Darwin Killed God? Really?

Today I saw a program, on Documentary TV
(One of the still good channels, you must agree),
I heard them say, that Darwin killed God,
I thought that this, sounded a little odd
Since God has died many years ago,
He died of boredom, as everyone knows,
Since everybody claims ownership on the maker,
Monotheists, polytheists, Christian, Jew, Muslim or Quaker,
Since Adam and Eve, left the Garden of Eden,
(That we all know was in Mesopotamia and not in Sweden)
He let things go downhill,
Especially after the Cain incident, (now, there was a bitter pill),
The flood, Sodom, the Egyptian plagues,
It is a very long list (and it is not Craig’s),
So why blame poor Charles for God’s demise?
It is creationists versus evolutionists – no surprise,
Does anyone really think that the deity removal,
Would go so easy, without the almighty’s approval?
Us humans are so full of ourselves, we know best,
And after thousands of years, of the true God quest,
We still argue, kill, and maim in his name,
So maybe after all, God did die of shame.


What a crazy world we live in
World without values, sick to the core, the mortal sin,
This week a great man has passed away,
I looked, I listened, will anyone have a say?
Not a word was said, not a mention, not a tweet,
Václav Havel has died, gone for good, just pushed delete,
Havel, the writer, poet, initiator of the Prague declaration,
Fighter for human rights, so much world admiration,
Order of Canada too, yet nothing, not a word,
If he were alive, it would have been his theatre of the absurd,
But he is not, and we have news so much more important:
The Kardashian wedding, is Huge Heffner still potent?
In our world, today, Plato, Diogenes, Socrates, and Hume,
Would have died unheard from, destined for doom,
Today we have so much more, knowledge, wisdom, clear sailing,
We have Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, Obama, and Sarah Palin,
Had it not been my generation, had it not been my time,
I would also be laughing, but since it is, I rather be a mime.


Home, much more than a four-letter word,
You may play around with it, from serious to the absurd,
Yet it holds so much more, means everything,
In any language, any culture, from NY to Peking,
Just roll it on your tongue, “going home”, try it,
Even on your computer keyboard, right under “insert”,
“Coming Home”, “Going Home”, “home sweet home”,
Are part of our vocabulary, be it Paris or Rome,
What makes home what it is? What does it mean?
Home is the warmth, the essence of “being”,
The smile of your loved ones, when you walk in from the cold,
The place where your life, daily unfold,
The place where your family around the table gathers and sits,
Where your children come to visit you, (when time permits),
In the old days, we used to sit around the table, play scrabble,
Where you lectured the kids after they got into trouble,
Home is where you light the Shabbat and holiday candles, together,
With those that are here, today, for good and for better,
Home is where we light the candles, to keep us stronger,
On the Shiva and on YURZEIT, for those that are with us no longer,
Home is where your dreams are, your aspirations,
Home is for your hopes, and unfortunately frustrations,
Home is where you live, love, eat, sleep, read and write too,
And if you are lucky, home is where you will eventually part and say your adieu

My Special Treat

Every day I spoil myself, with my special treat,
It is my very secretive, stealthy, tasty retreat,
I know it is not much, you probably marvel, what is the fuss?
It seems so unimportant, there is almost nothing to discuss,
Yet it is the simple things, that make the biggest change,
Regardless if you agree, or find this very strange,
In my case the secret is – I know you will think it funny,
The reality is very simple, and does not cost any money,
It is my daily oatmeal cookie, my secret special recipe,
It will go well with lemonade, coffee, milk, even green tea,
I added a few ingredients, that make a completely new taste,
It will make your mouth water with delight, yet keep your thin waist,
I added Cayenne pepper, a dash of Ginger, a pinch of Turmeric,
Of course, you realise, the measurements are not British, but are Metric,
Thus every day after my daily exercises, when the body wants some carbs,
I indulge myself in my oatmeal cookie, and still can keep my abs

The Day Pavarotti Died

I was in my car, driving south on Yonge street,
Heading towards town, early September, the air was bitter sweet,
It was just before noon, the radio was playing a Mozart serenade,
A beautiful piece it was, when the announcer said,
Pavarotti – is gone, Luciano is dead – Pavarotti E Morto
No more Otello, Count Almaviva, and Rigoletto,
No longer Pagliacci, La Bohem, Tosca, and Turandot,
Pavarotti is no more, Pavarotti is naught….
Then it was obvious what is to come next…Nessun Dorma, naturally,
His best-known aria, the one that was his, like “Hello” to “Dolly”
There I was heading south in my car, tears down my cheeks, it’s a crime,
Singing Nessun Dorma with Pavarotti, one last time,
And although much has happened, since that cool September day,
In two thousand and seven – and Pavarotti operas I do often play,
Singing Pavarotti was never the same, no matter how hard I tried,
Since that cool September day, the day Pavarotti died

