between Heaven and Earth
some say roughly halfway
where they tally each birth
where no angel holds sway
nor a demon delights
in original sin
where -- a late poet writes --
life is yet to begin
between Heaven and Earth
no decision yet made
I await my rebirth...
Passage having been paid
Author notes: Image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Belatedly, I've understood a truth:
Life's naught but the displacement of an ache
well-masked by the euphoria of youth,
so one can be permitted the mistake
of failing to discern, to pry apart
its meaning: Pain that jumps from limb to limb,
to settle, when it chooses, in the heart,
and not in fault or error, on a whim,
but by its grand, elaborate design.
Awake, in bed, examining your pains,
your mind, exhausted, searching for a sign,
as blood continues coursing through your veins,
that it is not yet time. That it still hurts...
Until one day, no breakfast. Just desserts.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
When God apportioned horns and tails and hooves -
ran out on wildebeest… You've seen a picture?
For like the platypus, it's in the proofs
Creation hadn't strictly followed Scripture.
He had none left for demons and their ilk -
The Devil, a significant exception -
and so, though none have tasted mother's milk,
look just like you and me, defy perception.
Or could we be the demons? We were last,
the pinnacle, the pièce de résistance,
in all of God's domain, however vast,
so we assumed, it's always been our stance,
that we are in His image, missing tail…
and not that it's an inventory fail.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
I’m using my poetic license
in lieu of government ID.
They take it since I cannot lie. Since,
as Abel or as Zebedee,
despite the lateness of the hour,
I speak of only truth to power,
a truth that wouldn’t be denied,
nor could be, even if I tried.
A pseudonym, that great invention
which lets a poet speak his mind
without a fear of being fined
or worser still, an intervention,
thus beating any pair of docs.
Unless you’re doxxed. A paradox.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
Beginner's luck, perhaps that's all it was.
Ask any child - they'll say: He started it,
but our existence's sole, Primal Cause -
who'd left few rules when He departed it
for parts unknown, or so it would appear -
continues to receive all manner praise,
although it's more than clear He doesn't steer,
and takes no credit. Not for sunny days,
nor for the wars he technically abhors.
Yes, luck indeed. Create, then wash your hands.
Believer, do not say that he ignores
your sad and sorry plight. No, he intends,
had always meant for all of this to happen,
and isn't sunning, frolicking, or napping.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT
If history is written by the winners,
our victories, though biblical, are few.
We celebrate them with familial dinners,
where everybody has a point of view,
and none of them the same. Our temple teachers
will use a certain phrase, Tikkun Olam:
Go, fix the world, for us, and all God's creatures.
They cite the scriptures, back to Abraham,
remind us: you're the people of the Book.
Raise toasts to Life, and bless the sacred wine.
Remember: your forefathers undertook
to challenge, to demand of the divine
to bring joy to the world. So, so much joy…
A festival of lights. Each night, a toy.
“Is there a word you treasure above others?”
my lovely wife had asked me with a pout.
“You write, right? Well, then, had you had your druthers,
is there a word you wouldn’t do without?
A word you would include in every sonnet,
in every composition, every ode?”
I told her I must really think upon it.
Was this a real question, or some code,
some test for me to pass, a trickster’s riddle?
A husband learns that words can be a clue,
but poets, bent on matching cat to diddle,
can often be as clueless as a ewe
about to become dinner. That is life.
“Of course,” I said. “One word. Four letters. Wife.”
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
When asked: what's the point of it all
Is it sex? Is it drugs? Rock & Roll?
It's not that it's not
he simply forgot
and said that he couldn't recall
on the subject of pigeon and dove
only one stands for Lord from above
but the other -- the pigeon
is what rhymes with religion
while dove is stuck rhyming with love
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
Recite the Seven Wonders of the World
demanded my peculiar professor,
as if they were a list to be unfurled.
Are any of these wonders greater, lesser,
depending on their placement in our lists?
Atop it, the Great Pyramid of Giza,
the wonder that continues, that persists,
and is it any wonder when there is a
pronounced lack of existence for the rest?
Perhaps I should examine them in order
and see if one would qualify as best.
Let history, that wonder-full recorder,
direct me to an answer, if there's one.
Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done.
