Born For It

colomba pasquale

Italian Colomba Pasquale

In the name of love
I made a sweet dove.
For all that rises
and a simple truth advised.
The scent still found,
on the torn wing of
declarations drowned.
Was it mine to remind
of a plea to be kind?
I thought that you knew
of course, it’s for you.



7 responses to “Born For It

  1. Richard Marcus

    Dear J/A , I stumbled across your wonderful blog while searching for an exact quote from Peter Altenberg (whose Evocations On Love pretty much saved my sanity decades ago). Initially your thoughtful writing inspired me to send you one of my more serious poems but then I came across this section of your work and, well, there seemed to be no question that I had to address your forays into a universe which I and my waist are all to familiar. Therefore… A Bagel Is More Than A Jewish Donut
    Richard Marcus

    A bagel is more than a Jewish donut,
    More than a roll with a hole.
    More than a strange English muffin.
    A bagel’s got bagely soul.

    It is something a baby can teethe on.
    The true home of cream cheese and lox.
    Bagels are put on the hulls of big boats,
    To keep them from hitting the docks.

    A bagel’s a friend.
    A bagel’s a buddy.
    A bagel never forgets.
    Bagels as hard as bricks and concrete
    Make wonderful weapons and pets.

    A bagel is kind.
    A bagel’s well rounded.
    A bagel is wholesome and neat.
    I’ve seen bagel Boy Scouts
    On busses and subways
    Graciously give up their seats.

    A bagel is brilliant,
    The Einstein of bread,
    The Shakespeare of flour, inspired,
    The Rolls Royce of noshing,
    The Buick of Bulk,
    And as chewy as one of the tires.

    I once knew a man who was struck by a bagel,
    It gave him such a “potch” that he schvitzed!
    Yet, I heard him exclaim,
    “I would rather be maimed
    By a bagel, than crippled by Ritz.”

    First given to Israelites fleeing from Egypt,
    Who cried, “A schmear on matzo destroys it!
    Smoked salmon on manna?
    That’s a pox on the lox!
    Such a mess just to fress, who enjoys it?”

    So God looked around and saw the angels,
    With the heavenly light ‘round their heads,
    He thought, “What if I coil, then boil, then bake
    A halo, out of some kind of bread?”

    And that was the gift (along with those tablets)
    That let the Jews know they were chosen,
    But then some schmuck said “Can I make a buck
    If I made them in flavors and froze ‘em?”

    So bagels today? Feh!
    They’ve gone to extremes,
    Gluten free? Low carb? Makes me gag;
    Vegan-schmaggegan? Tofu-banana?!
    It’s like eating a bagel in drag.

    But in hard times like these,
    A real bagel’s a comfort,
    Like a warm teething ring we can eat.
    They fill us with love, they fill us with joy,
    Not to mention two pounds of wheat.

    So when you’re worried or tired,
    Outsourced or fired,
    Caught in the grind and the crunch,
    Stagger right into your neighborhood bagelry
    And take a nice bagel to lunch.

    Copyright, 2002, All Rights, Richard Marcus

    5230 SW Custer St.
    Portland, OR 97219
    (503) 788-9967

  2. Oh my. That is wonderful. You can not know how much I enjoyed that. Not to mention that I am so happy not to be alone in that particularly alluring universe!
    And Altenberg is a gem.

    • Richard Marcus

      Well, now isn’t this fun. I always knew that this cyber/Inter/web doo-hickey would come in handy one day. Enjoyed your sweet lilting poem. Again I must respond. I believe this one vibrates at somewhat the same frequency and oscillation. Jesus Dreams Of Chakra Petals

      Jesus dreams of Chakra petals,
      Tao kites,
      Kabala science fiction,
      Upanishad Westerns,
      Santeria romance and
      Agnostic Mysteries of the Universe.
      He can’t help it.
      He keeps them to Himself.
      But occasionally he’ll forget one,
      In the pocket of a robe,
      Or at a bar,
      Or on a park bench.
      And it will fall to earth.

      The dreams don’t belong to Jesus,
      Just as they don’t belong
      To Buddha, Allah or Krishna,
      They only dream of each other,
      Meaning: They only dream of themselves.
      But they leave behind their scent,
      Their web sites,
      Cable access programming,
      The numbers where they can be reached.

      You find those numbers in your dreams,
      And on your walks.
      You keep them to yourself.
      You fail to mention them.
      Even though they burn through your palms,
      And pockets.
      You fail to check with anyone.
      Like, maybe, that voice in your head
      Might be a good thing?
      That maybe, you are the dream vessel
      For the reverie of luminous petals,
      And science fiction,
      And mysteries.
      Just maybe?

      You act
      As if it’s all too much;
      As if you had something better to do.
      You act
      As if you’ve failed.
      It doesn’t make sense but you live with it,
      Like you do with kites and cliff hangers
      Falling up.

      Falling up,
      Even as the petals open,
      Like the palms of your hands open,
      The petals,
      Cupped in the palms of your hands,
      Which you bring close to your breast,
      To your heart,
      And they burn through you,
      Consuming you over and over.

      Maybe that should tell you something.
      That maybe,
      Just maybe
      That Christ, Buddha, etc.,
      Even Adi Parashakti,
      Mother of all of them,
      Comes from inside you,
      Burning out,
      And what you hear
      Are the deaths of squandered stars,
      Of a falling brilliance.
      You know: “Stars?”
      Whose light you do not feel for light years.
      Whose heat you do not feel mixing
      With some personal religion,
      (One that names constellations,
      That navigates astral kites on solar winds.
      Navigates; not falling.
      Then falling. Then not falling.
      Like a dream of petals).
      Whose light is a dream,
      That consumes carbon and molecules,
      Sending the fire of the petals’ flames
      Back into its creator as an offering.
      As another dream,
      Another chance to dream.

      Do you hear that?
      Yes. You hear that.
      Can you do that?
      Yes. You can do that.
      Will you?
      Maybe not.
      If you tell yourself
      It’s just Jesus forgetting.
      Does he ever?

      • Richard Marcus

      5230 SW Custer St.
      Portland, Oregon 97219

      (503) 788-9967

      • Tremendous. And what a fantastic segue from doo-hickey. I love it. Thank you!

      • Richard Marcus

        Okay, then…So I did go to your Facebook page…I find that difficult to do because it always feels like I’m being something between eavesdropper nosy and a stalker. I’m not exactly a Luddite – just a member of the Boomer Generation (62) which is still utterly sure that A: We’re all still 27 B: We have a complete lock on communicating music and all things important. C: The Eagles and The Band were freakin’ great and we’re waaaay better parents than our parents.
        D: Those of us who have evolved past Woodstock (I was actually there!) d also realize that we are an amazingly self-centered, obnoxious but somehow still entertaining generation. That being said I prefer talking on the phone and going to coffee.
        (Note: There was even this method of correspondence where we’d take a piece of actual paper and a pen and write on the paper, then put it inside another piece of paper and then take a third, tiny piece of paper with glue on the back and…But I digress)
        So, if you’d care to respond, my e-mail address is

  3. This was amazing!

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