Rescued

Come, let us build a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth.

By the waters of Babylon
barehanded we built
with bricks and sand we built,
by the waters of Babylon
we built a gateway to the gods.

By the waters of Babylon
barehanded we built
with stones from the river
ground and glued,
by the waters of Babylon
we gloried in the power
of blood, veins, viscera
we gloried in human strength, size
and in our deep despising
of the gods.

By the waters of Babylon
barehanded we built--
three and forty years of
unending struggle
earnest grasping toward the upper world,
by the waters of Babylon
we built until we reached the stars
and were called home

by a fist swaddled
in lambswool.

(Image: Tower of Babel, Pieter Bruegel)

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down.
Yes, we wept, when we remembered Zion.
----Psalm 137

Adrift

By the waters of Babylon we wept.
For the deaths of our daughters,
for the impotence of sons,
By the waters of Babylon we wept.
We wept the coal seared lips of the prophets,
the silent harps hanging in trees.

Sitting on the riverbank

Bereft bereft

we wept the very dust of Sion.

In remembrance remembrance
Bereft in remembrance
By the waters of Babylon
We wept.

Eos











Dark is the morning
we cannot see,
fingers search disturb

dead air;
a blind man seeks
any portal,
any blessed
ray of light.

Dawn wakes to clatter,
to boot heels and cannon,
her pale hair rent

by rockets' red fire;
Dawn wakes to shattered dreams of silence,
the sound of a swan in the distance

weeping the demise of her mate.

Dark is the mourning

we do not hope to see,

the blind man seeks

the deepest portal

reaches for even a cursed

ray of light.

(Image: Dawn, BK Levi)

Eris

Beneath the branches
of an ancient apple tree,
we wept for the passing of time.
We made our bed on fallen fruit,
breathed bittersweet foment.

Core revealed Cosmos--
one small worm

nibbled at seeds of discontent,

eating his wizened way

through blood and decay
into the hope of history.

(Image: Joachim Wtewael, The Judgment of Paris, 1602)

On Sappho Choral Fragment 2

Come to me from Crete
And make of me a holy temple,
An apple grove
Nourished by a murmuring brook.
Make of me a fecund meadow
Where horses feed on sweet grass
And slake their thirsts on
The dew of myrtle.
Come to me from Crete
And make of me
Incense of roses
Wafted about
Softly in the wind.

(Image: Gustave Klimt; The Kiss; 1907-08)

Economics at Eden

"Lisbon is destroyed, and they dance in Paris!"

(Voltaire on the Lisbon Earthquake, 1755)

Did Eve know
in that moment
in that moment did she know
when she walked with
head hanging toward the gate
toward the keepers of despair---
Did Eve know
in that moment
in that moment did she know
that she was condemned
to birth death?
Did Eve know
in that moment
in that moment did she know
of the long line headed lemming-like
toward the precipice
Did Eve know
in that moment
or did she smile shyly over her shoulder
tossing Adam a come-hither stare
Did Eve know
in that moment
in that moment did she know
did the tree of knowledge
impart wisdom that referenced in any way
the cost adjusted price

of an apple?


(Image: Jakob Porat, The Apple, 1988)

The Farewells










The following day, no one died. This fact, being absolutely contrary to life's rules, provoked enormous and, in the circumstances, perfectly justifiable anxiety in people's minds......

(Jose Saramago, Death With Interruptions)

Those Who Go

I

Death bides her time on the doorstep
chewing a mouthful of stones,
bones harboring rebellion.
Times of sickness and need
God walks down the street
unshunned
greeted in households and hospitals
by those gathered to
offer prayers and platitudes
pleadings/empty talk
Only Death remains faithful,
Will remain faithful.
But in this small moment,
she bides her time---
a brief adjournment,
a small respite
while she steels her heart and
swallows stones.

---------------------------------------------

Those Who Stay

II

Time waits
grows impatient
the soul scheduled
for departure
should certainly
have departed
and yet
here stands
Death
in grave stubbornness
ignoring the tap on her shoulder
the not-so-gentle shove
Death unyielding,
sifts through a pocket full of stones
Time waits
mourning an old man’s soul
in a second story window
who knocks on the glass
as if to call attention
Death loiters on his doorstep
Time waits.

(Images: Boccioni; The Farewells, Those Who Go, Those Who Stay, 1911)