http://www.ancient-hebrew.org/28_chart.html
The language your forefathers spoke
Dwells in your images.
Faces bleed with feeling.
Bodies rise out like rocks.
Your self portrait sings
Me,myself.I am.
As God spoke from the burning bush
You took the flame and ran
Choose a heap of words and make a form
The words may not be right but such is charm
Once you’ve made a heap of stones, of brick
You can shape it with your poetics
Treat it like a sculptress does her clay
Hit it, mould it, make it go your way
But, oh, beneath its hidden shape and show
The poem knows such life you’ll never know.
Get it in your arms and so you twist
A pile of soft cement with woman’s wrist
Kick it, scratch it, bite it, sip its dew
The poem is having its own way with you.
As we wrestle in our clay stained cloth
We feel the rising of our hidden wrath.
So at the end, we mould it with our souls
The poem itself has shaped the dual goal.
Thus master, mistress none can take the name.
For inner demons, gods have died in vain
Until the very end of time I’ll be loving you.
Until the end of all my rhymes,I’ll be writing you.
Until the day I die,I’ll be unintentionally annoying you.
Older and older,I’ll never leave you,but I will,no doubt, grieve you and
deceive you, misperceive you
and misconstrue my meter when I am writing for you and
I can’t stop to get the right rhythm
Otherwise I’ll think of you,wink at you and make a hypnotic link to you
For now,my fingers will be all over you..looking for fleas in your clothes, and
for for mice in your shoes.
I’ll be looking for tears in your eyes
and making you feel surprised.
Do you speak Estuary English?
You spun me a tale…..
Love your particular detail,like you are male.
You have small hands and feet.
And you can smile.
Love may fail
Though it has no examinations.
Or recriminations
So I’ll stop showing love to you
And find something wise to do without you
like making a Christmas Cake
Yes,I can bake
What do you hate?
Hypothermia made me write so well
The pen froze to my hand and would not leave
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell
Just in case my head should start to swell
I made myself a hat from dried brown leaves
Hypothermia made me write real well
The government is giving us free bells
So they will ring whenever we’re deceived
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell
Hell is very fiery but with gel
I can get it clean from all disease
Hypothermia made me write,oh very well
I tell a lie, the cold invades my cells
I can’t clean yet a bottle in a breeze
They’ve offered me a job dry cleaning Hell
My husband is asthmatic, he can wheeze
He has inhalers as his lungs will tease
Hypothermia made me write so well
They’ve offered me a column, what the hell
How my heart sings 