Long Rears Poems
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It's a dog-eat-dog,
kill or be killed world.
A vast jungle populated by
two types of individuals;
lions and lambs.
The lions;
greed-driven, ravenous
and opportunistic.
The lambs;
meek and malleable
sitting ducks.
Both jockey for position,
aiming to reach
the pinnacle of power.
Both are propelled by
the desire to succeed.
But unlike lambs,
lions covet power and glory,
at all cost.
In an existential struggle
for survival, ruthlessness
rears its ugly head
as the lions ultimately
devour the lambs to rule
a savage kingdom.
Date written and posted: 05/13/2019
To me, a tornado is something I’ve seen
In “The Wizard of Oz” as a child.
It hardly seemed real – so much damage and fear
With the forces of Nature gone wild.
Yet the newspapers carry a horrible tale
Of a mile-wide tornado that struck;
And for residents caught in the path of the storm,
There were dozens who ran out of luck.
More than fifty are dead, many others are hurt;
Homes are flattened, with cars strewn in piles.
Oklahoma, though often the sunniest place,
Will for now be quite lacking in smiles.
When Nature rears up and delivers her wrath,
We are frequently caught unawares;
And it’s random which people succumb or survive,
For tornadoes won’t heed someone’s prayers.
Observing the scene from a distance away
I feel sorrow for all those affected;
For tragedy somehow reminds us that yes,
We are all of us somehow connected.
Circus Life
Inside, it smells like death and pain.
And two beasts guard
the heart of my brain.
Puzzles and pieces
scatter from the hilt.
My spine breaks under
this mountain of guilt.
Colors and feelings
are nothing compared to
believing
The awful stench
inside my head.
Bleeding with ink
and clouded with dread.
Beast number one rears its ugly head
and says my dear, what do you most dread?
Well, that's metaphorical
and certainly quite volatile.
But let me sit and think.
I suppose, she replies, that what causes that stink
is my brain one day
running out of ink.
Beast number one
guards feelings and reelings
Beast number one roars
Day after day, guards cycles
and riffles.
But beast number one, to me
he just says
'These thoughts, they are
just all in your head.'
Beast number two,
well, she is rather blue.
About all this pain,
you see, she has it too,
and above all she is
most difficult to tame.
But each day from her head
Reels the stuff that she dreads,
And lands in my heart, each day, it can't start.
But each day, it's the same.
But past all the beasts
And tricks and applause;
Sneak under this tent,
and do mind the claws.
All mirrors obstruct her
from the crowd.
So she sees all her flaws
and her thoughts are so loud.
Too loud for the number one
circus attraction.
Step up, step two, gents,
she loves the attention.
Watch her preen and
watch her prance.
My dears, lead her
in this next dance.
Her mind is far gone
so she is your pawn
to do with whatever you please.
But inside, she roars
And she fights and she pleads
For her mind to stop spinning
so loud at the beginning
And she tries too hard to fly
Away from this mess,
away from distress.
The funeral beds
are laced with her dread
and she wonders just when
she might die.
So she creeps from the tent
and she blinks in the sun.
And she sees people round her
preying off her for fun.
But free, she can never be.
For her mind is where
she seems to be
Till her very last dying breath.
Only she will be the master
of her own death.
Soft as a marsh, the wave—
its homeland drifting far into the open sea,
should be heading for the shoulder of the horizon
the stars will soon erase.
Yet, drawn to the polishing
of an aura like yours, dusted with grains of sand,
it turns its back on the wind drunk with sunset
and rushes toward the shore.
Like the long scream of a half-moon
that the morning glow will sweep away,
the sun, swollen by evening light, cries out
that this is not the way.
The wave shuts out even the clouds
that once headed with it toward the old tree of home,
and cages the sun—now gaunt with worry—
on an island where its scolding can be put to sleep.
Jealous of the gulls beating their wings
on your shadow,
it rears itself like an enraged train
and rams toward the shore.
Whether it knows or not the weight
of its one-way devotion,
you mingle with other shadows,
building sandcastles.
Torah: Black Fire on White Fire, A Nafka Mina
Every Place, every Space,
In ink, 'tween signs, ‘tween lines,
Everywhere He, Where are we?
Ask, "Mi Hashem Aylai?"
Not, "What's in for me?"
Descent from Kedushah is "I"
Ego, Ugly Mess, Rears our Smallness,
Whether in "I" or Mired in Man,
My Hand, My team, vs. Oneness
We can live to please "I",
Or Harvard or other Men,
What's the difference? Our Eye's Sty!
To live His Torah, Nullifies Me
We Need to Be, Alive ‘n Doin’,
Here, Now! We Want to Be.
He gave us myriad Mitzvot,
To glimpse Him, to Breathe ‘n Do,
To be in His Company.
Life's not just other Men,
Them With to Hang Out, Them to Please,
He Knows our Dodge Cop Out.
Men are Seen, He’s Hidden.
Pleasin’ Men is counter Our Goal,
He smiles, if We’re Herein.
As He is Here, We Be in our All.
Men make Noise, when Losin’ Stature,
Men are in Places, not in 'tween Spaces.
Be as the One, Sip His Strength, in Being Alone,
Be a Rolling Stone, Not just a Clone,
He’s Here, We likewise ignore Noise.
It takes max strength Chutzpah,
Swim Agin' the Torrent, Be Current,
Carpe Diem, Not be a Puppet of Them.
The Gematria of Aish equals Kara,
Or Fire in Hearing 'Sounds of Silence': A Calling,
Horton Hears a Who, Choosing is Less than to Be Chosen.
Be Strong; You're Created to Be a Man,
Hashem's Eved, In touch with Your Maker,
Answer to Him, not some Faker.
