the living room, the kitchen and the hall
adorned by men of salt and pepper hair.
Now I could be the Kaiser
or young Adolf in suit,
some older and wiser,
even Mozart cum flute.
It’s the curse of our nation
we must have on our walls,
as a bold decoration
not the portraits of dolls
but of those who were chosen
dressed in army attire,
with a smile that is frozen
but the eyes full of fire.
You ask why such traditions,
my reply be astute:
Let those men call the missions,
we are here to salute.
Said an Orthodox Jewis this musical new,said the Arab, I really can’t hear ya.
about your lovely body.But that is not the reasonthat I love you.
A bunch of rare exotic flowersto brighten up the evening hours.And worry not, the stars will shine.Forgotten are the many dayson which you had, in countless waysseen her for granted by the Godswhat did you reckon were the oddsthat she would think you needed praise?And if you are not nearly blindyou’ll think of Valentine’s and…
striped like a prison suitand baggy at the top.I had my Sony aimed at youa toy that would recordand faithfully keep safethat fragment of old times.When Robert was the onewho always talked,and never let you speakexcept in praise of him.I was not present when,the unthinkable and finalstep occurred and he shut up,because now God was…
though the name rings no bellI’d prefer sweet Michellein her ‘jamas or even a gown.
it was the eden of the nightand I never really had outgrown,or leave behind as Mother said I would,that fear of pitch black places and,neither gods nor ghosts would ever,in my lifetime at least, talk me,coerce me or shock me out of it.A flapping of substantial wingsinvisible to me and those who laydeep in the…
