Poetry Partners #91 'Morphine Drip', a poem by LaToya Williams of 'mentalnotes1' For Halloween I want to be a morphine drip To let the sun dry me up And run healing through this broken cup But there is no sun in October And the weather is always better after the rain The atmosphere is clearer… Continue reading Garden, or: Eden
Papa's fingers Papa was supposed to visit us in August of 2018, but his unexpected death came that July, just before his intended visit to Israel. I last saw him in person in the summer of 2017. One of the last memories I have of Papa is him showing me his right hand. He bent… Continue reading The case of the stiff fingers
An American sentence: On Shabbat, smokers forgo cigarettes. Would I could write poetry. What's an 'American Sentence'? Allen Ginsberg, inventor of the American Sentence, felt that the haiku didn’t work as well in English. Ginsberg decided to remove the line structure of the haiku, maintaining the requirement of 17 syllables total. He felt that removing… Continue reading Lighting a fire, or: Writing
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
A Cywydd Llosgyrnog What once was surely sight unseen, Today's bards verse without caffeine. Their minds keen, while mine's blurry. My mornings ~ always viscous slogs 'Til I've oiled old, unwilling cogs, Mind defogged and deflurried.
A landay The first line left him trembling, sweaty; his racing heart convulsed at the second, longer line When I have a creative insight, there is a high. I think back in the day, I made music as much as I did because it made me feel so good. I think you could argue that… Continue reading Lines, or: The healthy kind
A musette Her toes pushing away her clothes Needed that fix; please! she pleaded Muses benumbed by wine bruises
My 1st copla real One point at the back of my head That is where all the caffeine goes I quiver, held up by a thread Until thick dark ambrosia flows Without which I'd rather be dead Lethargy and feebleness spread My mind convulsing in dry throes Running late is what I most dread While… Continue reading Coffee, or: Ambrosia
The Skeptic's Kaddish 🇮🇱 
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