D. Avraham ~ Musings

You are the poet

And I am the poem

Compose me a Salvation

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You are the dancer

And I am the dance

Step me towards redemption.

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The instrument fades before the artist

And is realized.

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I am the Song

Waiting to be Sung.

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Don’t Cry Form Me Am Yisrael

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I’m Tired of the Tears

Really

Not that I think

That they’re insincere

Not Fully

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Don’t cry for me Am Yisrael

The Truth

Is the Presence has

Never left you at all

It was just the Booth

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Don’t cry for your loss

The Promise,

He has kept.

It is you, that refuse to close
The distance
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Don’t cry for me Am Yisrael

No guilt

There is only one thing left

Truth to tell

And, that’s to rebuild.

We want MoshiaH now

As long as he’s wearing

The Red Cape and Boots

And when we call, he will respond

And swoop down

From his Heavenly Roost.

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We want Superman immediately

As long as the streimel fits

And he follows the right rabbi

And of course, he is above and beyond

All that questionable pedigree

Of David ben Yishai

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We want redemption

As long as it comes easy

Without any of the difficulty

That are prone to interesting times

Change is never easy

But its easy not to change

We want what we want as long as it meets our specs

For of course we know best.

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We want MashiaH now.

At least I do

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The darkest time of the night is just before dawn

– Midrash Tehilim, Chapter 22

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.

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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

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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

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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

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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.

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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.

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Evil wears many faces; good wears none.
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*NaHl’a’oth is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known for its outdoor market and eclectic residents