Prayer for Peace

Power is not real power that must assert itself

against those who are less powerful.

Glory is not glory that is won at the expense

of others’ loss.

Victory is not real victory when the losers

are made to suffer.

True power understands itself and takes 

from others the least it can

and offers the most it can.

True glory is understanding in silent stillness

what has been given of the self

without expecting anything in return.

True victory is the maintenance of peace

even through the greatest inner turmoil.

Lord, thank you for giving me the power

to reach this understanding.

Thank you for the glory of having these words

read and understood.

Thank you for the victory of my own well-being.

And may you protect those who are fighting

for their right to live in peace 

and give understanding to those who 

now are lost in madness 

seeking false power

by shedding innocent blood.

2/24/2022

Raindrops fall upon my roof—

Just raindrops falling, just raindrops.

Nearly five-thousand miles away,

Bombs are falling in Ukraine—bombs.

Tears fall from my eyes—

Just tears falling, just tears.

Over a century ago, my relatives

Left Ukraine for America—a century ago.

They left to escape persecution,

Because they were Jews.

Now, Ukrainians are being killed

Because they are Ukrainians.

Rain falls on my roof. Bombs fall in Ukraine. 

Tears fall. Night falls. Dictatorships fall. Empires fall.

We are falling. How far must we fall

Before we raise our voices in unison

And cry out for Peace—the only thing

That can catch us?

Epitaph for a Poet

Here lies a man who was beloved

Of both fools and sages

And spoke more truth than lies;

Who never demanded respect

But often received it—

an honor born by mastery 

of the demons in his mind.

Atonement

I stepped on a worm just because

It was at my feet. Little did I know

That this worm was actually a god.

And though I had rendered it immobile,

In its godliness, it damned my soul

To a living Hell. Now I am an insect

Myself, and I crawl through fire and ash

Toward the foot of the god whom I

Once crushed. Will He show mercy

On me? I doubt it. But I have no choice

But to return to Him and offer my

Repentance. It is better to be crushed

By a god than to burn complacently

In the fires of Hell. It is better to atone

For one’s sins and then die than to

Walk blindly toward perdition

Carrying the weight of a mortal lie.

My Father Kicking Me Out of His House

Go! Go! Get out of this house! The shelter,

The roof that has kept the rain from your head,

 it was paid for by labor that was no easy task, 

it paid for the books that you hold so dear, 

the books that should lead you out of here! 

You can’t live off of ideas alone,

It takes toil, labor, dedication, the sweat of

The brow, the ache of the bone. You have amassed

A great deal of knowledge, but knowledge feeds

Only more knowledge, not the belly, nor can it

Build a home. You have toiled with words, but 

Always the same ones. How can you expect

The palace you’re building out of coarse and 

Rotting wood to attract any visitors, when only

A short trip away one can find palaces of gold? 

You are not Kafka, and even if you were, 

Kafka died obscure, and poor. Go! 

Earn your way toward a solitary peace

If you must, or if you want, find love—either way,

You won’t find it here. Begone! Your happiness

Lies elsewhere. Grow fat on your own food,

Let your own house fall to shambles. Rise

At dusk and sleep at dawn if you must. Just

don’t do it here. Earn a living, that is key!

The government needs money for more than

Just your monthly funds. You call yourself a poet,

But what does that even mean? It means

You are broke, and you know it! Get out!

Go! Leave this house right now! There are 

Places that will take you, there are jobs

To be done—you may not enjoy them

But they must be done, and they will teach

You how to be patient, how to survive.

Your mother is tired of you and your messes,

The smell of tobacco on your clothes.

I am tired of watching you lay on the couch

Reading in languid repose. You are thirty-six

Years old! Get out! Get out of this house!

Make something of yourself! Do you want

To be a child for the rest of your life,

Because that is where you’re headed.

Self-entitled, careless, lazy, child!

You say you want a woman, but do you expect

She’ll support you? That’s not how it works,

No. That is ridiculous. It just isn’t right!

Get a job, man! Do your share! It’s almost as if

You didn’t care. Get out! Go! Pack your things!

You’ve proven nothing with these ridiculous writings.

I cleaned toilets, I scrubbed floors, I worked in markets,

I did chores! What have you done? Nothing, or rather,

Not enough! It’s time to be a man! It’s time to get tough!

Stand tall, be strong, don’t complain! Get out of this house!

And remember, I won’t always be here to help you

Should you end up homeless, or worse, insane.

Supposedly

Supposedly, I should find beauty

In the paintings, the great books,

The trees and flowers, the sunrise

And sunset. Supposedly, the wine

Should give me pleasure, as should

The fine foods, the fine architecture,

The music and the poetry. Supposedly,

I should find pleasure in people, their

Good humor, their fine company.

Supposedly I should laugh at the 

Witty jokes, dance to the music

And romp with the children in 

The fields. Supposedly, I should 

take off and see the world,

which, undoubtedly, is full of 

wonders. I should look up

at the night sky, and name all

the constellations. Supposedly,

I should write poetry, and share

it with the world. Supposedly,

I should do all these things

Because that is what life is for.

And yet, I ask myself again and

Again, what is the point when 

In all things, I see her eyes,

In all music, I hear her voice?

It is as if I have been exiled

From my homeland, cut from

The roots of my very being,

All because I cannot see her,

All because I cannot be with her,

And see those lovely eyes.

Supposedly, I should be content

With my lot—I have means to eat,

Means to live. But is this really life,

Is it a life worth living, knowing 

She is not mine?

Prayer

There is no fruit in the trees,

There is no soft and serenading breeze.

The sky is gray, the earth, fallow.

The people are dying of disease.

The rich have no compassion.

The poor are desperate, and aching

For change. The streets are filthy,

The young feel lost, and their parents

Are unable to reach them. Each night,

I lay in bed, unable to rest my head,

Because I sense something is coming

Which I am not prepared to face.

My worst fears are coming true,

And I don’t know what to do.

I continue to breathe, however faintly.

My heart beats, though I cannot feel it.

My life, to me, has become strange.

There are many whom I love, but

Where are they? They are far, far

Away. My mind is all tangled up

With desire—so foolish! And yet,

When I remember that You are there,

I sigh a sigh of relief. Whatever happens,

There will always be a prayer to speak.