Hypatia

I admire your intelligence,

I really do.

All your philosophy, and thought.

all your names.

I love to discuss them with you,

I love to play those mental games.

Oh, how your ideas

blind my minds eye.

I want to hear more

I really do.

And did I mention,

you're the most beautiful person I know.

Sorry, for going off topic,

as far as your ideas go.

But I can't help but notice,

your tender eyes,

and waving hair.

They are real to me,

even with my minimal vocabulary skill.

And your gentle hands

that turn the pages 

you read while you lie calmly

under the eclipsed sun.

I notice that too,

even though

I can't formulate the question

it's supposed to respond to.

I am juggling thoughts

or perhaps I'm rotating

minds.

Listening to Athena in your voice

and Aphrodite in your eyes.

Can I worship more than one Goddess?,

Or maybe I can just do one sacrifice.

I wonder how many pantheons I can call my place,

As my thoughts and visions grow to proportions

I've yet to learn to embrace.

 

I like to stick to your ideas

and your intellectual feats. 

Directing my attention 

to your novel claims

and accomplished tasks.

I hear what you ask,

I have an answer,

but I can't say it.

Because my planned explosion 

has just imploded

in the frontal cortex of my juggling brain.

If you would slow down

I would follow you 

to your windowless room.

And I'll look out through the

crack in the ceiling I just made.

And I'll also read some of your books

I know you are mentioned in quite a few.

I'l try to concentrate on what they say,

if I manage 

not to get distracted by you.

History Stones People

History stones people.

They stoned Moses, David and Linclon,

history did that for all to see

Marbel and cement,

that's all it leaves behind

of a long changing life.

Great heroes of time,

fall under the mercy

of the sculptor's knife.

History stones faces,

in a way that would make

ecclestias cringe.

History stones feet,

in a way that would make

piligrims cry.

History stones life

to always stay fresh,

yet, what is life without

the sins of the flesh.

All the radical kids

get stoned

and never change'

or even move a muscle.

All the sword raising warriors

history stoned

without blood in their veins.

You can see all the victims

that history stoned

when you walk in the park,

they got kings

and queens

hell, they even got Gods.

They are there captive

in history's stones,

never to be again what they were;

wilting flesh and

breakable bones.

People look up at them

they are victims too.

History's stones fall far,

even on to you.

Those stoned to live

are like the ones stoned to die.

enslaved to the search

for the frozen smile.

Life is a burning bush

that doesn't get consumed.

not a dead rock

or a statue of history.

It's a fusing wind

of happinnes and misery.

An exploding volcano

of courage and fear.

It is the stem of the flower

struggling through the seasons

to stand and bloom

above the drying soil.

Life is the fighting wave

you see at sea

forgotten and denied

by the stones of history.

The Mountain Top and the Soccer Field

Dear Mashgiach you said it a million times,
and had us say it at least one hundred times after you.
But I only said it once.
Just once I used it to make a point,
maybe that was the problem.

Right there, on the top of that mountain
you told us, in a tune, that all is vanity.

At the bottom of the mountain was a soccer field;
We used to hear the roars of the crowd while we tried to focus
on the long text.
Its vanity,
a bunch of people running after a ball.
It's vanity,
screaming because you got someone to fall and trip.
It’s vanity.

But you know, I once went down the mountain;
I needed a cup of coffee, to keep me awake for a night full of studying.
I passed the soccer field
when the fans were emptying out the stadium.
Someone was carrying a cup and others were gathering around him,
applauding.

Did you know there is a score board at the stadium?
they write the scores there of every team.
They change the score throughout the game,
then someone wins.

Did you know that someone wins in the end?
they get a big cup
and a chance to compete again
with a better team.

But you know, Mashgiach, most people do it
for just an hour or so every week.
The rest of the time
they live their lives through comparison to the game.
For only an hour or so a week they have a controlled world
amidst the chaos they leave behind.
And find power and strength
by calling someone’s name.

They roar for an hour or so.
then they face their quiet homes.
They cheer for an hour or so,
until they get back to their silent laments
that are bigger than the whole stadium,
bigger than the whole game.

And when someone from the crowd
succeeds during the week.
She remembers the game She scored,
even when her success is smaller
than the shouts of the fans she heard,
for an hour or so last week.

The game last for an hour or so a week,
than the fabric of the crowd
falls back in to single threads
lost in a hay taller
than the grass of a soccer field.

But, back on the mountain,
the roars of texts lasts all week.
We never leave the stadium.
Nobody scores, nobody falls,
nobody gets called by name.

Nothing gets referenced to nothing,
they shaved the grass of the whole field.
You live and die running
to kick a ball you can't see,
and to live a metaphor you can't construe.

On top of the mountain the game lasts a whole week,
and the fabric of the crowd is never pulled to thread.
You don't see a guy leaving with his cup;
for there is no cup,
there is no leaving,
truth is there isn't even a guy.
There is just a crowd cheering,
cheers that can only come from a crowd
who never tried a lament.
Cheers that have no chaos
to contrast to.

I see the soccer field
It is vanity,
for an hour or so every week.
I see the mountain top
It is vanity,
for ever and ever.

Thoughts

Thoughts are like butterflies in the sun.

Blinded by the light,

noticed by their color,

admired for their flight,

avoided for their flutter.

If You Dream.

If you dream....

Tomorrow it may be lost to fantasy

or to oblivion

tomorrow it may be lost to heresy

or treason

If you dream.......

Tomorrow it may be found with disturb

or rust

tomorrow it may be found with perturb

or disgust

If you dream...........

Tomorrow it may be hailed as a desire

or plan

tomorrow it may be hailed as a fire 

Yes we can 

If you dream................ 

Tomorrow it may be the wished for act

or the clear path

tomorrow it may be the blatant fact

or the simple math

Tomorrow it may be,

if you dream..........................

 

Valley of Despair

If I go down the Valley of Despair

What will I find?

Will I see the bankrupt bank

Will I find the general in the rank

Will I find the gun and the tank

Will I find that the statue shrank.

What will I find?

Will I see the meadow of

today and tomorrow

Will I see the seeds

Will I hear the rings

or just the sorrow.

What will I find?

I see my brother

exhausted

claiming he faulted

in getting the meadow

exalted.

Is this what I find?

Dreamless sleepers

on dark nights

in dry prairies

No speeding of time

or sufficient funds.

No path to the palace

where the horse runs.

No feeling for

the urgency of the now,

only gradualism

roaming around

O' valley of despair

why am I still here?

How and Why

How and Why,
I really don’t know.

Well,
how, I understand.
There is all the technical jargon
and scientific bargain
to help me comprehend.

As for why,
it’s a worthless task
to even ask
without a sigh.

But the mind entertains
those mental pains
even when all that remains
are the cut off lanes.

When beautiful animation
that indulges in creation
loses command
by the touch of the hand
of its own basic brand.


If you really attend,
you’ll see that I don’t really seek to understand
the question I posed.

For who can bear to know
the secret of the show
going on behind the door
I just closed.