![The Tel by Darren Kaufman - Ourboox.com The Tel by Darren Kaufman - Ourboox.com](https://ourboox-media-prod.s3.eu-west-1.amazonaws.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/ourboox-image-bank-0131-500x500.jpg)
Her Little Red Dictionary
Pages, yellowed by the tides of time
washing over them
Inside,is a note
which must be unfolded, carefully
The paper now old and frail
like the sinew of a decaying corpse
Barely visible words,
the definition of metaphor
scrawled in class
to remember for an exam long ago
She is frozen in time
Stolen from our gently flowing waters
Now just a treasured memory upon the riverbank
White and pure in remembrance
Like a new book’s pages
Young and strong
A tear
when I remember why
Her little red dictionary
is so withered, withered
And old
Graduation Tassel
Which hung from her rear view mirror
Green and gold threads and
the year that time stopped
to become a seared memory
When dreams fell from our tree
and turned brown
I found it in a small box and
opened it slowly
An archeologist peering into an an ancient tomb
And remembering everything
The Haunted House
Can you see it?
Perched upon my throat
With rooms and corridors
that echo yesterday’s pain
behind closed doors
And a basement
where Kaddish is recited
everyday
And mourning is not allowed to end
Pullin’ the Sled
I’m lead dog now
No one out front but me
to cut through the headwind
Gotta blink the snow outta’ my eyes and
think where I’m goin’ all of the time
Can’t be careless no more
Got the whole pack followin’ me through the storm
I get lost, they get lost
Can’t get tired
Or at least can’t show it
Get stuck in this kinda storm is bad news
Miss watchin’ that strong back
lead us through the snow
I’ll admit to you
(but don’t tell no one!)
Sometimes when it gets tough
I imagine him out there
out in front of me
Leadin’ the way
Surrender
Only G-d can part the waters and alter the forces of cause and effect. Only G-d is everywhere, within and without. Moses parted the Red Sea, but only by surrendering to G-d and letting His power flow through his shepherd’s staff. We must think, plan, try our best, and do the work. But then, ultimately, we must surrender our heart and soul and our lives to G-d, accept where He takes us. The current of His river cannot be overcome no matter how strong a swimmer you fancy yourself. Surrender. Feel the sun dry your wet skin. Watch the orange glow at sunset. You have been given the gift of another priceless day. Slumber and rejoice with the new dawn; each new dawn. They are finite. Baruch Ashem.
The Funeral
I am Ashkenazai
I can weep iron tears
Of strength
In the deepest valley of parched
Bone bleached despair
Under a blazing desert sun
And the shimmering mirage
Of heat rising from the dried bed
Of an ancient oasis, long gone
Kaddish will still be recited
Even if just the murmuring of
Parched lips and a cracking voice
Exiting the funeral parlor into
A quiet room off to the side
The door closed behind the
Din of friends and relatives
I look up
Beyond the ceiling
Towards Heaven, asking
Why?
And accept the silence
As wisdom.
Cemetery Nights
Headlight beams
startle the dead
For even they slumber in the quiet night
Names
date of birth and death
illuminated
Swallowed back into the darkness
as my car passes them
and they turn back over and resume
their sleep
For who can harm them now?
Beyond the reach of mortal hand
All evil that can be done to them
has been done
No more can be
Undone
And she too, now, numbers within their ranks
Row upon row
Bunk beds of final resting
I keep the car running
Cold outside
Always windy
I see the name, my surname
The dates too close together
Eighteen years between naming and Kaddish
Put the car into gear and start to drive away
Try not to look back
But I always stop before I get out the gate
look back
and see her lonely name upon the stone
and wave goodbye as if she could see me
and hope she doesn’t see my tears
At Sea
I remember
the safe harbor of youth
the tacking into gentle wind
shore still in sight
my youthful vessel flanked by familiar convoy
flying our colors in noon sky
Hulls pristine
Without time’s barnacles
I saw her ship struck
Broadside by a rogue wave in
White squall
Capsized and gone in a moment
Nightmares of a drowning
Voice
Calling to me
Calling my name in the storm beneath
Howling sea-
Death
Silent
Hand outstretched towards me
The skeletal abode of coral and anemone
And eye socket crabs
Looking out upon the ocean floor
I saw his hull’s gall
As he unfurled
Sailing before the star crossed wind
To outrun the Pirate
Cannonade firing amidst billowing sails and gunpowder smoke
Until, with powder depleted
A warrior’s Howl
Cutlass and pistol in hand
Throwing himself upon the black flagged deck
Fighting until he
Died fighting
And
Here I am
With my own billowing sails
His compass in my hand
And charts bequeathed to
Guide me (and consulted often!)
