I am on my couch, looking out my window. The snow comes down, sometimes hard, sometimes soft, like the sky and ground tumbling together in white sheets. Just outside the window stands a mammoth, gray, gnarled oak that wraps the smaller trees in its limbs. One dead leaf clings to a small branch.
I don’t usually write poetry. I’m a prose guy at heart. But this one has been bouncing around my head for a while. In light of the bomb threats to Jewish daycare centers and the desecration of graveyards, it had to come out.
The first tattoo I ever saw,
Was my aunt’s, a pretty songbird.
On her leg.
But first the one I remember
Was late september
And I was four.
On Rosh Hashanna,
On my friend’s father’s lap
Trying not to nap,
I looked to the side.
An old man, or old to me
White beard, yarmulke on head.
And he read
From the prayer book
His white shirt sleeve
And I crept
Closer to see
Six, maybe five
And I tried to ignore
To look away
I didn’t understand
But I knew
I knew I knew I knew
That it was something
And I should never speak of it
After reading a bunch of the comments on a few YahooNews stories, I am feeling very Wordsworthy.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.