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.

The stone room hummed.  The walls seemed to radiate with energy.  A dozen men formed a circle, squatting on the floor,  their enwrapped bodies folded with their head between their knees, their hands extend to the heavens.      In an instant the humming stopped.  One of the men lowered his arms and lifted his head.  “Yonah,” he called.  His voice was soft, almost musical.  “Come here my son.”

One of the other men lifted his head, and lowered the shawl from his brow to rest on his shoulders.   He shook out his long black hair and slowly rose to his feet.  His eyes shone with dark intensity, as he approached his master.

When Yonah’s eyes met the prophet’s, Elisha’s own eyes widened.  He resisted an urge to pull away.  Their dark intensity frightened him.  An aura of blood red fire danced around Yonah’s countenance.  Elisha hesitated.  Maybe it was a mistake to send Yonah.  Maybe he should be the one to deliver this message after all.  Those eyes reminded him so much of Eliyahu’s.  Had it made a difference when Elisha anointed the king of Aram?  Had his tears mitigated the judgment?  No, probably not.  Elisha still saw the same vision of destruction.  But there would be tears just the same.  Not for Yehu.  And not from him either.  Yehu could be cold and cruel when he wanted to be.  That is why the Almighty chose him for this task.  And Yonah.  Elisha doubted that Yonah would shed a tear, would feel remorse at the necessity of his role, and the blood that would be spilt as a result.  Elisha watched the flames of blood dancing around Yonah’s face.  No, there wouldn’t be any remorse.  And maybe that is the way it was supposed to be.

Elisha looked up into the waiting face of his disciple, and smiled.  The smile only barely touched his eyes.  “Yonah, my son, gird up your loins, and take this vial of oil.”  Elisha removed a small ceramic flask from the folds of his robes.  “Go to Ramoth Gil`ad, to the army there.  And when you are there find Yehu the son of Yehoshephat the son of Nimshi.  Take him aside, and bring him to an inner chamber.”  Elisha paused.  He read Yonah’s face again and suppressed a shudder.  He didn’t need to tell the young disciple anything.  The youth already knew, the way only a youth can know.

Elisha continued just the same.  “When you have him alone, take this flask of oil and  pour it over his head and say, ‘Thus says the Almighty:  I have annoited you king over Yisrael.’  Then, my son, open the door and flee.  Do not hesitate.  Do not wait.”

Yonah slowly took the flask. Elisha thought that the youth’s eyes burned even brighter, if that wer at all possible.  “Yes, my father.  I will do as you have instructed.  He opend the leather cord around the flask and hung it around his neck.  Then Yonah tied up the edges of his salmah and darted from the room.  Elisha’s heart went with him.