"tallit" poems
It's a pity about the posies,
All ashen and planet-like, controlling
The leftover rubber bits of love
Erasing emotions of waking up warm with her
Solemnly slumbering form
When we pluck those mornings and sink our teeth into them.
And
Their wavy stems ballet up from the earth
Blooming into fragile pink tufts like *******
But now their fragrances tell jokes
Without the punchlines:
Long narratives ultimately pointless.
(The priests and rabbis come to you from their bars
Collars choking and tallit suffocatingly wrapped round their heads)
And
The snake,
Slithering from thousands of years of pop culture
Roots himself in the apple orchards
To hide the answers in her *******
And
Dairy farms grow up from there
And their milk runs down your sloppy chin
And in your teeth as you violently suckle
And in the tangled paths of your veins as you
Ask yourself why you even bother trying
When enslaved by a free world
.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:18 AM UTC
My return trip,
feels like a new beginning
New sights and sounds,
to rediscover.
Judaism’s heart and soul
lies within the city.
Winding streets and twisting turns
lead to the Kotel, the Holy of Holies.
A religious center and
my core.
The cultural hub, tossed salad, or melting ***
of the religious world.
Burqas and Tallit,
Tzitzis and Crosses,
try, oh they try…
to coexist.
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 7:49 PM UTC
Last-ting Pleasures (Leonard Cohen)
“Morning coffee on the balcony of this old duplex, the cat at my feet, and a couple of biscuits. Notebook near by. No one coming over.“
Leonard Cohen
<>
aging with graces saved from so many spectacular failures, I took droplets of wisdom where they were free to drink, yet
the best, were the most costly, for which you never end paying
but here I sit, well traveled, in Los Angeles sunshine, do my calculations, my final preparations, memorizing the blessings
so they flow easy, no stumbling, unbefitting a poet-writer lover
obligations diminished, bills paid, goodbyes said and spent, so long Marianne, lines of jewish buddhists wisdom seekers not too long, a few women come, last looks, a reminiscence for themselves
lovers seeking preservation, a signatory on their diaries, proofs, of what I know no longer know to state, sated, the statuary
sentence almost served, and last scribbles, to notebook dispatched
It is His Will, and yet here I am, asking forgiveness, as tradition demands and more, understanding, for it was all transcribed into praise of You and your god-sparked creatures, ah, bon chance, until we meet again, bring your robe and tallit, let us recite psalms
for if there was ever a wilder king, finer poet, lusting for life and god, all of us just birds on the wire, gambling which course to fly, where to, so waiting patient, resolution of the only remaining unanswered question, who by fire?
anyone, each of us, who first asked ourselves why not! before we ever thought,
why?
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 10:59 AM UTC
Between the silence of a sterile room and a child of grace
the sure footed arrival of a God without a face
The hourglass of time stills the stage with un-remission
as she waits by Snow Don Hills without contrition
A floodlight of compassion eases in she's not in pain
her soul is a lit lantern that's never smelt the rain
Wearing a tallit with knotted fringes on each corner
He's opens every angle like an Angel without borders
Dressed in a dignity gown and propped against a pillow
she dances with the bunnies beneath a weeping willow
God takes her little hand in His, its simple so precise
just like sunrise in the morning, straight from paradise.
Feb 6, 2025
Feb 6, 2025 at 7:26 AM UTC