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False Poets Oct 2017
The Talmud Teaches...
With respect to his son, a father is obligated to circumcise him, to redeem him [if he is a firstborn], to teach him Torah, to marry him off, and to teach him a craft...he is also

obligated to teach him to swim...(Kiddushin 29a)


lay awake when the house is silent,
doing maths furiously in the head,
sleeping can be keeping while doing my calculus,
knowing in advance a conclusion comes coined
in only two colors, black or red

the question simple, did I meet my obligations?

and your read the passage for the umpteenth time,
and the same thought interferes as always,
should the order not be reversed,
the first thing to be fulfilled,


teach them to swim

based on experience life arrives in sequential, repeating waves,
purposed to drown the weak with no pretending that waters,
salt or sweet matters, so first order is business ought be survival preparation and


teach them to swim

if they can swim, stay afloat, then they can then comprehend
the glory of distinguishing right over wrong,
get their priorities straight, that saving others,
especially those you placed on the starting line of life,
is the first principle and overplants anything else when you


teach them to swim

my eyes see the tally, why, they are red! could it be lack of sleep?

I am smiling when I am lying,
teach them to swim always first,
but not enough, one must do it well, well,
and even then, better, 
as all else will, from the well, follow, when you


teach them to swim

3:10am

~~~
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talmud
Kwa Dec 2018
Your voice,
It echoes through my head
like a broken recorder,
banging the insides with,
"change,
change,
change..."

I,
did not fit.

So,
I twisted my limbs and
squashed my head
to fit into your little mould.

Umpteenth effort;
days of churning and weeks of wringing.

I,
winced in pain and groaned in despair.

The crucifixion happened as,
I,
heard me snap.

Now it chews on my skin
and clings onto my flesh,
as if it was all tailor-made beforehand.

I stride towards you with assurance
that now,
I am perfect.
That now,
maybe you'll love me more.

But,
you looked at me
with a gaze so familiar
that it pierces my heart
into crumbs that resemble oatmeals and dust.
You said,
"you've changed".
Haven't been uploading because I was having my national exams. I haven't written in a while so I doubt this piece would be good, but  I hope you guys like it.

I'm personally a people's pleaser, but over the years I have learnt that I can't please everyone because they will never be satisfied. Love yourself.
Jenny Gordon Dec 2018
...just arrive at your own perverse conclusion sith that's what academia and its ilk forever do with artists' work.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDXXXIII)


If I note that he shoveled in (t'avail)
His pj's, like the man whose showr from thence
Would cleanse all to effect, and thought fr'intents
For lo, the umpteenth year, of how (in pale
Excuse) this exercise can cull to scale
Erm, cardiac arrest, tae think from hence
In looking on that ****** landscape--whence?!
To die in shovling could be sweet...is't frail?
Or rather, I am, mebbe.  Dawn's breath pure
And crisp; to shovel heartning; lonely too,
Why did that eerie thought rise up as twere
Upon the heels of vague concern, to do
Was that a caper in morn's eye?!  And YOUR
Thin protest I'd not die soon...was it true?

26Nov18a
Seriously, though....where DID that thought come from that it'd be downright lovely if I died of cardiac arrest in the middle of shoveling snow?!
annh May 27
And my uncle says charmingly - as always:
‘It seems like only yesterday, mon petit chou.’

And - for the umpteenth time - my brother-in-law shakes my hand off:
‘Wow, congrats on the DOF position!’

And - like clockwork - my best friend puts a ******-happy arm around my shoulders:
‘To be perfectly honest, y’know like, you don’t look a day over thirteen, cross my heart.’

And I think to myself (******-offedly but politely, as you never know who’s telepathic around here):
’I could sit here fixed to this very patch of fading upholstery for the next 365 days with a flute of champers in my hand and still travel as far as you all believe I have, achieve as much as you unfailingly give me credit for, and look as fresh-faced as my oldest nephew...apparently.’

And then it occurs to me:
’Beneath the ill-contrived compliments and the misplaced confidence; despite their infallible ability to misconstrue my every word and complete disinterest in what and why I read out aloud for a living. They turned up. As they do every year. And we annoy each other. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. Santé!’
‘Families are messy, immortal families are eternally messy. Sometimes the best we can do is to remind each other that we’re related for better or for worse...and try to keep the maiming and killing to a minimum.’
- Rick Riordan, The Sea of Monsters
Miko Jan 31
Take me to Gelena in the winter
where our lungs will be crowded with icicles
as our capillaries assemble on edge
each and every one aching just to quiver
like my bottom lip that I simply can't control
oblivious to the weather
though fueled by a shroud of eager anxiety
that covers and embraces my skin
like the quick and even breathes I'm taking
to stay awake
in something that predicts like a dream

Follow me close as I perceive this vividly
that the moment bookshelved between inhale
and exasperated exhale
is flooded with thoughts of you
that I would drown in it willingly
and all I can credit my thoughts to be
is to wonder if I am lucid dreaming or not
of your lips on mine
of your fingers earnestly entwined in my shaggy hair
as you pull me closer
and I can smell your warmth
and feel your passion through this possibility
that our our hands are locked
like the door of my bedroom
every night
in my empty apartment
because being safe
has taken me 21 years to understand
and even then the fear shamefully crawls its way into my spine
but it is in this ten seconds
I can finally sink into this fogless reality
of enjoyment and felicity

And in this accelerating sound of assurance
I will teach you the language I studied
in moments so short
that a staccato could fill two lungs tip top
and still be 100 yards behind this message
gawking at the starting line
and as the gun goes off
I am already there
lungs filled
wanting to do justice
with more than just an ***** in my chest
but with the treatment hidden inside skipping beats
and minds running and screaming so loudly
as I'm howling this adamant resonance from the top of the complex
to empty my mind until my throat is sore
until what follows are the neighbors voices escaping angrily open windows
bellowing at me to please turn it down
for the umpteenth time
but I want to remedy this disease
with the softness of your neck
I want to hold you close
with your head nestled in my shoulder
where scars beneath clothes usually sit dishonorably
but not now
because now they know a relentless forgiveness
and amity so authentic
that now I can exhale
for the umpteenth time
she falls for the same charm
convincing herself it’s only a mind trick
when verily she has been completely bewitched.

— The End —