My Grandpa

My Grandfather, I cannot visualize or recall his face,
I was only three or four years old, I guess,
I remember he was tall, (Well tall for me, a four-year-old child),
Always with his blue working cloths, He was a farmer, with manners mild,
After milking the cows, He would load the huge milk aluminum jugs
Was tying them securely, on the flat bed platform carriage, to avoid snags,
Then he would walk the big grey horse backward into place,
And fit the horse into the harness, girth, the collar and the reins,
A warm blanket on the platform behind the horse, was laid
Then he lifted me with his strong farmer’s hand
And I found myself seated looking at the horse’s tail,
Praying, that the horse was constipated, so I can live to tell my tale,
Then my grandfather sat himself beside me, cracked the long leather whip
The horse raised its head and we began our Milky Way trip,
I do not recall my grandfather’s face; I do recall the scents,
His work cloths always had the pungent smell of sour tartly milk,
He wore a hat that was something in between a Basque Beret and an Irish Tweed,
He would take a pinch of snuff from a small red snuffing tobacco case,
Inhale the snuff then sneezes aloud, and then wipe his nose –
With a huge white Handkerchief, the size of a bed sheet, I suppose,
Slowly we drove along the quiet village paved street,
I pretended I was a prince on a chariot; on my enemies about to bring defeat,
Then we would deliver the milk to the dairy’s huge milk tank,
Turn my chariot around – crack the whip; give the reins a little yank,
And on our way back we were, to my castle, winners and victorious,
My grandpa and me, we were invincible warriors, and gracefully glorious

The Magic Lantern

I remember many years ago,
Sort of “once upon a time”, you know
I was in grade one or two, about seven
That age, school was more hell than heaven,
But every Friday, before we were let go home-
We had our little weekly tradition
(School was not all the time, like the Spanish Inquisition)
The teacher would take out the “Magic Lantern”, projector,
Put a bed sheet on the wall, and plug the electric connector,
And then to our amazement and wandering little faces
We went on a trip to strange and faraway places,
Sometimes it was a story of a faraway land
Sometime children were building castles in the sand,
Sometimes it was Mickey Mouse and Mini
Sometime it was a tribal dance from New Guinea,
It was not much, if we think of it now,
But to a group of youngsters, it was a huge WOW,
The fact remains, after so many memories and long years
The one memory that is stuck in my head, it appears
Is my teacher Maya, and the Magic Lantern in grade one or two
The Magic Lantern and Maya, remain true.

The Road Less Traveled

Taking the road less traveled,
May be taking the road more troubled,
Dare we look for change – Venture the unknown?
Challenge the mind? Risk breaking a bone?
Is this not what makes us human?
Is this the spice of life? Cayenne, Curry? Cumin?
Confucius many millennia ago had said,
Man, running after car – will get exhausted,
Does a man tailing a car – will be wagged?
Does a man being labeled – be doomed, to be tagged?
Was Cain- Abled?
Missing a foot? Is he handicapped?
So many questions, so few answers,
So many inquiries, so few solutions,
No real balance, no Ying to the Yang
What we’ll sing, is not what was sang,
Let us not think with such explicit, clear-cut ideas
After all, there are even North and South Koreas

Painting The Sky

I remember, it was summer, a few years back,
I took my little Zoe to the pool in the yard,
It seems so long ago; it seems like another life,
I remember, at the time I still had a wife,
It was funny; Zoe was, about two years old,
Such a great age, as life begins to unfold,
Curiosity and marvel, and questions with no end
Everything a wonder, everyone a friend
We chased butterflies, and watched the birds,
I told her funny stories, and she hang on to every word,
Then we lay on the cement floor, and we looked at the sky,
There were many clouds, big and small, low and high,
Each had a shape; each had a story of its own,
There were humans, and horses, and elephants fully grown,
Zoe and I were covering an alternating eye,
Drawing in the clouds with our hands, painting the blue sky,
Zoe had such fun, and she was cheerfully loud,
Drawing the sky with grandpa, made her very proud,
Then a beautiful butterfly came, and stood on her hand,
It needed a rest, and what a better place to land?
Now Zoe is almost five, and mature and not very shy,
With her grandpa,  I am sure, she would still love to paint the sky