Called

Called, in one moment of divine inspiration,

by the One who reaches down from seventh heaven,

with His right hand, to guide the contrite of heart

to safe shores, where rest may be found

from the tumults of life that endanger the soul,

bringing light to those bound in the darkness

of the world, unable to find their way.

~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~

I was constrained by cords of mental bonds,

trapped by the Deceiver, and secured in the lair

of the Adversary, until G-d freed me from my shackles,

appearing as my redeemer within the lion’s den,

where I would have been torn, rendered into pieces,

had He not shown me a way out of the arena,

and brought me to safety, after crossing the sea.

Chiaroscuro in Pixels

It is very hard to write this way, beginning things backward…
– Hemmingway, The Torrents of Spring (1926)

Like a canvas, a tabla rasa, a fertile void,

I sit in front of the screen with a blank document.

The contents of my personal past, impressions,

stored in long term memory, surface upon reflection.

The neocortex bears its fruit, when searched at will,

for the pieces, fragments, and shattered images.

What is actually “recalled” may be newly formed,

especially if semantic memories mix with episodic.

In placing any of these reflections upon a blank page,

they are first filtered through perception.

Perhaps, an artist has more control with a brushstroke,

than a poet, taking liberty with shadows and light.

This is the question, how to present the puzzle,

in a way that best represents the truth?