What if . . .

I could simply shout your name,

stop the playing of this game,

not mince words. They’re all the same . . .

If what I know could make a sound

and slowly, come around around

again again, as if unbound.

If I could sing to you a song

and serenade you all night long

and just say screw it, nothing’s wrong

with living. loving. being, serving.

It is not a sweeping swerving

sense of anything deserving.

It is all about respect.

In the mirror, you reflect,

one small motion: genuflect.

Damn it dear, you caught me cussing!

On the floor I’m tossing, tussing,

turning, yearning, burning, fussing!

All I want is what you know:

one sweet garden that we grow,

here or there, We sow and sow . . .



And this too:


Shabbat Shalom, the first of a kind . . .

 

 

 

 

 

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