Est. 2003

Poetry

scene from Angels In America

4 Tatters

I stir

Fragments of my tattered clothing are scattered here and there.

Ruah was fierce last night.

She helps me to locate my pathetic shirt and pants.

My underwear is holey

New tears and patches abound.

Some of the ancient fabric is so worn that it is little more than a good intention.

I present a scandalous sight.

My luminous flesh is on display where modesty is in serious jeopardy.

Another day of humiliation is coming up.

Strangers gawk. Friends whisper among themselves.

They think that I am a wastrel. They are right. It’s Ruah’s fault.

I ask for a change but she says nothing doing.

Then she winks and whispers “I like my special friends to look that way.”

Sigh.

I try to brush off the stardust and do something about the wrinkles.

Then I wonder.

What kind of relationship have I gotten myself into?

Poetry

Like an aircraft that skips and kisses the ground when taking off or landing

Poetry is the language of transition between the mind and the soul

Some religious “aviators” reenact the flights of others with books and static displays that shine perfectly

Others can even make the engine roar while the rudder, aileron and elevators move

But ropes and chocks make it all an empty gesture

The description of what it is like to fly and the ability to make it happen are separate endeavors- always have been

There is risk

There is cost in time, love and wealth

My advice is to pay the price and learn to actually skip into the eternal sky

Then you will know what all the fuss is about

If your guide doesn’t speak poetry its likely that they have not flown and cannot know what it takes to help you soar