Blue Nuns in a Barren LandThe work of God, they say the word of God,is the finger of a mountain crushing an evergreen forest, as a thumb put-placesthe page; a bookmark made of eternity that forms the Now.And if you disagree, as some authoritarian would, place your page upfront, with all its words,and let them choir as all choirboys dobefore the unpleased crowd of Me and You.The shades will grow, we both should know,for all deliberate things do so.The grass will feeble by the wind,so the wrath of His nose maketh it low.And in the midst of crowing fiendswhere Gehenna's gape is wide and grima blue trail 'll form of heads held high -the t
Prosody GuideHere's a short and limited guide to prosody. Thought it might be helpful. Let's start with few terms:Rhythm - refers to the natural rise and fall of the voice when something is being spoken or read aloud.Meter - comes from the Greek word for "measure," is used to describe a regular rhythmic pattern that operates throughout a given poem.Cesura - is a strong break/pause in the middle of a line.Scansion - the act of determining the meter of a poem by marking the stressed and unstressed syllables in its lines.Accents - (Stressed syllables) are marked by a slant line above the syllable (/)Slack Syllables (unstressed syllables) a
Pas ce Soir Don't you wish me deadWith all this sensitivity spewing out my fingers, Braiding your hair sticky green, and jealous As a fountain of joy.L'envie, you said, elle rayonne la gloire lumineuse Autour de votre cou épais et rouge. And these sparkly ears gloat Much, up your peppery nose, cresting in your orifice. So superficies, don't you feel oblige? The white t-shirt, Spineless as a worm, letches to my skin as to a nipple. Très vous, you slide your nails underneath it Your mouth tilde-bends, Du lait aigre-doux.Yesterday we caught a white dwarf shining in the c
The Beech of WinterWinter came, its fingers cold down the autumn spine. That tarry name spelled-out again, again as mantra do for leaden eyes, while the body shakes.Coat of chaste hid the lilies, as they chest-worn comforted Death.There - mounts of dust; dust snow-piles, with old familiar smell, mesmered the yearn of letting go.One step failed the clouds, two steps failed the past,and with the third - lone beech deciduously exposed her bosom to the night and let the stars cry unto it, and weep.Her reddish hair in flames denounced the naked breasts, the reap
A Souvenir of TastenessEverything which is life, is made of a thin layerof an approximation to confusion.Both our fingers, interlockedMake a souvenir of tasteness, to relish and delight in an embarrassmentlimited to only you and me.On this bench, we browse through slow photos,sea-salt drenched-photos, moving sidewaysfrom your cuddle to my inability;words, tongues, all tied up in that which isof greater possibility to please. As summer marchesdown off the shore,traveling the thick old stones of Neve-Zedek.This is Tel-Aviv, in the first light of morning,encompassed in everything which is Life.Crude and coarse, as a dozing bulldozer,I r
While, While, WhileWhile, while, while you can the window pane wet tears of rain, the green of afternoons a long thin line of ice and mandarin from barren wastes, parched dunes white clean to northland groves, fat marshes' froth,a sweet nectar of thick knotty growth onerous shades of time no more, a glass of woe red lush of red berries and rubus bourgeois, of people under tar roofs, suede sofas, tv dinner esque &