anthology of moments (ed. 1)
Posted: February 28th, 2006, 2:43 pm
These were written over the last year, one by one. They're not intended as a greater whole, but rather as stand alone reflections. ...I just didn't wanna post a bajillion individually. 
This young man—his Love’s poet would be—
is an unaware narcissist. He
was surprised when he knew
that each verse writ of You
paid a truer devotion to Me.
This young man at a gospel revival
prayed that God calmly drown his old rival;
but the answer God gave
is: the way that I save
is a trouble-the-water survival.
This young man and his zest for ideals
drives a permanent quest, since he feels
that—as soon each he reaches—
their good nature he breaches,
as if reaching had messed his appeals.
This young man shared a true love for science
with a care that forbade its appliance,
as he cared less for proof
than for beautiful truth—
but he’d trust them to share life’s alliance.
This young man kissed his dream on her lips
and received for it thirty-nine whips;
he’d looked not in her eyes,
but just north of her thighs
where he kissed her, just south of her hips.
This young man and the man he’d become
wished to know how they happened, but from
all their words and their hype
came no stereotype
to which both of the men could succumb.
This young man—both his lawyer and judge—
went to court by himself and he’d trudge
through life trying to show
he was innocent, though
his own judgment’s unlikely to budge.
This young man in the mirror he faces
sees a goodness his thinking displaces—
not an image of God,
but a question at odds
with the one who with goodness him graces.
This young man spread a verse for his dear
like a marriage feast, tear upon tier.
She ate and digested
and quickly protested
with a falling-out foul from her rear.
This young man, as the morning was young,
slept away like a song—and he clung
to the sound of still sleep,
though the sound of a weep
better speaks to the song he’d there sung.
This young man fought to catch a down leaf
with the thought he’d preserve its time brief,
but the break at its stem
was a death to condemn
the pained fight he had sought against grief.
This young man lives an on-going prayer
full of heresy, faith and despair—
and grace starts him again
after every Amen
as the beauty of love’s it’s not fair.
This young man in his everyday genes
dresses up like a parrot and preens
first his mind, then his heart,
then his gut—till apart
from a personal thought he’s dressed clean.
This young man built his ivory tower
in the hidden wet peace of his shower—
but he daily confided
the good pleasure provided
wouldn’t last but a fourth of an hour.
This young man climbed his ivory tower
in the sanctity of his own shower—
but he daily revealed
that sweet pleasure would yield
to the drain and he climbed back down sour.
This young man worked the dirt of his garden,
but the lushness of growth wouldn’t pardon
him the sentence he’d built
out of roots in the silt
where life flowered his prison and warden.
This young man likes to think himself wise
and quite trustworthy. Oh, but surprise!
Oft the truth he’ll disguise
with white not-really-lies—
and such wisdom trusts not but decries!
This young man searched your eyes when you spoke;
and as you looked in his, he awoke:
his own face shone within
like some intimate kin—
such reflection, an intimate yoke.
This young man reasoned ‘Self’ ineffective
as his ego’s and ethics’ corrective.
He subjectively knew
truth and justice are true,
but his mind was, in truth, not objective.
This young man, just as prey to a hawk,
lived an uncertain life; so he’d talk
of his fears and he’d pray
and as habit he’d say
from the depths: Dear Lord, yeah, though I walk….
This young man left his home and his tongue
for a strange land. And once he’d begun
to graft to the new city,
he laughed: “Oh what a pity!
I’ve just made it to whence I had come!”
This young man through a spring day’s long light
smiled that summer might swallow the night—
but mixed blessing’s a day
that fades never away
without someone to share the delight.
This young man welcome respite receives
when he trusts just how much he perceives
of his own love’s shown strife
are but scars of the life
of a heart that so often deceives.
This young man his harmonica plays
with the breath of his heart—and it stays
deep within him, each piece
the damp reeds let release,
like a memory his future obeys.
This young man seemed to wash away each
of the treasures his heart tried to reach;
his ideals couldn’t ration
the waves of their passion
and crashed them like slaps to the beach.
This young man joined the cosmos around
him to brighten the darks that surround
them. More easily done
was resistance upon
the bright lights that their shadows confound.
