Light, medium, or: Dark

My 1st Sheshire A memory still gnaws at me; I was self-righteous in my youth. One week, my parents had headaches; Erring, they'd bought... decaf coffee. A jerk, I smirked, learning the truth Of their addiction and mistake. Then, in college, t'was a café... Across the street from my dorm room. I'd drink cappuccinos and… Continue reading Light, medium, or: Dark

Beings, or: Doings

My 2nd Cadralor In the form of 5 Kimos the friction creates heat; sulfur ignites; wicks darken, bursting aflame; ancient words recited song fills the sanctuary, welcoming a bride, eternal, gifted to the generations feet filing out onto the street amidst friendly banter, dispersing; cars remain parked outside arousing aromas wafting; lentil soup, turmeric rice,… Continue reading Beings, or: Doings

Life is meaningless unless you bring meaning to it…

Everything in this world has a hidden meaning.-Nikos Kazantzakis (1883 – 1957) It's in responsibility that most people find the meaning that sustains them through life. It's not in happiness. It's not in impulsive pleasure."-Jordan Peterson (b. 1962) Death gives meaning to our lives. It gives importance and value to time. Time would become meaningless… Continue reading Life is meaningless unless you bring meaning to it…

Micropoetry, a reflection

My entry into micropoetry Recently, as I've noted, I completed a series of 365 micropoems, all of which I've scheduled to be posted on my Twitter account at a rate of one per day until Dec. 31st, 2021 (actually, until Jan. 1st, 2022). This experience, as you can imagine, has given me a feel for… Continue reading Micropoetry, a reflection

Balagan, or: *Sigh*

My 1st Cadralor In the form of 5 Kimos countless Russian and English children's books; last week's newspaper; a child's fairy robe on the couch nearly to the ceiling, six shelves, volumes of Jewish texts; mementos; tchotchkes; toys; games; clutter including chairs, one-third of the room for the wooden table, strewn with laptop; wires; watch;… Continue reading Balagan, or: *Sigh*

It is never our tenderness…

When death, the great reconciler, has come, it is never our tenderness that we repent of, but our severity.-George Eliot (1819 – 1880) A personal thought Written as an American Sentence This must include tenderness (versus severity) towards ourselves. P.S. Yom Kippur (the holiest day of the year for Jews) runs from sunset on Wednesday to… Continue reading It is never our tenderness…