I look upon these silhouettes; of night trees
Dark delineation is the monster who comforts me
As my haunting sorrows swayed in the breeze
I warned them of being wracked with disease
On a calm night when they're still
Words of rage make me think I have skill
Shaking hands chop against their will
And when my mind has had its fill
I close this world down like it's a sill
Just to wake up in the morning, ill
Wondering how to sift the chips;
to pay for the dregs within my quill.
These broken nails
Not pretty to look at,
My triumphs, my fails
Mean more than that
Been scratching away
Digging for some end,
By night, by day …
‘Til they begin to bend
Once polished to a shine
… Is perfectly cracked,
With pulled hair of mine
And my nerves wracked
All glitter, all gold …
Neither one can stay,
But, broken nails, I'm told
Says something anyway.
Veil of midnight, shroud of ache,
A hollow heart begins to wake,
Unfed, unwhole, in shadow curled,
Craving life within this world.
A wraith unseen yet bound to thirst,
The agony—a wicked curse,
Flesh untouched but essence bled,
Hungering for what is shed.
Through trembling dark and frigid moan,
I grasp at souls, yet stand alone,
Each stolen breath a fleeting glow,
Still starving deep in depths below.
Ravishing grimness, wretched plight,
A suffering that breeds delight,
To drink, to drain, to taste the soul,
To feel—then lose—control.
In tortured pangs, my hollow cries,
A thirst that burns, that never dies,
No blood will sate, no flesh repair,
Only whispers in the air.
The void consumes, yet I remain,
Bound by hunger, wracked with pain,
A phantom lost, unseen, yet near,
Feeding off your trembling fear.
And when the night betrays the dawn,
Another voice—another gone,
A feast of echoes, dimly bright,
Devoured whole before the light.
It was during those bleak nights
when I’d wake up screaming
in a bucket of sweat.
The times I hailed you with bullets
full of ugly insults.
I’d cry in your arms,
my mind wracked with guilt.
The holes in the walls—
they’re plastered up now.
The room is silent as I watch you weep
holding the last photo
you took of me.
I did try to tell you.
Do you hear me now?
Wracked with pain, unable to eat
denied the pleasures of life
My friend ‘Nashie’ used his head
his heart, his teeth, his tongue
Cheering up his visitors, one-by-one
inspiring them to live purposeful lives
To honor his memory
~ when his life was done
My friend, Avraham Menashe Siegal,
passed away March 13, 2025, on the
Fast of Esther. May his memory be
for a blessing.
Though warned to stop smoking and drinking beer,
Why should I quit things that give me such joy?
So much wise advice I refused to hear.
All good things of life I vowed to enjoy.
But when I was told I had lung cancer,
And my liver scarred with cirrhosis.
Without the doctor giving the answer,
To my question, I guessed the prognosis.
I'm tied to survival with a thin thread,
My vibrant past now fades like a mirage,
Instead, imminent death is what I dread.
My life wracked with pains, no balm to assuage.
I finally constructed my life a mess,
Chaos now lives deep inside my body,
Causing my heart a serious distress.
Flee bad habits, my plea to somebody.
My body's all aching and wracked with pain
Not sure I want to travel this highway again
Once is enough
Journey's been tough
Who am I, life's been like sipping champagne
I am the wife; the loving, faithful wife.
His children’s mother and, he says, his life.
He tells me he loves me, brings me roses
And I believe him, he supposes.
And yes, I do believe he loves me in his way.
Love that we’ve had can’t simply fade away.
But he’s not mine alone, I know full well.
He forgets I never wear Chanel.
I am the husband, wracked with guilt,
Trapped in the web of lies I’ve built.
I know in my heart the right thing to do.
I stood in church and vowed to be true.
But I was weak and fell for temptation
And find myself in this situation.
I have to end it, I know for sure.
But, before I do, just one week more.
I’m the scarlet woman, mistress if you will.
My part in the story, a once a week thrill.
A cameo role in a tale of deceit.
A tale that for me must end in defeat.
He says he’ll leave her; I know that’s not true.
But things might change if only she knew.
So I’ve thought of a plan to make him mine.
I’ve sprayed his shirt with Chanel Number nine.
“Poke the bear
you get the claws
Chase the shark
you get the jaws”
With each lie
foundations crack
A friend once hurt
your soul left wracked
Timeless rules
do still apply
Where you can run
but never hide
Truth outdates
the oldest Sage
With us its servant
— time its slave
(Dreamsleep: August, 2024)
It took a week for me to pack,
For, wracked with indecision,
I wanted to be sure each day
I’d have the right provision.
The pants, the skirts, Capris and tops,
The sandals, dresses, make-up,
The jewelry and lotions,
All prepared for every wake-up.