This young man reads in Hebrew and Greek;
English, German and Spanish can speak—
so he wonders at times
through his words and their rhymes
why so oft he communicates weak.
This young man finds the most of his peers
are his equals in spirit, not years;
and he loves how they care
for his soul: they compare
him with is and without he appears.
This young man turned his sheets for the night
fore he’d raise up his fists in a fight
and no strength would he show
but the wisdom to know
that to lay he’d prepare while up right.
This young man entertained a debate
on a paradox fish and her fate:
lo, the only safe sturgeon
seems she who is virgin
with no eggs to birth for the plate.
This young man asked a broken old hen
how she felt as her eggs left the pen.
“It’s not birth, but alas—
the infertile things pass
and they break me again and again.”
This young man turned a ghostly shade pale
as his symbols for God met God’s wail:
“Hens’ died eggs aren’t new life
and your caviar knife
spreads but luxury taste of a nail.”
This yid man is (depending on who
you might ask) the worst goy of a jew.
His אב passed over ז—
But said haShem (Judah’s tribe’s lion):
My beloved forgets Zion too.
This young man had been younger Ago
and remembered such joys in it, though
he still wasn’t quite sure
his blest memories were pure:
was there more or less joy to bestow?
This young man wanted honesty’s love
and he searched it below and above
the world that he knew
and the loves in it: true
love proved far as the ark from the dove.
This young man finding love and truth fixed
in thoughts incomprehensible nixed
his old full need for both—
but he swore him an oath
that he’d drink them however they’re mixed.
This young man packed for Ireland,
laid out his full attire planned
with nothing green
lest he be seen
a poser where he’d upright stand.
This young man wished to love you today
as he held you before, but the fray
our division had been
left the ice all too thin
and the air all to cold for a way
this young man could devise to attempt
to divulge all the nights he had dreamt
conversations between
what might be and had been—
how his dreaming continued him tempt.
This young man kept his hopes harbored: still
you might secretly harbor a will
as hopeless romantic
as dreams that our frantic
searching lives might each other fulfill.
This young man a young man would remain—
but how linked are maturity, pain
and life single, alone
(therefore swiftly he’d grown
through an agelessness years don’t contain).
This young man—his Love’s poet would be—
is an unaware narcissist. He
was surprised when he knew
that each verse writ of You
paid a truer devotion to Me.
This young man at a gospel revival
prayed that God calmly drown his old rival;
but the answer God gave
is: the way that I save
is a trouble-the-water survival.
This young man and his zest for ideals
drives a permanent quest, since he feels
that—as soon each he reaches—
their good nature he breaches,
as if reaching had messed his appeals.
This young man shared a true love for science
with a care that forbade its appliance,
as he cared less for proof
than for beautiful truth—
but he’d trust them to share life’s alliance.
This young man kissed his dream on her lips
and received for it thirty-nine whips;
he’d looked not in her eyes,
but just north of her thighs
where he kissed her, just south of her hips.
This young man and the man he’d become
wished to know how they happened, but from
all their words and their hype
came no stereotype
to which both of the men could succumb.
This young man—both his lawyer and judge—
went to court by himself and he’d trudge
through life trying to show
he was innocent, though
his own judgment’s unlikely to budge.
This young man in the mirror he faces
sees a goodness his thinking displaces—
not an image of God,
but a question at odds
with the one who with goodness him graces.
This young man spread a verse for his dear
like a marriage feast, tear upon tier.
She ate and digested
and quickly protested
with a falling-out foul from her rear.
This young man, as the morning was young,
slept away like a song—and he clung
to the sound of still sleep,
though the sound of a weep
better speaks to the song he’d there sung.
This young man fought to catch a down leaf
with the thought he’d preserve its time brief,
but the break at its stem
was a death to condemn
the pained fight he had sought against grief.
This young man lives an on-going prayer
full of heresy, faith and despair—
and grace starts him again
after every Amen
as the beauty of love’s it’s not fair.
This young man in his everyday genes
dresses up like a parrot and preens
first his mind, then his heart,
then his gut—till apart
from a personal thought he’s dressed clean.
This young man built his ivory tower
in the hidden wet peace of his shower—
but he daily confided
the good pleasure provided
wouldn’t last but a fourth of an hour.
