Raw Deal, or: Total Recall

A dribble The USA invaded Iraq when I was in fifth grade \\ I recall our teacher telling us to write supportive letters to our soldiers. The dribble The dribble is a brief poem consisting of exactly 100 letters (not 100 characters—spaces and punctuation are not counted). The name of the dribble is derived from… Continue reading Raw Deal, or: Total Recall

When a naked person offers you a shirt…

I don't trust people who don't love themselves and tell me, 'I love you.' … There is an African saying which is: Be careful when a naked person offers you a shirt.-Maya Angelou (1928 – 2014) P.S. I have a personal fondness for Maya Angelou that goes beyond my appreciation for her art. I very… Continue reading When a naked person offers you a shirt…

Little game, or: Thrill me

Perhaps it was the I remember the bus stop by the brown field Empty no man's land between the houses with a couple of small How old was I in second or third grade? Nine years old I suppose Maybe eight houses down from ours maybe less It's all so hazy Those two small trees… Continue reading Little game, or: Thrill me

The prime minister’s yarmulke

A non-political post about Israeli politics Naftali Bennett's yarmulke In writing about Israel's new government recently, I mentioned in passing that our new prime minister is the first one to wear a yarmulke in public all the time. Former PM Netanyahu wore a yarmulke at special events, but not daily. Upon taking office, PM Bennett… Continue reading The prime minister’s yarmulke

Stars, or: Cyanide

Memories free in verse I remember entire apples consumed, only stems remained to be thrown away I remember wet crunching sounds even as I was still cutting mine into slices I spread thick peanut butter, too much of, it on apples, as he did, but his used to be spread upon the skin; then all… Continue reading Stars, or: Cyanide

Final words, or: Oeuvre

My 1st dizain The poet sat watching the page fill up; words, once warm, flowed forth freely from his vein; nothing his heart's oeuvre could interrupt, that stream of pleasure, love, memories, pain, for mere existence had become a strain; came the day when one thing remained to write, when the writer felt exhaustion's cold… Continue reading Final words, or: Oeuvre