God knows the price of tuning forks, And alphabets, and astral signs. Beside the passion of the flame Reclines a squat and jealous name; Inside the tyranny of lines Endures a sweet, soft-scented shame, Loosing stays, and words, and corks. Hanumas Is Something Strange Indeed Hanumas is something strange indeed: A Hanukkah and Christmas in
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Chanukah itself’s the miracle: How could we remember all those years, Aliens lost upon a shoreless sea, Not only scattered–battered, shattered, tattered, Unwelcome guests of hosts unmerciful, Knowing well the wellsprings of our tears, A life devoured by identity Holding on to legacies that mattered? Cheerful Lights Dance Within Your Window Cheerful lights dance within
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By day each soul must walk within its shadow. Only night can make us whole again. Nor joy nor pain can race across the meadow Night seeds with stars, so vast it were in vain. In each new day hope rises with the light. Evening comes: we hunger for the night. More truth, and vaster,
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Blessings are not only of the light: Open up your heart to gifts of darkness. None is offered miracles to choose, Nor knows which gifts of grace one may refuse, Imposing will upon an unwilled stillness Eternally within each nub of night. Miracles are also of the night, Although we tend to see the good
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Blessed are those who doubt the word of God, Opening their minds to what might be. No literal truth is literally true, Nor can one see unless one sees anew, In lieu of faith observing faithfully Each metaphor writ deep within each word. Murderers would worship every word, A band of cutthroats in the name
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Because one hundred and thirteen generations Of Jews lit candles for eight days and prayed (No doubt a miracle–flames in empty jars), Nor could they, spangled abroad like lonely stars, Inter their music, or cull their recitations, Each cantillated word is death delayed. Some memories are miracles: the jars Empty yet dancing with light, the
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Being is itself the fuel-less flame, Open to no other explanation, Needing but the notion of The Name, Not for reason, just for conversation. In everything there is a holy light, Explained as inexplicable delight. Maybe all that is, is for delight, A superfluity of ardent flame Resulting in a burst of brazen light. Know
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Being is a point, without dimension. Our consciousness of now is never now. No sight or sound is simultaneous, Needing its own time to get to us, Instants that no instant will allow. Each moment is the scene of our invention. Mind is the machine for our invention, A chip for giving beings their dimension,
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Behind the act is always the perception. Often we are led astray by light. No chaos is more damaging than order Neatly taped across a mystery. In love and awe we worship only darkness, Embracing what we know we cannot know. Silence is a sea, while what we know Etches the green hills of our
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efore earth, water, and air is fire, On which all subsists, Not as flame on oil, Nor candle on wax, but with- In, as in us, each Element in love. So we are: Each organ mad with lust, tingling, The blood eager to cleanse the spleen, nerves Hungering for connection. Gifts are tongues of flame.
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