Rohn Federbush's Blog, page 34
June 22, 2013
Assailed by Rohn Federbush
Assailed
at the Old City’s Wall in Jerusalem. After praying at the segregated Western Wall,
we paid senior rates and climbed a spiral, three-story steel staircase.
Entreaties to not look down, bolstered by my husband’s presence one step below me,
encouraged me to mount the summit; only to find the rampart slanted toward oblivion.
The square cubes of rough boulders befriended, at times, by a slim, steel handrail, promised
security for a mile of treacherous climbs to further perilous walks, which consumed
an hour of heart-palpitating, loosening bowels, sheer terror. And I said to myself,
where do you tell people fear comes from, as my sister’s minister counseled
for the first trip for radiation, “Fear doesn’t come from God.”
Half-way to the end of the wall, where I only viewed the golden Dome of the Rock once
before it was hidden by satellite dishes, I considered turning back;
but the steel spiral staircase loomed as a furtherance of hazard, and I pushed on.
Paul lent me his forearm for real physical comfort and sustenance. And he talked to me,
saying things like: “Think how proud you’ll be when you’ve completed the wall.”
I sweated, I prayed. My resolve became a mushy, wavering sickness. I shook.
I held onto Paul and the solid outer rock faces as dearly as if they’d been life jackets
in a turbulent sea where sharks and other scary, creatures slithered.
At one point, when no hand rail existed. I scooted down a flock of deep steps
to the next cliff-hanging path. I remembered broad, two-sided stone avenues on the walls
of Mont-Saint-Michel. The Old City provided no inner wall against falling three
sometimes four stories – to the ground. As we reached the safety of street level
the infamous Old City Wall decided to descend below its’ depth
which forced another exhausting climb up to the street. Never start what can’t be finished,
even when the way proves treacherous. I’ve considered traveling to see my grandchildren
and their warring parents, who insisted on creating divorce dramas at the turn
of every door knob. I haven’t trusted their motives for a long time, barely trust my life to their care; but fear doesn’t come from God and a parent’s good example continues
as long as breath resides among my bones. So, I’m off, hoping to return unscathed,
braver, and accomplished of at least the task, God willed.
Ann Arbor City Club’s Poetry Signature Group
at the Old City’s Wall in Jerusalem. After praying at the segregated Western Wall,
we paid senior rates and climbed a spiral, three-story steel staircase.
Entreaties to not look down, bolstered by my husband’s presence one step below me,
encouraged me to mount the summit; only to find the rampart slanted toward oblivion.
The square cubes of rough boulders befriended, at times, by a slim, steel handrail, promised
security for a mile of treacherous climbs to further perilous walks, which consumed
an hour of heart-palpitating, loosening bowels, sheer terror. And I said to myself,
where do you tell people fear comes from, as my sister’s minister counseled
for the first trip for radiation, “Fear doesn’t come from God.”
Half-way to the end of the wall, where I only viewed the golden Dome of the Rock once
before it was hidden by satellite dishes, I considered turning back;
but the steel spiral staircase loomed as a furtherance of hazard, and I pushed on.
Paul lent me his forearm for real physical comfort and sustenance. And he talked to me,
saying things like: “Think how proud you’ll be when you’ve completed the wall.”
I sweated, I prayed. My resolve became a mushy, wavering sickness. I shook.
I held onto Paul and the solid outer rock faces as dearly as if they’d been life jackets
in a turbulent sea where sharks and other scary, creatures slithered.
At one point, when no hand rail existed. I scooted down a flock of deep steps
to the next cliff-hanging path. I remembered broad, two-sided stone avenues on the walls
of Mont-Saint-Michel. The Old City provided no inner wall against falling three
sometimes four stories – to the ground. As we reached the safety of street level
the infamous Old City Wall decided to descend below its’ depth
which forced another exhausting climb up to the street. Never start what can’t be finished,
even when the way proves treacherous. I’ve considered traveling to see my grandchildren
and their warring parents, who insisted on creating divorce dramas at the turn
of every door knob. I haven’t trusted their motives for a long time, barely trust my life to their care; but fear doesn’t come from God and a parent’s good example continues
as long as breath resides among my bones. So, I’m off, hoping to return unscathed,
braver, and accomplished of at least the task, God willed.
Ann Arbor City Club’s Poetry Signature Group
June 21, 2013
All is Vanity by Rohn Federbush
All is Vanity
All of the time to be wishing for more, even the score by my increase.
Contentment a bash of boredom stifling the best.
Send me upheaval any day.
