Best Preparatory Poems
It happened back in time, quite a long way,
Back in the day, as they today like to say:
An era when most donations to yeshivas** **Rabbinical academies, often
Didn't require much of a man's pay-- with a preparatory high school
$18, $36, $54 at the most--
If you gave $100, you could really boast...
Annual banquets were different, however,
Promotions for them being quite clever,
Promising 'Full-Page Ads,' 'Silver-Page' and even 'Gold,"
All for a relative pittance, truth be told:
For a $180, $250 or $360 fee
Your good name would be trumpeted constantly,
With great pomp, dignity and high pedigree.
As 'a mere teacher in a yeshiva,' my own ads
Were quite modest: $50 for a quarter-page,
To pen something brief, but sage
About the yeshiva I toiled for out of love, not a wage.
So one year, quite way back in the day,
Imagine my surprise, my happiness, my elation,
Then my CONCERN and my SHOCK!...
...When browsing the banquet adbook journal ad hoc,
Just to see if anyone had penned a kind word about me,
I came upon THREE ADS, "Thanking Mr. Wolf," all paid for in Gold,
For over a thousand dollars! they had been ANONYMOUSLY sold.
The blood drained from my face; I felt faint and quite dizzy.
The room swam in circles, my nerves on edge, in a tizzy.
I looked around in amazement; who might have done it?
I spotted the adbook's creater, the man who had run it.
"Far be it from me to reveal the secret," he intoned.
'I don't deserve such a great honor,' I felt in my bones.
In the days to come, I asked everyone in town,
Yet no one would admit that he had plunked down
$1,080 to sing my praises to the world of the yeshiva,
To pay tribute to me like some big star or great diva.
So I had to give up my crusade as 'Super-Sleuth,'
Had to graciously acknowledge what seemed to be the truth,
That the anonymous parents of one of my students
Had been sincerely thankful that I was teaching their youth.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
1.
The Boy from the Tail End of the Goldhawk Road
I was born Carl Robert Halling at the tail end of the Goldhawk Road which runs through Shepherds Bush in west London and which in the mid 1960s served as one of the great centres of the Mod movement, whose dandified acolytes were infamous for their vanity and hedonism.
I was raised in nearby Bedford Park, a comparatively genteel district close to the largely working class area of South Acton.
My first school was the Lycee Francais du Kensington du Sud, and by the time I was 4 years old, I was already bilingual.
I wasted little time at the Lycee in establishing a reputation as a troublemaker, a popular one admittedly, but a troublemaker nonetheless, constantly in trouble.
I was popular, that much is certain, not just with girls but boys too and blessed with a vivid imagination but I was a near impossible pupil which caused my poor mother a good deal of heartache, and on at least one occasion she drove me home in tears.
I seemed born to controversy, being impatient, disobedient, mischievous, remorselessly attention-seeking, a true imp of a child, on which the full force of the innate depravity of Man appeared to have landed.
At the same time, I was friendly, sincere and open, a good friend, and well-liked.
My Judo teacher at the Budokan in Hammersmith once told someone no doubt with a sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach that whenever he heard me he always knew it was Saturday.
I was no less a trial in the quaint little back streets of suburban west London.
My roughness could hardly have been helped by the popular music of the times.
By the time it came for me to leave the Lycee my scholastic standing had improved a little, and after some months spent at Davies Preparatory School, I received the most glittering school report of my entire young life; and was actually declared an excellent pupil.
Dream Keys
by Odin Roark
A NY mantra
Rent the rentable
Move the movable
Key the keyable
Apartments
Four-wall-guardian of yesterday’s youth
Vacuous cellmates of old age loneliness
All part of a cyclic maze
All having a key
Urban life’s Rubik’s Cube turnover
Today’s the day
“Two rooms”
“New paint”
“Clean window”
“No-squeaky floorboards”
Superintendent loves to present
Move in
Keys
Entrance door
Mailbox
Apartment
Laundry room
All yours
A windowsill vase of plastic roses
Your welcome of faded memories
The window to the people below
Your traveled city as roommate
Through another glass darkly
Gotta love it
Pea green layering
Over cracked and peeling bygones
Your very own chipped-paint scrapbook
A giant shoebox of ghostly images
Once possessing your castle-keys
Settle in
Struggle
Dream
Survive
Stand at your window
Watch canyon updrafts
Swirl your make-believe snowflakes
Carrying them skyward
Mixing with sparkling darkness
Where every star is yours
Count the days
Where light to see
Will be owned by neighboring towers
Where former tenants came young
Left old
Where thrown cups and china
Christened walls
And confinement’s anger and tears
Found solace in an ever inviting empty bathtub
Where pounding fists
Rattled bathroom door hinges
While a child hid beneath a bed
Smiling tearful thanks
A wanderlust roach
His ever-faithful friend
All yours
Here
Where a Sammy Glick got started
And an undergrad
An engineer
A Radical leftist
A piano teacher
All touched
All turned
All once secured your keys
So
Add your imprint
Become tomorrow’s remembered page
The scrapbook knows no end
This is Manhattan
Scenes will erupt
Hysterics will rebirth
Life will live
Maybe live some more
Then
Your turn to pass the keys
Your turn to pile worn memories at the curb
Mattresses always appreciated
Stand across the street
Watch the ever-smiling Super
Hand the keys to the next habitant
And then…
Go
Never to forget your contribution
Leaving behind another preparatory memory
Allowing the coming year
Your next season of imaginings
To dream of another home
Somewhere
Waiting…
Gifted with keyless entry?
