Daughter of Zion

What crushes my soul,

More than anything else

Is the nagging thought,

“You’ll never feel your spouse.”

I suppose I thwart myself because of it.

What is the wealth of nations

Without someone to love?

The thought of being rich is frightening.

What’s more frightening is being rich

Without a woman who loved me when I was poor.

What’s more frightening

Is being poor, without a woman

And never eating from this labor.

 

My own stink rises up to my nostrils…

That foul smell of pajamas

Which were worn a little too long.

The smell of sleep.

Sleep… though ever pleasant

Scares me.

To sleep a life away

In my own stink…

 

Frankly, I’d share this body with my wife

And I’d be happy

Though poor.

But, the looming catastrophes lurk somewhere…

Are there trustworthy women?

I don’t know.

Seduction is an art…

There are men, many of them,

Who will seduce even the best of women.

There are women, the best of women,

Who turn bad, and then seduce the foulest of men.

 

So, I look at the riches.

I can eat…

Be praised.

Praise and wealth scare me.

I say to God, “If you can add no sorrows to it,”

Which, I forecast the sorrows of success.

Two times thwarted

I had the greats read me.

Pilidod Grass looks fine

And so does the harvest bread…

It will satisfy me if my bonny lass

Waits for me.

 

I’ll love her when she has mud

Upon her boots, and the dung of cows

Plastered on her worn out shoes.

Her hair tawny, and a mess

With a frown on her face because the cow gave no milk.

Her father waiting in the pantry,

For her milk to come, and the look of sheer astonishment on her face

When her favorite cow—she’d call it a heifer—

Didn’t give the milk needed.

Crying, she’ll go,

Where her father will beat her

For disobeying her…

Calling hers slack hands

Like mine…

Always disciplined for hard work

Thus it’s all we can do

To sit side saddled on our furniture

In our pajama stink.

Because work,

When we enjoyed it,

When we made the slightest mistake

That we could not control,

Was always disciplined.

Her with a rod,

I with a cruel rod too…

My dove…

Shunned by the ones I love

Because the utters didn’t produce milk.

And sure enough, my family and friends would go,

And miraculously—or otherwise cynically—

Pull and get a long draw of precious milk.

As if I’d never drawn milk from a cow…

They’d then tell me to draw the milk.

And it would work.

Happen to be…

They’d also know I tried

And would still discipline me.

 

What crushes my soul is that I have married a strange wife…

Like Elijah in Nehemiah,

Yet I cannot awaken from my sleep.

Be my muse tonight,—

A beautiful Savant has had visions

She has shown you happy with me

But impervious to the outside world.

Rightly, my suitors are chosen by God.

Which one would I want?

I don’t know, o’ angel spoken of in the pilidod grass.

Loneliness creeps very close to all of us…

The Laurel, the Savant, the Gift from God.

 

No… there is one for me…

I just have to choose.

Though I cannot…

We both mourn for this world

O’ Daughter of Zion.

It seems like sadness is in all men’s bones.

 

 

If you like my poetry, please click on the link and purchase a copy of my books.

 

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=B.+K.+Neifert&ref=nb_sb_noss_2

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