Best Judea Poems
In the bleached whitish sky
I am flying on a bellied pelican,
contemplating from above
a pastoral landscape
and I’m writing these lines.
Below are small people
on the slopes of a small hill
in the small groves
are making small love.
Unaware of the big people,
who are making a huge love
in the big groves
on the slopes of a tall mountain.
In the distance, you can see smeared cypresses
and Lebanese cedars,
and scrolls - Psalms of David.
They may heal diseases, twigs,
and rat bites.
And the rearrangement of the mysterious letters in the Kabbalistic text,
which are secrets of my secret.
The sweet pink pulp of fresh figs
in purple and burgundy colors
comfortably resting on a platter with a scorpion seal.
Shulamith,
the hot stones of the Judean desert are under your feet,
on the way to the Temple, which is washed with expensive blood or a cheap one.
(choose as you wish...).
Could I find you in the torn apart Petrograd?
Forgetting myself,
I am weaving fate from a rope of lasso.
How beautiful you are, Fata Morgana.
I'm hiding in a blue papyrus,
plunging forever into Nirvana,
for the next hour and a half ...
9.2019. NYC
Powerful winds over America
The songs we once new
are carried away
by these winds
Remaining on the ground
we watch the songs as they fly away
Our spirits need to reach upwards
if we are to survive and grow
In this fantasy called
AMERICA
I watch the news incessantly,
in effect present by proxy and phone.
I anguish and languish,
waiting for the spheres of fire to roll fast and burn out
a safe distance from my paramour, my Lion of Judea.
I anticipate each day with worry and tears and with cynical hope that the innocents will rebel against the pain and the waste.
In the meantime, I hear the missiles whistle
as they meet the earth with venomous rage,
from the stinging poison painted on their summits.
Wandering aimlessly through the wrecked streets engulfed with despair,
some hide below the earth in gulags afraid to check if the sun is alight.
Others wager a walk to the necropolis to honor the mortal warriors who gave everything they had.
Mothers bellow beside countless catacombs,
children’s names prematurely etched in stone.
And the night sky continues to blaze, lit with embers of scorching hate
from that poison arrow that keeps aloft,
never losing flight, powered by ages of rage.
Still, we wait at the turnstile of repose,
despite the respite that neither ebbs nor flows.
But they forge on toward their final goal,
With bloodstained hands from a scapegoat’s soul.
The eternal retreat that’s all the “rage”,
Your den of iniquity, your battling cage
Seventy-two maidens, virgin-pure,
Forbidden fruit, forevermore.
Hi
Yea
Gharqad
It was grown
In Judean land
How thorny Lycium shawii?
Suited to withstand the beautiful Eden garden