Protecting Your Yahoo
Heriots belong in economies’ middens. No widow or orphan ought to be tasked
To sacrifice sheep, clothes, entire homes, to grubby rich folk, who, subsequently,
Damage such spaces; it’s preferable to scoff at their testaments with fine poetry.
More exactly, the bereaved ought not to suffer pilfering bosses. Birdlime exists
For humans, too. It’s better to birth obstreperous children, marry skeevy spouses
Than surrender one’s sheets and pillows, pots and pans, one-eyed cats, hounds.
Womenfolk, youngins, all vulnerable others, ought not to be harrowed by banks
“Needing” kips, kitchens, garden dahlias, broken washing machines, overflowing
Loos, yards upgraded by defenestrated dolls (fooey on Brobdingnagian attitudes!)
On balance, when two-dimensional folks experience duende states or doubtlessly
Engage dilatory bits, tout pataphysics, swim with porpoises, they shouldn’t upset
Via effulgent limbs, shiny smiles, elastic witticisms, mephitic disputes, crassness.
That Klaxon Sound on Yom HaShoah
Eerie, that klaxon sound, that shrill,
Horrific shriek over Yerushalayim,
This overcast morning of promises.
Today’s grandchildren are ghosted
-kinfolks perished in the Holocaust.
No audible tinkle that aide-mémoire
Of camps, ovens, torture, wreckage,
To figure, to essence, to generations
Yet to walk across grass, hear wind
Blow, see grazing cows, hug loves.
Not even hammering alike faculties’
Or telephones’ contributions; just a
Salient clatter, a jangle of righteous
Offense, recalling the scores of loss
Remaining unfathomable, ludicrous.
So, never mind our pretty dwellings,
Big titles. Annually, we siren clearly
Mystic measures drawn by Hashem.
Star dust’s nothing proportionate to
Our never-ending efforts to service.
Long Ago, on a Halfway Hill
Long ago, on a halfway hill, I was ‘wandering.
Looking for posies, I do suppose, but then I espied him.
Straight, stern, that singular boy sketching a small bird,
Became my token joy, yet he never heard
My footfall leaving through forbs and grass,
My heart song budding music to last - forever.
Long ago, on a halfway hill, I was ‘wandering.
Looking for posies, I do suppose, but then I espied him.
Like gossamer fabric, like dandelion wine,
His countenance tragic, his countenance fine.
The woods gleamed so brightly, the wind lulled so rightly;
I wished naughty kisses on that halfway hill.