© Chaim Ben Moshe 2018
Parachuted squirrels glide onto leaf piles and laugh at my heroic efforts
to keep them from taking apart my bird feeders.
With xylophonic fingers they lift the lids and unscrew until the feeders
give up and fall with a plunk to the ground, giving them fair claim to bounty.
I kite over to the oak tree, irritated that they have once again thwarted
my efforts to discourage and dissuade them from their goal.
Blemished anxiety rears her ugly head, and I begin to wail upon discovering
my two brand new feeders are broken beyond repair.
Do I abandon my quest or do I Don Quixote myself into reviving and refreshing
my efforts? I do hope to feed the birds some of this feed, right?
Neon light bulbs flash in my head as I sleep, dreaming of the various ways I can
conquer the marauders, without hurting them, but retaining feeder integrity.
The interlopers are hiding in foxtailed clumps of grass as I meander outside.
I attempt to appear casual. I wish I could whistle, but I never could.
The fabric on my jeans is chafing me, which adds to my irritation, however I do
my best to not grimace, act perturbed or otherwise warn the squirrels of my intentions.
A glimmer of turquoise forces me to look down for a second. It is a tiny charm of
a dog that has been missing for over three years. I gratefully pocket her.
Snowflakes begin to gently glide down past my nose as I hang the second bird feeder
back onto the hook. A wonderful sign that I finished with perfect timing.
Naturally, those crafty squirrels again outsmarted me, and had both feeders on the ground
before noon. Their little paws can unscrew faster than any I have ever seen.
I have to laugh, remembering all the times my father used to try to outsmart squirrels.
He finally gave up and put corn on his deck for them. They used to come up and knock
when they were out, which amused him greatly as he was on the other side of the glass
slider, grinning like a cat.
Free Will Meets Destiny
Free Will and Destiny meet at the astral crossroads
Of choice and fate
Before our eyes, an audience seeing both sides of enigma -
Seeking resolution in the crosshairs of definition -
Hypnotized at happenstance or a date marked on a calendar
Before light birthed light –
Chosen by choice to share a kiss of kismet –
Luck upon a high horse rears up before covenant designs,
Taking shape - rolling on - by the eternal’s choice
Asking us
Does the leaf of autumn refuse to fall?
Does the rose refuse to bloom?
Or seasons stumble in the cycle?
The perfect plan askes us
If free will and destiny’s fate join hands -
Shedding their cloaks of ambivalence
Named “what if” or called “does it matter”
As thirteen ambles under ladders holding tight black cats
In predisposing oracles of impending doom -
To morph and leave behind their masquerades of gypsies
Holding fortune’s cards in cloudy crystal orbs
To ever walk hand in hand in the emerging master plan,
Never imposed – softly shown – no either or -
Wisdom’s daily written apparition –
Free will is our destiny.
Monster Rears It's Ugly Head On Houston
To Houston's victims whom suffered the wrath
Of Hurricane Harvey's brutal path
The country prays for your full recovery
A fortuitous bounce of serendipity
Long live life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
In the wake of the worst storm in US history
Trump and cousin Sam did their earnest posture
While your cries of uncle yielded to this monster
From the dark abyss you all will rise strong
From the torrential rains of a trillion sad song
For the piano man played in wept tears
As a trillion gallons drowning those in fears
To a new day, we look for the sun to shine
It's rays spreading its way and hopes for cloud nine
To a new day, we look up to your skies
For prayers, the monster permanently closes his eyes
connie pachecho
9/4/17
A pool table lined with blue felt
sports a lively, raucous game,
ivory cracks, the men drink,
shoot the bull while they play.
A humidor lined in fine wood
stocked with Cuban cigars,
a smoking lounge grandiose,
ceiling painted like the stars.
A bar right out of the Wild West
serves beer and old whiskey,
an insurance guy loosing at darts
to a bookworm with a PhD.
A library stocked with real books,
no paperbacks or e-books there,
classics vaunted alongside the
spy novels and western fare.
Gym in the basement, no windows,
where everyone toils and sweats,
a sauna large, and no member
has grown tired of a steam yet.
Upstairs is the banquet hall,
used once a month for feasts,
where steak is served bleeding red,
no concoctions of soy or yeast.
On the third floor, rooms to crash
if you’re visiting from out of town,
or if you’ve drank a bit much,
relax, and lay down you head.
Fixtures in brass and mahogany,
reminders of more elegant times,
side rooms for talking business,
a cellar filled with fine wines...
This is our place, our shelter,
when the world rears and ugly head,
yet at least once a month feminists
show up outside and wish us dead.
They like to shout and chant a lot,
with their one word, ‘patriarchy,’
never seeming to realize
their protests are pure malarkey.
This world had lady-only gyms,
and female-only hair salons,
they never decry that as sexism,
they just go along to get along.
Turn-about must be fair play,
so we made ourselves this place,
what really bothers them about us
is the mere existence of male space.
But this club is a private affair,
so they’re wasting their powers,
they have places where men don’t tread,
so this place, this is ours.
Should darkness stain the shields of my defense
where refuge sought holds little glare or shine,
depression takes its toll at great expense
that sadly taints this fragile soul of mine.
The fortress walls grow weak amidst the storm,
should darkness stain the shields of my defense.
The siege consumes me whole might I conform.
Such penalties fall savagely immense.
Surrender could abandon this suspense,
to open wide the gates that welcome woe.
Should darkness stains the shields of my defense,
so common are the scars I've come to know.
Armed only with the strength of battles lost,
survival rears its head as wars commence.
I choose to hold my throne at any cost,
should darkness stain the shields of my defense.