Pitfalls of the Search
the mosaic of history,
too many missing pieces
unexplained,
too many labyrinths and cul de sacs
hindsight,
no less a hazy scene,
a mirage, a maze,
full of ghosts, phantoms and boasts,
learning from
blurred foggy events,
misted and distorted
full of ego reported,
,
slanted and transplanted
how is one to sift the true
from the false,
discern fact from faith
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Flights
Little sparrow, little sparrow
The prince is gone
Romance and magic flown
Little sparrow, little sparrow
Why do you circle round,
Round the hospital ground
And courtyard littered, concrete
Of facade gray, fading yellow red
Flocks and flocks a circling
Circling to escape sun beams
Seek holes and niches
Crevices and crannies
To nest in concrete
Tweeting calling, thrill of flight
Come in bands and crowds
Crowds and flocks
Each no bigger than my palm
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Universal of Mammalians
we all spent time in a womb,
nurtured, we were told
it was a time of
pleasure and warmth
what if it's not true,
and the embryo,
fights for each moment,
against its mentor
for freedom
but dominated,
is forced to comply
or die
the pain of confinement
so great that,
we burst upon the world
with a cry of anguish
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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A Touch Is A Touch
feeling, flowing free and fleeting,
floating swimming on waves of neurons
pulsing skipping, somersaulting,
up, down and around resounding
in cogito or incognito, wrapped enveloped
till a drowsy psyche wishes
or willful consciousness
put more meaning
each road a different scenario
rapport by lexis or gesture
clothed the naked feeling
with fine raiment and ornament
Deco, Art Nouveau. or Rococo
tones of Gregorian or jazz
glimmering suns and cotton clouds
silky and diaphanous ethereal transparent
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Transplant
After I had my pride taken out,
Humility implanted, it still didn't help
Breathing together, every time I aked you countered
With a question, Why can't I get a straight answer
And then emotions flared into super-novas, implicatures
Tracers that whizzed, contingencies loomed in front
Combatants smelling each other, before the embrace,
Of hammerlock, no holds barred, till surrender or withdrawal,
Then one foot steps on the ego of the other,
To declare, I am the king of the mountain
The prize no longer priceless, a deflated inner tube
Lies flatulent and unattractive
Like the useless pride, but then I had something
Now we both have nothing
Why did you tread on me
poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Quite Simple
a billion cells
more or less
make me
what I am in excess
egress and the want
to guess,
beneath my skin
rippling rivers,
juices of life flow on
different layers
levels staked up,
against each other
turgid and pulsing
synchronized to beat
in unison,
electrical charges of sensations,
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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The Day Magic Died
I sat down and cried, wondered why, magic died
Do you know of its demise,
Now I fear and dare not dream of miracles
And how we came about, and fables full of doubt
How could God let magic die and pass away
Now who will believe in Him who made the world in 6 days
All the devils sinners and dragons have gone to hell
All the martyrs, god's men and goodmen in heaven to dwell
Magic died, no more gimmicks tricks, miracles of wonderland
All the king's witches and wizards can't bring magic back again
Though I cry at the shores of reason, they're brushed away
By winds of logic and real, mathematics and steel
Come out and play with me, I would see the magic of your glee
but you say magic has died, I cannot play till we find to where he went
and why, magic come back, make us free to dream and hope for more
poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Which Side Are You On
Which Side Are You On
Why do we think one victim
suffers more than the other
one deserves more sympathy
than the other
What guides us to identify more
with one and not the other
rhetoric that plays on emotions
twangs heart strings in one country
Falls on deaf ears else where
the same terrorist is judged
as patriot and martyr
A criminal act becomes moral
why do we equate a suicide terrorist
with terminaing the controllers
in fact why do we equate one act
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Our Grandchildren
my grandchildren are children of my children,
sounds quite Biblical,
grandchildren are my children once emoved,
neither born nor reared under our roof
the status clear but the state of mind,
unwilling to grow apart is painful and smarting,
each time we see them, a growing warmth,
shining reflections, thrills of yesteryear
crowding the senses, choked with emotion,
we are drowned with sympathies of surrender
symphonies of hugs and embracing,
to kiss and to hold these children of our children
this affinity is like no other, special and particular
reserved only for them, a set, set aside, as we
incessantly seek to find resemblances and like,
about these children of our loins and womb,
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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Spirits, Spirit, and Spiritual
alchohol of drink goes in
dormant spirits come out,
other sly spirits enter, stir up
memory of secrets devout,
routed from every corner and furrow,
leak, trickle flow, expand and fill
the wells, run over the brims, to tell of
sordid and grim, prideful and sinful
mundane and inane or of din and import,
in language sad of humorous, full of
simile and metaphor, ambiguity intensional
or unconscious, cognative or unknowing,
once out, starts talking and walking
on the strength of its self,
having a life, splits and gives birth
to some of its own, designed or disowned
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poem by Shimon Weinroth
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