Slate-thin clouds cover
shoulders that lately knew sun.
Make up your mind, God.
A BUOPOTH IS A STRANGE beast: some say it is half-composed of men’s dreams, others prefer not to speculate. But of the little that...
| Email Edition | ContactSlate-thin clouds cover
shoulders that lately knew sun.
Make up your mind, God.
Scary loud gusts brush
From the trees’ green-flowing hair
Stray twigs and branches.
ELEVEN A. M.,
September the twenty-fifth –
Rain hits Sonoma.
EVEN AFTER TEN YEARS, THE memories and pain are still fresh when I think of them. I don’t think of them often.
My habit in those days was to check the Ha’aretz news ticker with my morning coffee. “Hmm… soccer teams doing well, banks not so much, road accidents, airplane flies into World Trade Center. Wait. What?” Read more »
EVIDENTLY, SHE WROTE A POEM in 1928 called “Dirge With Music.” I have not yet read any of her other works, but I hope they’re like this one. The last stanza says it all:
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
(Thanks to Rabbi David Wolpe for the quotation.)
HAD I NOT BEEN SWIFT,
He would have brought the rat in.
It’s the thought that counts.
HE COULDN’T TELL WHETHER HE
loved beauty or women more
until the day he called his mom and said
“Guess what? I’m marrying a sunset.”
WE ARE THE WRESTLERS-WITH-God,
the ones grabbing His lapels and hollering “Speak up, sonny!”
and don’t worry about staining the carpets.
And we like It that way.
You who put God on a shelf
Who pull Him out once or twice a year to look at and sigh over
Who wrap Him in chains of fear and “can’t”
Ought to be ashamed of yourselves
For not knowing all the Fun you’re missing.
OUR NEW MOTTO IS:
“All That’s News To Me, I Print.”
(New York Times-inspired.)
“I SEE YOUR LOGIC, MADAM, and raise you a contradiction.”
(Line derived from conversation with Ann, whose blog is also very cool. — The Mgt.)
AND AFTER ALL IS SAID and done, and the horrible truth revealed
The bodies taken away, the last question answered
Comes William S Burroughs
(the gravelly graandpa who’s done things the grownups won’t let you ask him about).
“Interdimensional Alka Seltzer,” he says, proffering a grey fizzing mug,
and sits down beside you.
You take the cup.
He speaks volumes with his eyes
(they’ve seen it all, long before you were born)
but his mouth only says
what you wish it always wouldn’t:
“That’s just the way it is, Out Here.”
(THESE WERE WRITTEN JUNE 21 on the unnetworked “writing laptop,” which I only mention to explain the last verse and thank you for not skipping ahead. And now, this.)
So soon the heat comes
after long weeks of spring rain.
Sweat follows storm drops.
Summer’s popsicle
And a pool to eat it by.
What more do you need?
Dappling sunlight
dances on the patio:
cool green tree cavern.
Lemonade tinkles
in an ice-filled glass alive
with summer music.
Roll out the bandstand
and strike up the musicians:
It’s summer solstice!
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