Behind your shield you cannot see.
Your sword is useless.
The person reflected back is scared and angry.
Lay down the shield and you can use a sword.
Your whole life,
bright,
refracted,
light,
off the metal has blinded you.
So now you lift your sword but cannot see.
Brave soldier do you know who you fight?
Is there any battle at all?
You slash and roar.
The sword is heavy, you cut off your toe.
Inept coward,
if you had only let your eyes adjust you would not have died.
Archive for April, 2010
The Death of a Soldier
Posted in Poetry on April 30, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
Best Friend
Posted in Poetry on April 30, 2010 | 2 Comments »
I bask in her smile,
and swim in her laughter.
She is my happily ever after.
She tells me when I am wrong,
and also when I’m right.
With her it was truly love at first sight.
She knows better than anyone just how to have fun,
and of all of my friends,
she’s the very best one.
S.O.S.
Posted in Poetry on April 28, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
S.O.S.
Somebody save me.
I need a yes,
so don’t you say maybe.
Will you be my life guard?
Because I am not a strong swimmer.
The horizon is disappearing,
but I can see you glimmer.
This boat is sinking,
and I can’t plug all the holes.
So if you can,
please,
Save Our Souls.
My Happy
Posted in Poetry on April 22, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
Endorphins.
Making hearts out of hands.
The last bite of ice-cream.
Falling asleep in a warm bed.
The favorite poem, for the umptenth time.
Sitting next to a best friend.
The smell of familiar perfume.
Hearing voices of family.
The letter from a loved one.
Learning stuff.
The company of a good book.
Coming home from work at eight at night.
Waking up at six in the morning.
Working hard.
Making time to play.
Satisfied.
Endorphins.
Mumble
Posted in Poetry on April 21, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
When you walk by me and mumble that you think I’m pretty,
did you notice a glitter in my stride?
A smile in my eyes?
Can you tell I am lots of fun?
By the way I skip and run?
Have you seen the care with which I pressed my dress?
My hair,
a calculated,
purposeful,
tousled mess?
Or do you steal pleasure from my shape?
Supposedly gift to me,
which only others take.
Return Again
Posted in Proetry on April 20, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
I wrote this on my pilot trip, and I think posting it for Yom Ha’atzma’ut is very appropriate.
As I separated from my new friends I felt the calm calculated anticipation build. Every step is filled with purpose now.
Waiting for the light to turn. I feel the clam breeze stroke my cheek. I walk past a girl outside the walls, sitting in quiet contemplation.
I walk through the Yaffo gate. My right hand lightly touches each of the metal traffic guards, one, two, three, etc. The metal is cool and soft, the paint chipping and wearing from those who have touched before. My sandals are thin and I feel each irregularity in the smooth slippery stones.
Now the railings in the alley. Fingertips sing on the metal. The gap year/yeshiva kids look so young. The soldiers look young now too. What will they learn in four years when they are my age? Will they experience pleasure or pain? I have felt so many things.
I only ask for directions once. Vague memory and intuition guides me. Steps, and singing railings. Down, one, two, three, etc. Even the Muslim call to prayer is beautiful and oddly familiar. The good looking Beta Yisrael guard smiles at me as I go through security.
The wall rises up to greet me. My prayers are sincere. Rosh Hashanah is close. There are still so many people here at ten at night. I am alone in the crowd but I am not lonely. The city cradles me and the people here are my people.
I finish praying. I kiss the wall. I back away. I stop for a moment to stare. As I leave I give some charity. She wishes me wealth.
Slowly as I am leaving I feel my shoulders screaming from the torture I have put them through lugging my things around the country. I hear the pick up lines of the young men.
As I move further away, repeating my ceremony of touch in reverse, I feel a piece of me being left behind. I realize I needed to do this alone. To be hyper conscious of how I was feeling. I know this is my country and this city, Jerusalem, will always have a piece of me. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
The Luthier
Posted in Poetry on April 18, 2010 | Leave a Comment »
My mother is the Luthier,
with the long long long brown hair.
I only miss her when the violins play,
because they sound just like her voice.
My mother is the Luthier,
with the long long long brown hair.
I only miss her when I bake,
because I can taste her lessons in the cake.
My mother is the Luthier,
with the long long long brown hair.
I only miss her when I read her flowing script,
because I imagine her at her desk,
sitting in the silence she requests.
My mother is the Luthier,
with the long long long brown hair.
I only miss her when I wake.
I only miss her when I sleep.
I only miss her when I eat.
I only miss her when I breathe.
I only miss her when I rhyme,
I only miss her all the time.
My mother is the Luthier,
with the long long long brown hair.
I only miss her when the violins play,
because they sound just like her voice.