I see other ships on the horizon
But they are far away
And will remain unknown to me
Just as well
Best to keep my eyes on the weather
And the night sky’s stars
Spending my time with the
Dead
Reckoning of latitude and longitiude
Caring for my crew , my mate
For we all die at sea
Absurd Me
I can see Things
In the pitch blackness
That you are blind to
Above my underground
Labyrinth
In the brightness
I squint
Blinded by
the bright light
Hold Firmly
Tene fortiter to the
Window pane little moth
My dear friend
What chrysalis’ journey
Have you endured
To alight upon this glass
This moment
With Your Angel’s wings
Drawn into the howling whirlwind
We look into each other’s eyes
From opposite sides of the plane
My hand outstretched
Tears meandering down
Carrying the alluvium of
Memories
Swept away in a gust
Of autumn leaves
I Wish I Could Talk to You Again
I know the sounds that my House makes
At times it shudders, shifts and shakes
Upon the stones,
foundations floor
Layers of lifetime’s painful lore
I hear the sounds
try pay no mind
And pray surcease
with passing time
But louder now the House extols
The fear and guilt
within my halls
Loud footsteps pace my basement floor
with Souls of shoes
walked in before
Specters now
but sounds they make
within a dream and while awake
Their voices echo in my room
I listen silent
as a tomb
And try to grasp each torn shroud’s shred
of conversations
With the Dead
Ghosts
Exist
In my mind
Or outside
Does it really matter?
For they are there just the same
The wind,
Or the settling of the house, or
Images in a nocturnal mirror
That are real or just
Reflected moonlight upon tired eyes
Rustling leaves and wind chimes
Melodies upon
Starving ears that yearn to hear those footsteps upon
The stones
Once more
Let them go
They say while
Packing their Things away into
Forgotten boxes that are sealed with tape
To silence the sounds of their memories, voices
Stacked one upon the other in a dark corner watching
As the last wisp of light is extinguished by
The closing door.
So now it is all fine and each
Memory is filed away and in its place.
No need to reexamine what was as
The waters of Now displace, erase
What was written in the sand Then.
Only once a year or thereabouts
Do we unpack them and let them come out and play with
A lighted candle
And a prayer
Angels
One
Noun
Is
But there are
Many Verbs
Winged cherubim
Messengers
Verbs
Some more powerful
Archangels
Of Noun’s thoughts
Upon this world
This predicate
Ripples
What is more real
The photograph or
Its taking?
The monument or
The events
The ripple of the pond
Or the pebble tossed
Now resting on seabed’s floor
Time
Or distance
What is the smallest piece
Of this fabric
And where does it go
When the lesser light has risen
And our day in the sun
Has passed away?
The photographs hang
Like windows
Gazing backwards
The Tel
A mound of invisible memories,
pain
Buried beneath our sands
The archeologists dig
to find our truth
as we lay on their couch talking
In our passion,
wine,
rage
Our bones are exposed
Until the sands bury them once again
Leaving Tels
Wittgenstein
No!
Whereof one cannot speak
THEREOF can be found the Truth
Truth
Is on this blank page
and in the silence
Published: Jul 21, 2015
Latest Revision: Jul 26, 2015
Ourboox Unique Identifier: OB-63583
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