In an upright forward direction with hand and head freed A certain lightheadedness occurs with ridiculous aspirations of universal worth often ensue.
All of the time to be wishing for more, even the score by my increase.
Contentment a bash of boredom stifling the best.
Send me upheaval any day.
In an upright forward direction with hand and head freed A certain lightheadedness occurs with ridiculous aspirations of universal worth often ensue.
June 20, 2013
The Added Room
The Added Room
The architects seldom compare a doorto results gained from going out if notthe coming in: a parent’s drunken plotto woo the innocents. Solicitor of trust bemoan the male conspirator.
Upstairs the long bedroom provides somewhat the haven grade-school maidens have forgot their risks; calling himself ambassador.
Young lives reflect the injuries. Awkward, not able to discern love from lust, their dad taught them was all a woman’s card could hope to win. Their quest, of course, unjust.
The architects seldom compare a doorto results gained from going out if notthe coming in: a parent’s drunken plotto woo the innocents. Solicitor of trust bemoan the male conspirator.
Upstairs the long bedroom provides somewhat the haven grade-school maidens have forgot their risks; calling himself ambassador.
Young lives reflect the injuries. Awkward, not able to discern love from lust, their dad taught them was all a woman’s card could hope to win. Their quest, of course, unjust.
June 19, 2013
We the People
We the People
We have no hope for a peaceful nation While we school our children in violence From movies, video games and contact sports.Our politicians teach us fear Sell killing machines To protect us from our hatreds.
Death by cop For the next generation Accepted as normal behavior.
We have no hope for a peaceful nation While we school our children in violence From movies, video games and contact sports.Our politicians teach us fear Sell killing machines To protect us from our hatreds.
Death by cop For the next generation Accepted as normal behavior.
Hey Folks by Rohn Federbush
Hey Folks
Fling those words into the fray, Storm the barricades with never-ending syllables. Immortal pledges still ring in our ears. The future holds more initiates.But the joy, the joy comes from: spelling out each sigh, naming the breeze, describing that next kiss.
Fling those words into the fray, Storm the barricades with never-ending syllables. Immortal pledges still ring in our ears. The future holds more initiates.But the joy, the joy comes from: spelling out each sigh, naming the breeze, describing that next kiss.
June 18, 2013
Mary’s Husband by Rohn Federbush
Mary’s Husband
He’s not just a pencil-sharpening teacher from New Jersey.He’s in the warp and weave of her life.He’s like a frog whose croak fills the world.He’s something out of the loneliness of nothing.
He’s not just a pencil-sharpening teacher from New Jersey.He’s in the warp and weave of her life.He’s like a frog whose croak fills the world.He’s something out of the loneliness of nothing.
June 14, 2013
The Opium Den
The Opium Den
My feet were up, uncomfortable in thick-soled winter bootsWhile the sedative coursed through my nerve endings.I remembered firmer feet in high-heeled summer shoes,Clicking in time to an inner pulse.A breeze over the Fox River falls cooled the back of my neck.My bra was tight, my white nurses uniform snug against my slim ribcage.Seventeen, heading for a Saturday job as a dental assistant,I might have warranted the remark of my married sister’s admirer,“Ravishing,” he said, as I sashayed by. And I probably thoughtThe hunger for loving ravishment mine to control.But breathing the nitrate can’t erase the fact I amSeventy plus, looking forward to my first firm biteAfter receiving four front and shiny new teeth implants.
My feet were up, uncomfortable in thick-soled winter bootsWhile the sedative coursed through my nerve endings.I remembered firmer feet in high-heeled summer shoes,Clicking in time to an inner pulse.A breeze over the Fox River falls cooled the back of my neck.My bra was tight, my white nurses uniform snug against my slim ribcage.Seventeen, heading for a Saturday job as a dental assistant,I might have warranted the remark of my married sister’s admirer,“Ravishing,” he said, as I sashayed by. And I probably thoughtThe hunger for loving ravishment mine to control.But breathing the nitrate can’t erase the fact I amSeventy plus, looking forward to my first firm biteAfter receiving four front and shiny new teeth implants.
June 13, 2013
A Poem by Rohn
Why sleepest thou whilst heavens quakeBeyond the moral sea.Prepare to tear the cosmic screen,Serene.
If you are the salt of the earth,I am the volcanic mist.
June 12, 2013
Wednesday's Thoughts From Rohn
Psalms - Chapter 3:4 “I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill.”
Con la mia voce io grido all’Eterno, ed egli mi reisponde dal monte della sua santita
June 11, 2013
Tuesday's Thoughts From Rohn
Psalms - Chapter 3:3 “But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.”
