New Blog Name - From Amid the Whirlwind

I am moving my blogs to a new address, to make my communication smoother. Too many webmails, too little time. I should have the new site populated tonight, BE"H'.

My stories and poems that were published here and at Ohel Yaakov will now be found at:

Fromamidthewhirlwind.blogspot.ca.

I hope to see you there...

:)

Yishai

B"H' yom yom.

Dessert

When you see me
Your eyebrows frown
Lips purse
But your back
Your lovely back
Straightens
Your eyes dart
Both sides
Making sure we are alone
In our crowded room
Then, you smile
Your shy, sly smile
Knowing only I will see it
I smile back
Your blush
Is the most
Beautiful
Sight
I have ever seen
 

Victory

Today I won
My war

Countless years I lived
On tuna fish and
Humus
Always moving
So they could not aim
Sleeping by day
Fighting by night

Not one day
Not one
I did not spill blood
One arm ruined
An eye socket
Smashed
I have crawled through
Fetid mangrove swamp
Torn leeches from bleeding armpits

I have killed with
A knife
A necklace
A book of poetry
And a spoon.
Whatever works, they say
It's all good
If you make it home
Alive

Some years alone
In darkened caves
No fire to betray
Licking moss and
Waiting

Some years pressed
Into stinking trucks
Rotting canvas
Diesel smoke and
Human stench
My neighbor's rifle
Stabbing me
With each jerk of
Screeching, skinny tires

Some years
I dug a shallow grave
And hid in it
In muddy garb
Cutting strips of burlap
Until I looked like a shrub
My enemy, overrunning us,
Walked on me
Thinking me a corpse
I ate rats then
Caught them with my teeth
      Immobilized
By cold and pain

Ash and dust rain down
Empty wasteland where
Cities once stood
The soil is crusted with
Thick white salt
No tree remains
No sheep or goats
The air still, no bird song
I razed the world
To win my war

Today I won my war.
I know it
Because there is no-one
Left to fight.

Old Mill

As a boy
I caught His fancy
Chubby cheeks need pinching
Tender bottom needs spanking
Dandelion hair needs yanking
Tiny limbs need binding

Squeezed flat under glass
A pressed wildflower
I sat countless days
Alone
Watching
Listening
Smelling
Rubbing blades of grass
Between stubby fingers

There the river
Ice floes rapids currents floods
There the mill
Six workers buried deep
Within its limestone walls
Behind me, an old drunk
Kicks his dog
I am still
I barely breathe
If I am still,
Perhaps
Death cannot find me.

Seven.
I was seven
When you made the world
My prison,
Locked me in
And threw away the key

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Curry smell and
Silver fish
Greet me as I come
home
Down unlit steps
To murky dark
My foot slips
I totter
And hope
Safely at the bottom
I wonder
What I was hoping for

Fatherhood

You were always the most cliché of boys

How gauche

Teeth like milk

Eyes like deers’

Perfect locks

Impossible to ignore

 

There I sat

A monster

Scarred immobile

Barley live

A nightmare waiting to happen

To someone like you

 

You fought mightilly

Remaining fixed

Entrenched in your position

In your mother’s womb

Until they cut you free

 

When I first saw you I knew

I had never known fear

My exhalation

A gale to you

My hands  a lion’s paws

I could swallow you

With my eye

 

How could I explain?

You were too small

For even the tiniest words

One mistake and you might

Grow up

Like me

 

How could I explain

My life

Everything I treasure

In a small

Worn

Satchel?

How could I sever

An umbilicus

That had no flesh?

 

We travel light

We move fast

Sleeping in clothes means

No wasted time

Crackers and cheese

A delight fit only for

Shabbat

 

I am no different

A wanderer

A gypsy

A dream

 

An elusive fox,

Cunning and witty

I escaped everyone

Then you – no chess player –

One move: “I am here!”

And my pretense is finished

 

I see your skin

Purple of royalty

I see my trembling peasant hands

And I know

I had never known love

Morning Questions

 

Is love a pathology?

Is it crazy to care?

Is it stupid to dream?

Is believing in G-d

A sin?

Why does G-d seem to hate

Good and love

Evil?

Why are some lives

Uneventful

Others

Loss and grief and pain

Why does He seem to

Laugh at His creation?

Can I reduce myself

To moral rules?

Of what value

To be

Unique?

Do I still

Have herbal tea?