had this to the next legal recipient.
They have granted me strength, enduring support, and became the mold from which I sprang from.
You, unknown to me who you are, yet it is to you that I entrust my bones and the flesh that expressed my wishes upon this world of which I can no longer call my own.
It is to you that I grant the strength of all my merits, and mistakes.
A dead mans wish, is the easiest to ignore, but with hope whatever sense of honor, respect, and pride you had in me you will not hesitate to bind yourself to the completion of this will.
To my people I give my wealth, my friends my property, my family my soul along with all its works, and to you my utmost important final desire, do not bury me!
For the love of all that is I.
Take my bones from my flesh, grind them down to powder and have them forged in a heat no lesser then the inferno in my soul!
Forge with it a tool, a weapon of the onward marching spirit!
Keep it close to you don't dare allow its blade to grow dull, its gleam to fade.
It is the embodiment of how you see not only my legacy but of what yours will become and of that to whom you will depart it upon.
Secondly take the remainder of what was once I and reduce it to a mixture of ash and dust.
Have it crystallized transmogrified in holy remembrance of what is unholy, because neither can exist Without the other.
Take it too the land of those who see value in nothing and yet still love everything.
Frame it high above covered by trees of beauty and grotesqueness so that you can only catch the light through this sprite of I on the entrances to my unnamed monument.
It will be my only way of saying hello and goodbye again.
Due this so that with the will and honor you've proven you have that you will not sit idly by saying he was a great man, or lesser things.
But that you will have no other choice but to say what have I left to accomplish of my own volition that blesses me with such honor, will, and pride as this old mans request to scatter his form.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
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
Apr 19, 2024
Apr 19, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC
To the airy king
Subjects of perdition bow.
Breathing in their fate.
May 14, 2020
May 14, 2020 at 10:44 PM UTC