D. Avraham ~ Musings

Child talk

Of innocence confounded

Child talk

No longer grounded in

Dragon tales of

Billowed sails

Or a place called

Honalee

.

Child talk

It is not

About strings and sealing wax

Child talk

It is not

But, filled with too many facts in

Subjects corruptive or

Deeply seductive

There once was a place called

Purity.

.

Child talk

Sometimes

Isn’t what it used to be.

The brown edges of

Green leaves

Curl to a shade of

Gray

Unmoving but not

Still

In the windless

Yellow heat of

Black thoughts and a

Colorless mood

Full and Waxing

All the more

Till there is

Nothing left to

Leave.

Pressure points

To a serious malaise

Of explosive pro portions

Or anti poor

Sins

Breaking points

To hidden fissures

Hidden beneath the surface

Sir, face

Thins

But body swells

Rushing

Blindly

Stumbling

Forward

Or is it Backward

To some forgotten goal

Was there a goal?

What is the goal?

What is a goal?

Just keep moving

Don’t think

I can

Think I can

React only

Can’t think anyway

Isn’t time

Forward.

Maybe

Progress

Incompleteing now

In competing

For Now

And for none

Orders taken

Arrows fly

Target drawn

The order is what’s important

And the Bullseye

How could you miss?

How, could you miss.

Days fly by

A  time lapse videography

With bits of social media

Littering the cutting room floor

Virtually lost among the dust  mites and bunnys

of i’s and you’s,

Of phads and tubes

An IOU of more permenance

As long as it’s instant

Instead its insistently

Super

Facial

Brook no dissent

Descend into the

Fissure

Breaking points

To

Pressure points

To

Two

Less one

Is none.

Fixture

Fix your

Face

Share

Your

Surface

Place is

Safe

Search

Your Space

In the Cavity of

Pagination

Site failing

Cite the flaying

Hyper-attentive

Mailings

De press the switch

From tabulations

Off

Aren’t we a little

Deaf and dumb

Social media

So shall mediate

The mediocre

So shall we mediate

The dumb d’dumb dumb

And defy

Our numbed senses

Depressing them into a stuper

Of catatonic blahs

De-press the on switch

Re verse your decent

Hold on truth.

Is it live or is it Memorex

Who really cares?

Monk’s Scream is

Muffled by the ear buds

But I can still hear its echo

Resonating

Reason hating

Re-sending

And sharing

/’plēz/ like

Cries to Heaven

Facebook has me in a Faze

Booked Processed

A phrase book for we are

Sentenced to chat

In a text sure to

Miss the texture

And flavor

flay for the camera

And smile.

Move along, move along

There’s nothing to see here,

If you don’t take the time to look

But wait.

No there isn’t time.

We’re late, we’re late

For What?

Exactly.

Don’t worry,

The roses have all lost there smell

Anyway.

Pressure points

To

Breaking points

To

A

Dead

End.

I watch the too fat little girl with her too thin legs
poking out of her too short dress like broken toothpicks
Supporting a too bright red candied apple dripping with too sweet carmel
In the swirling stifling heat that pours out
of the tail exhausts of the green and white wrapped human transporters
Too long, too wrong, for the too narrow streets, they were
Stuck in the mirk and muck of human traffic
At the bizarre bazaar agrip in the grip of Agrippas
Ruler extraordinaire of hawkers and bawkers
Pushing their wares
Between their pear shaped stares and suspicious glares
That dare the human consumer
Consumption of assumptions
about resumption and material redemption deductions.

.

Where has that fat little girl gone?
Now, she’s wandered off.

.

And I’m left to stare too much at
Circus clowns
Who are just painted jesters in civilian gowns
Tumblers and fumblers
Along the too cracked three ringed
Pavement and asphalt
Performance Tarmac.

.

I’m out of breath.
Beat and Beaten by the oppressive too fast paced rhythm
Of city folks pounding at my heels,
Pushing back with a lack of flair
Cause I don’t have a name as alliterate as Jack Keroac
Or I’m just too illiterate to alliterations I can’t hear.

.

Searching for a scrap of shade
Homeless for a day
An entire life bound and suspended from the shoulders of a too bent back
That searches for a place to rest, finding a park bench
Sans the park.

.

Pointed black toes peaking out from the tattered cuffs of a pair of jeans

.

A beat poet
Or, a poet who’s just beat
Is there really any difference?
Or any difidence
Anymore?

.

He kills an hour waiting – murdered moments that will never be redeemed
A guiless, gilgul-less diuturnity of seconds
Of vice
Gripped alternatives altered for eternity gleaned
From the too electronic pages of bits and bytes

.

Embarrassed by my gagetry
The silicon pagentry
Hasn’t the majesty
Of verses scrawled on the backs
Of scraps of crinkled yellowing dirty gray
Tree folicles.
But they’re much easier to save
A magnetic permenance of etchings
On the walls of caves
Buried under bits of mud and clay

.

