I Write My Mother A Poem
by Fleda Brown
Sometimes I feel her easing further into her grave,
resigned, as always, and I have to come to her rescue.
Like now, when I have so much else to do. Not that

she'd want a poem. She would have been proud, of course,
of all its mystery, involving her, but scared a little.
Her eyes would have filled with tears. ( Read more... )

שיר מאת שלמה אביו:

את שהיית
תקוה ממשית כלחם
היה לי שמך
לסיוט חרטה.
        הנה ראי,
כברשת חוטים
עין ועוד עין
בי נקרעת.

אולם,
     חושבני,
          עוד מעט
אחלים ודאי מהחלומות.
ואז אלמד אפילו -
איך להסכין לצלקת,
איך מתפרים להרחיק
                    אצבעות.

A Poison Tree
a poem by William Blake

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with a foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it ( Read more... )

Nothing but
a period to
condense
my life.
just a
Dot
.

Zohar.