Mending crushed hopes with gold

 

No soul ever asks

For trials and tribulations.

Not one man alive

Would seek to have

His heartstrings snapped,

Crawling out of one's skin

As it cracks and it peels.

No one would wish

To be re-cut as a puzzle,

To reassemble oneself, -

Pieces scattered around.

Yet, embracing the flaws

Mending dishes with gold

Is the art of re-writing

One's precious history,

Extrinsically valuable

To the Observer Above.

Kintsugi is ever-growing

In value and skill,

Appreciation is rising

For stories rebuilt.

The treasure of one's days

Could easily be lost,

In the haze of a hurry,

In confusion of chase.

So make sure you weave

Them tight in a scroll,

So not one drop of gold

Escapes unrecorded.

 

 

 

The trees of Jerusalem

 The world of Action
Denied hospitality
To the trees of Jerusalem.
The roots of gangly pines
Swallow their own tails
In the dry crunchy darkness.
A tightly coiled spring,
Nourished by the ringing air,
The ancient pine of the Prophets Street
A battle for Jerusalem witness,
Still shudders to remember
The Jordanian brigade's boots;
It bears the scars
Received from explosions.
Kissing the shadows of the prophets,
It sings ancient anthems
Its voice blending
With the sad murmur of rabbis
Who live rooted Above,
Confined in thick concrete  
In the stuffy lower worlds,
Pining for Redemption
Sprouting from the Root.

To Freedom

 

Sometimes commands

To "sit!" and "stay!"

Are used – but not on dogs.

Sometimes huge walls arise,

And doors are locked,

To keep me safe,

Where the Big Outside

Cannot see me.

Sometimes handcuffs

Look like cute knitted mittens,

When my unruly left hand

Is tied behind my back.

Because "nothing here

Is yours". Yet. Or ever.

Because I matter so little

That I look down at my body

And expect to see air.

I can easily imagine

Myself anywhere,

Because I barely exist at all.

And when I do,

I am a piece of BAD.

Transparent is better.

So I might as well

Leave the dreary Land of Grey No.

And win myself back

From transparency

One fit muscle at a time.

The walls step back,

But I'm still afraid.

Until you show me

That there weren't any walls.

You laugh in the Big Fun Outside,

Yet I hold on tight,

Because it makes me dizzy.

You swing on swings,

And savour wine,

You dare to be,

In your body

Out in the world,

To speak and dance

And claim your space and time.

"Let me try", - I say.

"Take me with you".

You give me a hand,

But my walls are a snail's shell,

They come with me.

My spine has grown into a kennel,

I am chained in to "sit!".

My body folds onto itself.

I bring pieces of the World

Into my kennel to study.

You say it makes me "smart".

One day – I promise! –

The kennel will become a backpack,

I will climb through the door

That you hold open for me,

And join you in the World.

One day the walls will crumble,

I will join you in your freedom,

Just don't give up on me.

 

 

 

 

 

Summer is pregnant with winter

The air at noon comes bearing sparks

Stiff with congealed fire

The cicadas alone haven't fainted

Every blade of grass

Retreats into itself.

An irate torrid wind

Rolls down the wrinkles

Of the terraced land of Judea,

Sweeps the scorched leaves.

And thus, the world stands

Melted onto its axis.

And only at sunset

A deep exhale of the sea

Combats the breath of the desert

Head on, venting its longing,

Yawning with desire,

And the winter is conceived

Just as the gates of the inferno

Swing open on the Solstice.  

It ripens inside the pomegranates,

It bloats the acacia seeds,

Ready to rattle in December.

It comes as a mere hint

Of a smell. A memory.

A bass buzz of Muladhara

Rising from the first drop

Of evaporated autumn.

Building up the torrent

To conceive the summer.