I’d zipped it up, ensuring that
I’d covered all the bases
And checked it in where it was stacked
With all the other cases.
Alas, it never made it through
And, though the airline tracked it,
It’s in another place, despite
The care with which I’d packed it.
I’m making do with what I wore,
With just a nightly rinsing.
To never check a bag again?
I do not need convincing.
The dark spill muddied my canvas:
Made its mess, dislocated light
And thoughtful lines to the edges
While it claimed the center for spite.
It seemed like all was wrecked.
The time I'd worked nightly
To craft something perfect
(Or at least not unsightly)
Laid to waist.
A vision erased.
But then, I spied a photo of the original.
I thought it would be pretty, as a picture.
Instead, I noticed flaws so visible
They would lead a critic to stricture.
It looked off-colored or drab in places.
Contrived and technically bad.
Downright mediocre and graceless.
My memory of the thing had
Rendered more precious and dear
The plainness this new light made clear.
An impression most unimpressive.
The thing once grieved not worth its mourning.
No longer the crafter obsessive
Or wracked with yearning.
What a stroke of luck!
Now on to scrape the surface
Or from a new layer construct
An entirely new interface.
The choice entirely my own
Blank space for the unknown…
With no room left for you.
In Calcutta's heart, a symphony of need,
A chorus of coughs, a symphony of pain indeed.
Not music of strings, but of souls in despair,
Yet a love song hums, a love beyond compare.
Frail hands cradle a child, fever-wracked and thin,
Each touch a whisper, "You are not alone within."
Eyes, deep as wells of empathy untold,
Reflect the suffering, yet a warmth unfolds.
The stench of poverty, a harsh and bitter air,
Masked by the fragrance of compassion, a gentle prayer.
Laughter echoes, a child's joy, pure and bright,
A melody of hope, piercing the darkest night.
No grand pronouncements, no promises of gold,
Just a presence silent, a story yet untold.
In the crinkled smile, a universe resides,
A love that transcends, where difference subsides.
For love, like water, seeks the lowest ground,
Fills the cracks and crevices, where hope is not found.
Mother Teresa, a vessel of grace so deep,
Shows us the love that heals, the love we all must keep.
Blackened. Charred.
Are the blossoms of autumn's acclaimed abundance
No longer dance they in vivid wonderance,
Singed by the frigid frost,
Stand they forlorn and lost.
Barren. Desolate.
Stand the trees.
Marooned in an island of dry leaves.
Wracked by glacial winds
As deep winter imprints.
A few brave bougainvillea
Struggle in straggly strands
To defy winter's hands.
Up they climb into yellowing leaves
Cobbling colour into the sheaves.
Unfazed. Undeterred.
By mutinous nature
Munificent flames the trailblazer...
Widespread flames in riotous red
Red riotous flames widespread.
An everlasting Christmas
Bedecks the shrub in richness
Bouquets of ruby crowned in gold
Amidst emerald and jade leaves untold
It is the flaming Glorybower.
Not for it the wheel of seasons
An evergreen...it blooms in legions
Symbolising life everlasting
Even in winter's fog and freezing...
Bringing red flaming glory to many a bower
For it is the flaming Glorybower.
A man of peace, will go to the throne; after much war.'
Through avenues un-known, Abrahams descendants
Will set the stage.' a (glorious temple is to be manmade)
All the earth will groan in pain, yet a remmenant will
Stand, under great strain.' Witness to such powerul
Signs, although indeed false; many will find persuasion
To worship under force, of (death laws) when life and
Choice 'the Door' the only One the only way.'
When the dark god reigns, yet approches the day.!
Let the heavans fall, let the sun be black.' A bloody
Moon; the whole globe wracked. The end of lust the end
Of ire, no world dominion.' No fierce fire; for those He's
Ransomed.' On the Rock will stand' un-shakable soldiers
Of the 'Great I Am'
This morning
whilst brushing my teeth
and trying
with very little success
to obey the dental profession's plea
to brush in a circular motion
and not
in a side to side motion
I noticed some ants
scurrying about on the shiny porcelain
doing no harm
just going about their morning routine
as was I
with very little thought
and even less concern
I brushed them into the basin
turned the tap on for a beat or two
and flushed them away
as I turned the tap off
with toothpaste foaming around my mouth
and running down the toothbrush onto my wrist
a terrible guilt and a crushing sadness
at my unthinking cruelty
at my cavalier snuffing out of life
overtook me
and wrought within me
an overwhelming desire
to tip my head back
and wail at the ceiling
to try and assuage
the soul-deep sorrow
the deep-seated need for forgiveness
that wracked my very core.
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