Recounting each, in turn, until I'm done,
I move on to the gardens. How's it hanging?
It doesn't, huh? The pride of Babylon,
by all accounts, magnificent and banging,
is missing. There are some who even claim
they weren't ever there: Nebuchadnezzar
had built them, or Senachreb, all the same.
(For who can name the name of each successor?)
The gardens, later swallowed by the sands,
and drifting, oh so slowly, into legend,
so now, when Wikipedia demands
a picture of a bush to trim and hedge, and
it cannot even find one, much less two…
The gardens have their fans, but they are few.
The gardens have their fans, but they are few.
What of the pride of Ephesus, the temple
to Artemis, the virgin goddess who
routinely magicked those who'd try to sample
her charms into an amply antlered deer?
Aside from its sheer size (we're talking Turkey),
its claims to fame remain a bit unclear,
and virgin status altogether murky,
as Isis, also worshipped at the site,
was meant to grant fertility and healing.
Size matters, though: it must have been some sight,
the ratios mathematically appealing.
Rebuilt, and more than once, but count 'em, three,
its safely on the list, we all agree.
Its safely on the list, we all agree,
and usually placed right next to Zeus,
whose statue, I could almost guarantee,
(from renderings on coins, which left us clues)
was something of a wonder to behold.
Pure ivory and gold, chryselphantine,
by Phidias of Athens, I've been told
So tall that it is said whoever's been
to see it, thought, should Zeus decide to stand,
(the king of gods was seated on a throne)
he'll lift the very roof. The sculptor planned
to awe his audience. Their deus shone
like no Olympian had shone before.
The better to admire and adore.
The better to admire and adore.
Since adoration is what rulers crave,
in life, and even after they're no more,
the man who coined the term for "fancy grave"
must surely be discussed. He's Mausulus.
No pharaoh, nor an emperor, and yet,
the tomb he'd built himself: ridiculous.
The scale of it ensured we won't forget
about him, although he is barely known,
this ancient satrap. Was he really missed?
He died, just like the rest of us, alone,
but nonetheless did make it on the list.
So what can one conclude for number five?
Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.
Dead, Mausulus was worth more than alive.
That couldn't have been said of Alexander.
The man had such enthusiasm and drive,
a wonder he had not wound up down under,
in conquering the world that we once knew
(that "we" above our "royal", Western asses)
Had he but lived, he might have followed through
and gathered the appeal of untold masses
from the Atlantic to the China Sea.
Eponymous, his cities, 'cross the planet.
A lighthouse made for everyone to see,
in Alexandria, from quarried granite,
must therefore make the list at number six.
We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!
We're nearly done, so let's review our picks!
The pyramids, the gardens, and the temple.
The statues and the segways to the Styx,
and Alexander, leading by example.
A lighthouse in the aforementioned city,
so tall, you would have seen it from the roads
to Karnak. It's long gone, and more's the pity.
To rival it, the gentle folk in Rhodes,
they built one of their own. No gentle giant,
a model for our Liberty, to boot,
it stood above the bay, lit up, defiant,
but ended up as plunder, prize and loot.
The lighthouse over Rhodes comes in at seven.
Oh mercy, I'm so glad there's not eleven.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to Gemini
So practiced in the art of self-deception
that mirrors feel no further need to lie.
The mind performs the trick, then takes exception
when shown a photo selfie that gets by
the brain's embedded filter. I look… beaten.
When did I get so derelict, so frail?
Why can't my vision sugarcoat and sweeten
this captured graven image? Does it fail
because it somehow knows the real story,
or does the mirror know some magic trick,
some unsuspected method to say sorry,
you cannot see this, lays it on so thick
you're shocked when forced to see the real you.
Turns out it's hardest to thine self be true.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to GPT
My muse resides in a museum,
trapped in a painting, as a nude.
The one next to the Colosseum,
yeah, that one. She is shown pursued
by young Apollo, horny bastard.
A Rubens, but before he mastered
some of his skills. At any rate,
they say she's somewhat overweight.
It was a time before Ozempic,
and muses seeking to indulge
would lose the battle of the bulge,
but that's a battle he let them pick.
Who? Rubens. Captor of my muse.
A lady who refused to lose.
Author notes: image generated by author prompt to ChatGPT