Such great insight, from Ezra Pound.'
Concise; and yet? Fantastic.!
Truly sound' at this current time he is
Fully in stride, voicing all the insanitys.'
So should we? ignore him?
Then its 'woe betide.!
Ultimately, it's a matter of seasons,
waiting for dawn.
Through the skylight,
tiny as it is,
my hope resides.
It's a glimpse of the hope I eagerly yearn to meet from my room.
I've longed to find belonging,
pondered and wondered,
if I was meant to have no solace.
The doors are shut,
and I'm enclosed in the cubicle.
Yet, as the skylight on the roof keeps shining,
so does my hope for tomorrow.
I decided to keep watch on you from walls,
I moved my shoes away to give you a breath,
Nevertheless, have I ever moved miles away,
I kept a moderate distance to watch every
step of you,
Look all of the tears I have never wept,
When the distance stretched with loose
Communications.
I lost the ears of the taste of your tongue.
I thought I was shading you,
Rather, I was, drilling the pain in me,
Memories are stronger than my work,
Heavier than my weight,
Darker than my nights,
But sweeter than my sleep.
Nura my girl, I let you in with all I can,
And I will walk miles to see your similes,
He began as an image theorist
with the genre never did not persist
Life's shadow
leaved for centuries
before Christ and Anno Domini.
maneuvering again and again
and its delighted in that.
That it's irreversible.
Life's shadow
moving on waters
on mountains
on fire
and in valleys.
free and easy
making sure every micro
second is felt.
Life's shadow
moving confidently,
in light,
where everyone Sees it
moving quietly
in dark,
where no one sees it.
And it's still maneuvering
for centuries where we might
Be no more.
Pett Ezra Isaac
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your holiday in Italy
Has besmirched your legacy.
Your Cantos, they plead,
But don’t exonerate,
Not as far as I can see.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Did praise from Hemingway
Whet your narcissistic thirst?
As an ex-pat abroad,
Did you assimilate
What enlightened nations curse?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You made Il Duce smile.
There’s evidence that proves it.
Was your Republic of Utopia
Bi-polar by design?
Or was it simply hubris?
Dear Mr. Pound,
You strain my intellect
With your imagery of life,
And turn my conscience
Hard on itself
With a keen, dissecting knife.
Dear Mr. Pound,
Your lyrics sing to me,
But your politics offend.
You peddled fascist ideology.
If you want my true opinion,
I refuse to condescend.
Once there was a parson named Ezra Heap
Whose Sunday sermons were profoundly deep
The louder Ezra implored
The more his congregants snored
He could never arouse them from their sleep
Ezra Schwartz
Oct 1, 1997 — Nov 19, 2015
The dice of terror
Was cast that day
Young Ezra’s life
Was taken away
He went to Israel
For his gap year
To study at yeshiva
And volunteer
During a Mitzvah
To feed some soldiers
The van was ambushed
By Jew hating ogres
It mattered not
They knew not him
Or that his heart flowed
With Simchas Hachaim
To those you touched
You were a young Mensch
To all who knew you
Your loss is immense
Young Ezra Schwartz
I’ll never know you
For they took you away
For being a Jew
But what they don’t realize
You’re still here with us
You’re everywhere you smiled
And in everyone you touched
Little wonderful baby
With eyes that shows strength
A survivor, breathing into the world like many
Such glorious eyes that sees through the eclipse night at birth
Baby Ezra
Am sure you'll grow
And dine on golden tars and stars
Many strength shall bring you, tomorrow
From my prayers dear baby Ezra
I kneel as the trees bend to what the wind blew
And I pray as birds accompanied, with their voice in this morning dew
That your strength gush like a river and your world gets filled with happiness that leaves never
Emollient eyes, simply gorgeous and innocent
Zealous world, such survivor
Radiant short smiles, that defines a lovely heart
Absolute divine favour, for what more defines the luck of yours?
for Becca Teagan's grandson Ezra....blessings to the little baby, i wish him well
To the hands that held copper
in red, gleaming red
in open palms brimming
in value, like gold
To these hands of faith
with utensils and bowls
stone upon stone was restored.
To the eyes that wept tears
in streams, silver streams
and saw sleeveless garments
rent and unfrayed
To these eyes of sorrow
penitence stayed
to be vessels unearthed for devotion
To the wonderment breathing
of incense and prayer
on knees buckled under
with no hesitation
To this man of faith
with divine restoration
a people, a nation redeemed.