"shofar" poems
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
she asked him: why did you leave Edinburgh? and he didn't reply, but upon thinking out his reply to a deaf ear: because i didn't come here for you; 'lona 'lona, whisper sometimes, and i'll give you a cat's whisker.
i was in venice,
yes,
i drank absinthe the wrong
way
on a beach,
spent three nights in a hostel
with a bunch of girls,
took a hebrew girl
for a taste of tourism,
listened to the shofar
before i entered a synagogue
outlet extension reading
the 613 commandments
on a computer screen...
venice's pavement traffic and eating
pistachio gelato,
nothing much,
i still preferred the Gothic distancing
of Edinburgh's nights
where i could be with cold-hands
and warm heart inviting;
basically i don't like tourist basins,
or tourist wombs for that matter...
am i looking at something predictable?
yes, i am, a billion other sperms
will see the same thing
and perhaps write about it to insinuate
poetic ambitions - too clogged up
your thinking is to redeem yourself
in poetry - you're hardly dislodged
for the art - get a guitar and couplet it
for a star-riddled pop music hit,
go on, on your way, elbow push through
the queue... go on, on your way...
oh wait, you need clapping to spur
you on?
here's my clapping onomatopoeia:
blah blah, blah blah, blah blah;
yes, i was in venice,
didn't really care to write much about it -
i actually didn't, just now,
a sobering memory,
not the type of memory that gets
you drunk...
well it's there, a bit like the Maldives,
and it drives the delusion
that global warming isn't creeping
about the place like Nosferatu.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
If not in this place, but the next realm,
I shalt mine love clepe thee with guardian's to surround; thou shalt findeth me, in a Robe of ivory white, anew with the saint's,
Yahweh's chosen, i'll be in flight. Holding mine hand out, for thy own to reach, when passing the gates I've passed; thou shalt seeith the gold laden street's. I wilt signal the other's, that the portal was not breached. As thou wilt experience a million senses for thy eyne, speech, hearing, touch, thing's God to thee shalt teach. Multi-colored racemes shalt brushstroke the heavenly peak's, O' how the energy we wilt feeleth wilt be as the health of newborn's. None more thunderous storm's or anguish back upon the lower ground; now serenity none enmity against the once demons who came around. Shofar and lyres to grace Jehovah's peaceful sound's; as the echoes art vibes that cometh betwixt ourn soul's. As verily, verily, heaven's ourn abode, heaven's ourn abode by which we shan't fear. Cometh closer mine dear; the time is close, how I now heareth the heavenly Host's, ready to welcome us in. Cometh up hither Christ shalt soon say, judgement day is creeping the corner. We giveth Yahweh praise.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( àgapi mou)
©Prophetic poetry
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 1:28 PM UTC
i.
Iwis, in the overt eye's,
Her, mine Jane; ii.
I'll lionize. Erelong, the psalmody
Of courting gesture;
A consort's
diadem,
Meet
for
Treasures.
iii.
Tambourines shaketh
Whilst sistrum's
Jangle; horn's
And pipes
In the melody
Tangle.
iv.
Sitar and harp peal,
Shofar's explode
The comet's; un-
earthed by seven
seal's, reeling in
Renewal and
birth's of one
mindset.
v.
Free will is chosen,
though by Yahweh
abideth we; unclad
to the human fad,
In love- O' blessed
To be.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( pookie dedication)
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
Last night
as I sat in
the ancient temple
atop the mountain,
my people surrounding
me, generations
upon generations,
voices ascending
in the wispy and
earthbound solidarity
of ancient prayers,
I felt the words
rise up
around me, protecting, loving
their intonations
tingling inside
the doorways
of my brain
expanding the limits
through glass
and sacred ceilings,
up unto the stars
celestial understandings
pushing through
my crumbling
walls to break
through barriers
from the thickness
of night
reaching out
into purity, a beckoning
of light
and the words, the singsong tones
passed down from the ancients
like candlelit incantations
grew soft, invisible wings
that touched my cheek
the silky presence of
the grounded power
of my ancestors
welling up in the
dark caverns within
and as we sang
of new beginnings
and listened with one heart
to the call of the shofar,
that ram's horn of blessings,
my knotted
loops of longing
resonated in musical notes
strands of the primordial
in the deep forest
echoes
of my being
linking my soul's cry
to all the people
of my book
in a long swirling line
down to the river,
the desert, the oceans
a tight braided chord
of solidarity, of lineage, of blood
the flesh and bones of heritage
pumping crimson freedom
Yes,
somewhere,
in even the most
broken chords
of heartstrings
tiny wings
beat
hope
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:35 AM UTC
Desire expressed
manifests in moments
Genesis to geneticist
alpha to omega, Eden Armageddon
and a particular flat stone
I'm flinging at that pile of H2O
It skips, predictably, causing surface ripples
under a line of predefined arcs
each described by gravity and water molecules
neatly arranged in surface tension that
reflects this day ... blue as the clear sky
and a peaceful wavelength
we know as
harmony
I'm wondering who desired such perfection...
