for the one who didn’t

The tomatoes hang eaten.
Some rodent, maybe.
The cayenne doesn't work,
just burns the air I breathe.

Knees swell.
The doctor?
I haven’t called.

This is the small life
we once smirked about.

Summer again.
No mercy.
Too much.
Too bright.

Lately, I forget:
the grigio in the freezer
the last message,
why I opened the drawer.

Lately, I drop things,
envelopes, keys,
my grip softening
with everything.

You said,
“That’s what old looks like.”
But you didn’t get here.

We stay,
we wait,
for mail,
for quiet,
for a name to light the screen.

Oceanside,
in shopfront glass,
I glimpse my portrait
eyes storming, squinted,
shirt caught on wind.
And I ache,
to be so
briefly
here.

Blue skies retreating began to fall
The appointment she must keep
Will cause deceitful eyes to weep
For this is just the beginning of it all

So now even the stars become lightless
Black and dying
Evil deeds sing their songs smiling
They are calling your name
The cost of participation in the game
It was your choice and yours alone to risk it all
Karma sits tapping her feet
Waiting in the hall



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

Then the children of Israel
did evil in the sight of the Lord,
and served the Baals.      Judges 2:11

Mendel Schneerson, very wise Jew
Told the Chabadniks what to do;
Watched his synagogues expand
Expounding doctrines with his brand;
Rambled about Talmud, Tenakh;
How to recognize Moschiach—
Implying could be he himself . . .
(Droll old bearded Lubavitch elf.)

Amidst a flood of Noahide laws,
Let us now analyze, and pause:

This rabbi/slash/Euro-equivocator
Inspired his own to despise the goyim.
Six hundred thirteen commandments later,
Christ is still king. The fact must annoy him;
This greatest instructor and teacher of men . . .
Reb Schneerson died—and did not rise again.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                                        Icetrooper

Dear Icetrooper,

When you go home at night (perhaps to pray)

Does your daughter look up to you and say,

“Daddy -

How many crying children did you drag away

Away from their handcuffed moms and dads today?”

I love a long holiday and as a general rule
you’ll find me out by a turquoise pool
cause it’s hot outside and I’m nobody's fool.

Closing my eyes I lazily daydream
listening to my favorite musical streams
umbrella shaded from harsh sunbeams.

I’ve put away polemic school assignments
for leisure and tastier desultory refinements
like buffalo wings, pizza and ***** martinis
and the barely there cool of a string bikini.
.
.
Songs for this:
Digging your scene by Ivy
The Big Sky (Special Single Mix) by Kate Bush
Can't Be Like This Forever by The Moving Stills

Say you love me
like I love you
often and always
a million times
embrace me
consume me
burn me with kisses

If you go deaf
I will stop listening
If you go blind
I will stop looking
If you die
I will stop living
.
.
Songs for this:
From The Start by Good Kid
Habits (feat. Haley Reinhart) by Scott Bradlee's Postmodern Jukebox
Lover Girl by Laufey
In a Manner of Speaking (feat. Camille) by Nouvelle Vague

Our fathers fought for Liberty,
They struggled long and well,
History of their deeds can tell—
But did they leave us free?

Are we free from vanity,
Free from pride, and free from self,
Free from love of power and pelf,
From everything that's beggarly?

Are we free from stubborn will,
From low hate and malice small,
From opinion's tyrant thrall?
Are none of us our own slaves still?

Are we free to speak our thought,
To be happy, and be poor,
Free to enter Heaven's door,
To live and labor as we ought?

Are we then made free at last
From the fear of what men say,
Free to reverence today,
Free from the slavery of the Past?

Our fathers fought for liberty,
They struggled long and well,
History of their deeds can tell—
But ourselves must set us free.

James Russell Lowell  (1819-1891)