Loneliness gone?
People sing in praise of a lead performer;
And the person playing the second fiddle
Often goes unsung and unhonoured.
That is the fate of all such auxiliary artistes, say,
A guitarist strumming the chords—
To keep up the rhythm
Or, as typically in India,
The tambura player,
providing the continuous harmonic drone,
Which no electronic substitute
Can possibly offer—
Not to the entire satisfaction of the audience,
As it would be lacking in timbre and temper.
Yet, comparatively speaking,
There may not be much money in it.
Percussion artistes, on the drums,
The Mrudangam or Tabala,
Are all worse off,
Though they often perform multiple tasks.
Now striking, for instance, a cymbal,
Now a triangle or a xylaphone.
Even the famous Sivamani has got to do it.
They all, however, go about their tasks on the stage
With as much zest as the lead performer—
Yet a Sivamani or a Zakir Hussein
Hitting the headlines, is very rare.
Their presence is hardly noticed,
Though their absence may surely be felt.
Their role is comparable
To that of the squirrel—in the Ramayana,
Which helped Rama,
In its own humble way,
To put up the bridge
(preparatory to his encounter with Ravana)
Across the Palk Strait to Sri Lanka,
And yet did its best.
Such artistes do exemplify team spirit.
They also serve who stand (or sit)
On the stage and do auxiliary work!
***
Lying side by side
In the heart of a cold night
Just me and you
Nobody else…
(Preparatory phase begins)
Winter sensation sets in
Sensational reflex blends in
Slender limbs make slimy moves
Little finger touches set the pace
Body chemistry changes control
(Excitatory phase begins)
Electric signals are sent
Heart rate ascends
Blood flow transcends
Tingling sensations received
Body waves retrieved
And a spike potential achieved
(Take off phase begins)
Eyes lock while lips contact
Arms encircle to attach warm embrace
Emotions interlace
Action potential ignites
Higher center shuts down
Then a journey begins
To the garden of unending feels
The last emperor, February chill,
Provokes nostalgic lust for summer heat -
My cool companion, Snowman, bittersweet -
I'll melt in hot embrace, he never will.
One vibrant life with season rapid flow,
No time for a preparatory draft,
Recapture every brush of nature's craft -
And frolic in the sun and in the snow.
March 2, 2023
Having grown up with Sarah Seraphin and, Tristen Temple
Toddlers at Saint Nicks preparatory praetorian school of fine arts
Precocious, their quasi's trice musketeers quid pro quo ? His prodigies.
The field is full and the crowd is primed
Scream and cries rent the air electric
The mood is part sacrifice part slaughter
The smell of ritual repentance hangs heavy
Defeat floats around caressing the fringes
The bell clangs in preparatory adjudication
Sweet science of massacre in full flight
Adrenaline rivers rush and over flow
Bursting dams of timid cowardice
Fear grips tight in vicious vice
Blood tastes tease molars and pallets
Blood drops singe hearts like bullets
The countdown is on and Cain is raised
The frenzy is now full bedlam chaos
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Seconds to go round 1!
Second to go round 1!
Repeats like a terrible echo
Leaden legs attempt to loosen
Arm raised with sinewy determination
Sweat drips in torrid anticipation
Months of welcoming hills and hell
Welcoming torture and torment
Welcoming bruises and bunion
Lift ! Jab ! Weave ! Hurl !
Do not drop ! Do not drop !
Just come out swinging
With everything little thing you’ve got !
VIOLETS IN SPRING
Violets in funereal sleep,
bonnie beneath Winter’s crust.
Breathless debutantes,
preparatory young virgins,
putting on pretty purple petals.
Virtuous violets gracefully glide
through the rich soil,
burgeoning intoxication,
the world’s first tantalizing taste
of their demure debutante smiles.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
GLORIOUS TWILIGHT
G reat escape from the mundane, humdrum affairs
L ying on the sea-shore savoring pleasant twilight
O pium to the eyes, more it craves to witness this delight
R ecedes the Golden globe behind the horizon out of sight
I nstilling a fresh hope that there will be a new rise soon
O ptimism that as dark phase fades, it heralds a new boon
U ndeterred to face challenges, this is a preparatory phase
S plendiferous message to stay brave, to act and not laze
T hreshold between life’s dawn and dusk it depicts
W aves the gentle sea breeze to the retreating birds
I nviting them the next morning to play new games
L eaving to the night to swallow the pent-up feel
I nvoking peace in mind that rejuvenates our souls
G leam of yellow, crimson and scarlet red as they scatter
H arbinger of healing touch and love it will usher in
T o each one who after every fall learns to get up and win!