This young man climbed his ivory tower
in the sanctity of his own shower—
but he daily revealed
that sweet pleasure would yield
to the drain and he climbed back down sour.
This young man worked the dirt of his garden,
but the lushness of growth wouldn’t pardon
him the sentence he’d built
out of roots in the silt
where life flowered his prison and warden.
This young man likes to think himself wise
and quite trustworthy. Oh, but surprise!
Oft the truth he’ll disguise
with white not-really-lies—
and such wisdom trusts not but decries!
This young man searched your eyes when you spoke;
and as you looked in his, he awoke:
his own face shone within
like some intimate kin—
such reflection, an intimate yoke.
This young man reasoned ‘Self’ ineffective
as his ego’s and ethics’ corrective.
He subjectively knew
truth and justice are true,
but his mind was, in truth, not objective.
This young man, just as prey to a hawk,
lived an uncertain life; so he’d talk
of his fears and he’d pray
and as habit he’d say
from the depths: Dear Lord, yeah, though I walk….
This young man left his home and his tongue
for a strange land. And once he’d begun
to graft to the new city,
he laughed: “Oh what a pity!
I’ve just made it to whence I had come!”
This young man through a spring day’s long light
smiled that summer might swallow the night—
but mixed blessing’s a day
that fades never away
without someone to share the delight.
This young man welcome respite receives
when he trusts just how much he perceives
of his own love’s shown strife
are but scars of the life
of a heart that so often deceives.
This young man his harmonica plays
with the breath of his heart—and it stays
deep within him, each piece
the damp reeds let release,
like a memory his future obeys.
This young man seemed to wash away each
of the treasures his heart tried to reach;
his ideals couldn’t ration
the waves of their passion
and crashed them like slaps to the beach.
This young man joined the cosmos around
him to brighten the darks that surround
them. More easily done
was resistance upon
the bright lights that their shadows confound.
This young man reads in Hebrew and Greek;
English, German and Spanish can speak—
so he wonders at times
through his words and their rhymes
why so oft he communicates weak.
This young man finds the most of his peers
are his equals in spirit, not years;
and he loves how they care
for his soul: they compare
him with is and without he appears.
This young man turned his sheets for the night
fore he’d raise up his fists in a fight
and no strength would he show
but the wisdom to know
that to lay he’d prepare while up right.
This young man entertained a debate
on a paradox fish and her fate:
lo, the only safe sturgeon
seems she who is virgin
with no eggs to birth for the plate.
This young man asked a broken old hen
how she felt as her eggs left the pen.
“It’s not birth, but alas—
the infertile things pass
and they break me again and again.”
This young man turned a ghostly shade pale
as his symbols for God met God’s wail:
“Hens’ died eggs aren’t new life
and your caviar knife
spreads but luxury taste of a nail.”
This yid man is (depending on who
you might ask) the worst goy of a jew.
His אב passed over ז—
But said haShem (Judah’s tribe’s lion):
My beloved forgets Zion too.
This young man had been younger Ago
and remembered such joys in it, though
he still wasn’t quite sure
his blest memories were pure:
was there more or less joy to bestow?
This young man wanted honesty’s love
and he searched it below and above
the world that he knew
and the loves in it: true
love proved far as the ark from the dove.
This young man finding love and truth fixed
in thoughts incomprehensible nixed
his old full need for both—
but he swore him an oath
that he’d drink them however they’re mixed.
This young man packed for Ireland,
laid out his full attire planned
with nothing green
lest he be seen
a poser where he’d upright stand.
This young man wished to love you today
as he held you before, but the fray
our division had been
left the ice all too thin
and the air all to cold for a way
this young man could devise to attempt
to divulge all the nights he had dreamt
conversations between
what might be and had been—
how his dreaming continued him tempt.
This young man kept his hopes harbored: still
you might secretly harbor a will
as hopeless romantic
as dreams that our frantic
searching lives might each other fulfill.
This young man a young man would remain—
but how linked are maturity, pain
and life single, alone
(therefore swiftly he’d grown
through an agelessness years don’t contain).
The Ireland one is the farthest out for me. But so much happened over the year--it's bits of my journal. Not as an excuse, just as an explanation. 