Now I’ve
Fallen prey to a ray of grey,
There isn’t any despondency
In the whole world,
Shouts too loudly
A sidewalk prophet towards me
Dancing to the rhythm of his side curls
That pull him into the heavens
If you can believe it
No despair in the too thick air.

.

Only beneath our too clay feet,
That crunch the rolling waste
Beneath them
Of recycled glossy photographic tumbleweed
A retreat from reality
To a too real alacrity.
If there is such a thing
As clarity
It escapes me.

.

Evil wears many faces; good wears none.
.

.

.
*NaHl’a’oth is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known for its outdoor market and eclectic residents

Praise Seuss!

King of the Snoz-goblitz and Doo-witz-itzs

Creator and Master of Iambic Composites,

Of Bamboozled Personas and Resourceful Components,

All Served with Your Very Own

Razzberried-Romped Compliments.

Hail Seuss! Hail the Life-easer!

As we sit in your leisure,

Come tell us a Teaser

Of Mulberryish Measure.

Weave us a Tale

Of Truth-Tailored Adventure

And Untangle the Knotted Quagmire

Till Buttered Battlelines Expire.

Hail Seuss, Sincerity’s Caesar.

When I was just a wee lad

Digesting kelly-colored fare

I was naught to despair

Confident that that mad feline hatter

With his rapid Seussidian patter

Would create a symphonious Epiphany

Dispelling my angst and melancholy.

Ah, Seuss, the poet Olympiad.

But my children, I must confess

The bard of syllabic resonance

Has penned his last euphonic dance.

The troubadour of rhyme, now cloaked in Nimbus,

Is composing his belletristic opus

For the prey of death’s decay.

Know that, a great man has passed our way.

The Seuss is gone, and we are now, in deep distress.

Gather round and find some whatzit-thing;

Get out your hornzogglers and tune your zing-zigglers.

Collect your doozits, pop-pozits and electric mudslingers

Hurry up, for an ode of tone is underway

Complete with a parade along the palatial parkway

A symphony of onomatopoeic harmony.

To praise the Master of wise absurdity

And wail a tribute to the king of word-fashioning.

Glory to Seuss!

Sovereign of childhood’s creative mirages

The pinnacle potentate of bedtime barrages,

Of complex contraptions and ethical forages,

Remember the good Doctor!

Benefactor of life-edification and daydream education.

Glory to Seuss, The Master of Muse.

The face is, I guess, familiar.
Something about those eyes, the smile, that gesture …
Reminds me of a time
When we played our roles of preps, nerds and jocks,
Parts not quite so sublime,
But far more cock-sure.
Its image more nostalgia than similar

Some are, I guess, repining.
Groping for a way to recapture the lost past
When only possibilities abound
And before we learned of life’s simple paradox
That with all those choices we found
Even the memories don’t seem to last,
But instead like pencil lead are found evanescing

It was, I guess, amusing.
Wandering between ‘remember when’ to ‘here and now’
Mouthing names thought lost to ancient history.
As we excavate past all those mental roadblocks
Conducting all the experiments in social archeology
That our time would allow
Editing and amending the script to our choosing

My nostalgia is, I guess, different.
None of those special moments, the tears and the laughs
Would I want to rewind,
But I do enjoy taking them out of their box,
Now and again, to find
Like an old photograph,
Savoring the flavor of a memory spent.

I may have been, I guess, in error,
Remaining aloof, distant, and all too hard to find –
Not all by happenstance.
And though we can’t turn back the clocks
We meet renewed and old acquaintance,
Discovering those we’ve left behind,
Whose façade has faded to a polished splendor.

Reunion Allusions without a Guard between the Crosswalks.

Dog-eared and yellow
Bent and worn in its Kodachrome frame
A crime fighting hero in shades of blue.

I always did want to save the world.

I was six or maybe seven
When my mother sat at the Singer
And created for me
A cape and cowl
A custom costume fit.
From patterns and cloth found in a trunk in the attic

I was going to save the world.

I set out on patrol
To rid the world
Of the Dastardly and the Diabolical
The Menacing and the Maniacal
But the bad guys had shed their costumed skein
And wander the streets
All disguised as men.
How does one join the Justice League
To know whom is the hero and whomthe villain?

It was going to be tough saving the world.

Bent and broken
The blues faded to gray
Team Superhero was revealed.
Not only to be in the service,
But, the promoter and distributor,
Of Evil

I am, oh, so tired from trying to save the world.

Now, a dark night avenger
Black and shadowy shell
Yet the heart remains
Pure.

A hero trying to survive the world.

Whack!

Went the plank, as the wind rushed in from the mountain

Thump!

Went my heart, as it leapt from my chest.

Ah.

Went the sigh from my lips, as recognition clicked in

Pfff…

Went the breath from my mouth, as drowsiness prevailed.

Whack!

Went the plank.