Date: 24th September 2016
Eternity is endless, but time is measured by a “beginning” and an “end”
But from the beginning of creation, male and female made he them
Historical parenthesis within eternity the flow of time
Preparatory, Fulfillment, Consummation three distinct phases of time
Time, the historical framework in which things happen, yours and mine
Creation, Regeneration, Redemption, the nature of time
Soothing wounds of the heart, body healing accommodation of time
Time was given for our "benefit
Don’t look at oneself as timeless misfits
Our real home is in the heavenlies, "outside of time
Make haste all ye men it’s Yah’s time, seek refuge this present time
From events and occurrences shadows of what to come end –of- time
©Copyright November 16, 2013 by Brian Pierre-Alexander
© All Rights Reserved
For my Professors Mary A. Schilling & Jean Cuvelier
Share with me the beauty of the pen, the smell device of paradoxical selection,
The inquisitive sense of hateful teachers; shared with me the major premise
Of the dogmatic repetition, the distance of space between illiterate and erudite;
The preparatory pool of civilization; share with me the concession of lovely educators,
The one who will offer you a number of examples of scrupulously genius
Who are now lying down in the details toward the immortal link of our weakness?
Share with me the Olympian perspective of a god, an angel, and a human
Not only the one who walks backward with exposition of requirement,
But the one who will challenge you and lift you and make you angry
To learn more and more the useless structure of learning!
Share with me the unseeing of which the architects prove somewhat controversial
Of what Socrates has interpreted it as an unholy quotation, which you with me
Are going to attain what is up there but you will be able to discuss the significant
Aspects of our beliefs and that hungry so frequent that make us to scream
For such wealthy accomplishments.
Share with me a book, the argumentation of nonsense in which it is often
Impossible for all of us to reach decisions in front of the truth;
Share with me the pleasure of being aware of what is there, and take
By our teeth the tasteful knowledge of purpose, and please share with me
The abstraction of a sense of William Shakespeare and the comely mind of Keats;
Share with me the confirmation, but you may omit a formal
Conclusion that education should not be for all the reservoirs or the beasts,
Rather for the tone of resection!
Bar none, no shortage of soap shampoo, nor detergent
Courtesy food pantries
Saint Eleanor's Saint Mary's,
Our Daily Bread,
the missus and yours truly (her spouse)
well stocked with good n plenti of
soap, shampoo and detergent.
Spongebob squarepants
would be in seventh heaven,
where sudsy clouds (resembling
Mister Krabs, Plankton,
Sandy Cheeks, Squidward, et cetera),
would drift across celestial vault.
Gratitude bequeathed to prophets of virtue
benevolent good samaritans
who trend righteous true
to the calling of helping hands who renew
faith (mine) in goodness of humanity
assisting not only yours truly
and the missus, but people
from South American country named Peru
or even indigenous tribes
accorded recognition comprising
population of inhabitants occupying New
Zealand, offered reparations
under the Treaty of Waitangi,
a process of reparation allowed
Maori to be fully recognized
at political level in lieu
of unfair practices inflicted upon
original occupant loosely similar
to descendents of long lost tribes of Israel,
endowed with (pure tin) pride
wishing I too could call myself proud Jew,
nevertheless attraction manifests destiny
(mine) someday to learn Hebrew.
Courtesy atheism more so Unitarianism,
I need not adopt
an explicit dogmatic, fanatic, humanistic...,
lunatic, narcissistic, puritanic... paradigm,
but only tout poetic justice (mine)
to recognize laudable traits
linkedin to orthodox faiths,
albeit rationalistic rubric
that caters to selflessness
for no other reason
than allowing, enabling, and promoting
random acts of kindness
without any forthcoming great expectation
downplaying remuneration,
no matter destitution begot mein kampf
hard times living within bleak house
slight hyperbolic exaggeration
poor as a cheesy church mouse poet.
Lemme coast to a fitting conclusion
bringing reasonable rhyming blather
originating courtesy me noggin,
within which wool doth gather
thus I a halt and
dial down philosophical lather,
cuz most likely
ye dear reader would rather
experience palmolive oil slather
preparatory to full body massage.
BREAKFAST AT HOME
Familiar sounds from the kitchen -
Preparatory squeak of cupboard door,
Businesslike clank of pan on stove, water splashing from taps,
Promising chink of plates and cups, rattle of knives and forks,
Smell of tea brewing and flame-done toast,
Crackle of eggs frying, sizzle of bacon.
All said and done
Nigeria is the giant of Africa
Though currently lost in a maze of confusion
The giant is on a journey of self-realization
The journey of self discovery
Shedding its skin of criminal enterprise
Preparatory to launching
into orbit of true colossus
That destiny has thrust upon her
Rapists currently taking advantage
Of her lust for inanity
Be warned and retrace your steps
For calamity awaits every partaker
In her current misadventures
For the sleeping giant is at the dawn of its wakefulness