Protecting Your
Yahoo
Heriots belong in
economies middens. No widow or orphan ought to be tasked
To sacrifice sheep,
clothes, entire homes, to grubby rich folk, who, subsequently,
Damage such spaces;
its preferable to scoff at their testaments with fine poetry.
More exactly, the
bereaved ought not to suffer pilfering bosses. Birdlime exists
For humans, too.
Its better to birth obstreperous children, marry skeevy
spouses
Than surrender ones
sheets and pillows, pots and pans, one-eyed cats, hounds.
Womenfolk, youngins, all
vulnerable others, ought not to be harrowed by banks
Needing kips,
kitchens, garden dahlias, broken washing machines, overflowing
Loos, yards upgraded by
defenestrated dolls (fooey on Brobdingnagian attitudes!)
On balance, when
two-dimensional folks experience duende states or doubtlessly
Engage dilatory bits,
tout pataphysics, swim with porpoises, they shouldnt upset
Via effulgent limbs,
shiny smiles, elastic witticisms, mephitic disputes, crassness.
That Klaxon Sound on
Yom HaShoah
Eerie, that klaxon sound,
that shrill,
Horrific shriek over
Yerushalayim,
This overcast morning of
promises.
Todays
grandchildren are ghosted
-kinfolks perished in the
Holocaust.
No audible tinkle that
aide-mémoire
Of camps, ovens, torture,
wreckage,
To figure, to essence, to
generations
Yet to walk across grass,
hear wind
Blow, see grazing cows,
hug loves.
Not even hammering alike
faculties
Or telephones
contributions; just a
Salient clatter, a jangle
of righteous
Offense, recalling the
scores of loss
Remaining unfathomable,
ludicrous.
So, never mind our pretty
dwellings,
Big titles. Annually, we
siren clearly
Mystic measures drawn by
Hashem.
Star dusts nothing
proportionate to
Our never-ending efforts
to service.
Long Ago, on a Halfway
Hill
Long ago, on a halfway
hill, I was wandering.
Looking for posies, I do
suppose, but then I espied him.
Straight, stern, that
singular boy sketching a small bird,
Became my token joy, yet
he never heard
My footfall leaving
through forbs and grass,
My heart song budding
music to last - forever.
Long ago, on a halfway
hill, I was wandering.
Looking for posies, I do
suppose, but then I espied him.
Like gossamer fabric,
like dandelion wine,
His countenance tragic,
his countenance fine.
The woods gleamed so
brightly, the wind lulled so rightly;
I wished naughty kisses
on that halfway hill.