Enabled energy, proclaimed pebbles
Caused a lake to feel at home right here
Read Darwin some respond
you're only here because
a primal pond appeared
somehow someway backwhen
and that famous fertile germ
opted for a brave new world
with homo-sapiens
conveniently mapped to its single cell
Dadadadaaa! Dumdeedee dumb!
Dvorak wonders too
Backwards, on slow-motion rewind
lofty intellects scratch and munch in flaky wonderland
ever plotting the self-indulgent, Lemming way 'ahead'
Independence day drags drearily on
Take fifty! ... A more human-friendly God
created in our image ... lest we forget the beast
I, me, first-person-one, Oh you're lookin' good!
Lets put that that triple 6 trinity to work
Replete, till death us do part, we do things My Way
ala Frank (and certain gorillas with cigars)
Thus is the compliment returned
Man attains an ever lower High place
Pass my slice of cake please
Myopic, entropic moments
loop their mobius strips
ever further down the food chain
Highways congeal and earth chokes
desperation
Small wonder Wisdom opposes pride
Shows His face to humble folk
Invites shepherds to witness
Jupiter in Virgo's womb
Rouses them with a shofar blast
come Kingdom come.
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 2:13 AM UTC
Wintertime
Summertime
Spring and fall;
O' do I loveth
Her; always
Dear God.
Rain, light
Dark, night;
O' the way's
Of her plite.
Sun, star's
Moon, sun;
Verily she's
Mine chosen
One.
Destined to
Be, O'er we see;
Cherub's on harp's,
Playing fourty
String's.
Flutes, horn's,
Trumpets,
shofar blowing;
Empyrean opening,
Past sin's atoning.
Peace, comfort
Joy and hope;
Inside her arm's
Mine head's
Enveloped.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( anasa mou) dedication
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
i.
More than ever
This hour;
Now, mine God
Mine Christ, needeth me.
ii.
More than ever
This time;
I must overcometh Satan
And release the scripture's sign's.
iii.
More than ever
These last day's;
I must telleth other's
Of the world's end, and the hope to makest thou amazed.
iv.
More than ever
Better now, then never;
I shalt bloweth the shofar
Beneath hell, above the star's.
v.
More than ever
This is mine letter;
For thou to awakest
And findeth Christ's salvation, by which thou canst enter.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Prohetic poetry
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
A shofar blown in an empty synagogue
— a pursed squeeze of ethereal meaningless
is the sound of my abject failure to pull her back onto the boat
A choking cough in the dawn adhan reminds me of those gasps
the sinking and the stillness
and the defeat of my best intentions
regrets climbing atop
most things when I pray
blocking the sun as they stretch and writhe
but cold prayers are better than none and those moments pressed flat
fill my empty flask with the warmest of things
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
there was a blanket made of rust
spread on the couch made of stone
that was when i had no flesh
back then i was made of glass
and my bones were made of blood
you can imagine how ridiculous i looked
but that's how things were
i watered the plants
he picked the weeds
that evening, i developed a callous
on the insides of my palms
the glass melted away
the blood hardened and i was born
the king gave me his crown
the water turned to vapor
there was an orange light on the wall
it reminded me of your *****
and the way she talked about Vermont
no, i have never been to Vermont
no, i have never seen you as an animal
no, i have never been alive before
you are softer than the sound of the shofar
when i woke up in the rain-stained parking lot
and saw your knees in a puddle
there was a blanket made of teeth
spread on the couch made of sand
how was your trip to Vermont?
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
like Jericho of the ancients
my walls have found their matchmate, their shofar,
their holy crumbling disintegration -
have sounded the depth
of my abyssal and penetrable, vaginal soul
I am entered through the desolated and tender crevasse
discovered in the arched vault of my love
which treasures not, nor needs
yet knows ee cummings’ “secret of begin” to the outer
borders of my being, the hidden places of my knowing
the right kind of madness, this
of a rightness and a madness so pure, it stings
the perceptions of ordinariness and
makes of ennui - the sinter of a heated being -
anything but
yet, enter my fornix with dread and awe
lest you vitrify it by atomic waves of sorrow
I am fragile, and tender, gentle, strong and destructive
I am death from Life
and
Life from Death
blow your shofar, Ram, and I shall fall into your gravity
I shall be as Callisto to Jupiter,
an orbit by seduction and a
child wombed in Love
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 11:53 AM UTC
the
tounge
we
the
seven
priests
the
seven
horns
they
blew
before
a battle
shouting
victory in
eloquence
and reverent
silent prayers
SøułSurvivør
(C) 5/6/2017
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC