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Josef
Lesser
After retiring from full-time employment, Josef Lesser commenced writing poetry in order to share his thoughts of life and the world. His poems have been published internationally in print magazines, anthologies and online journals. He lives with his wife on the mid-north coast of New South Wales.
live crab a la cordon bleu a la S
cradled in the silk of the summer sun
the crab reflects on language
on S dominating his world;
on salt, sea, sand and sky, on summer
sun sex and search, on survival and self,
never contemplating a live show of steam
chorus of simmer salt stir sip, stir
on scream, silent still on stunned;
on once in the silk of the summer sun.
the key-hole
the cross-dressing rabbi
that nubile girl next door
the alien man with alien eyes
smoking voodoo by candlelight,
and here by the barren flame
a family absorbed in private games,
private lives all yet all disrobed
through the keyhole
here take a gander;
Mrs. X entertaining the bishop
the bishop entertaining the x’s
the x’s planning a bank heist
the suicide bomber’s farewell party
one family’s suicide road map
confessions broadcast from the pulpit,
private movies in the dust of light
go on take a butcher’s;
through the keyhole of the royal parlour
observe the queen is eating bread & honey
the king, with abacus is counting all their money
while the prince, their only son is prancing naked
round the maid, you know the one who lost her nose
midnight regal secrets out of the closet now exposed,
inside the caravan the circus midget
with the bearded lady plus another
what a threesome gossip for the main event,
so remember wherever you travel
in pocket, purse or bumbag
don’t leave home without your keyhole
you just never never know.
Inside the subway of history
If you listen surrounded by stillness
you can hear the rose growing
the stretch of stem, flow of life’s liquid
you can hear the grass murmuring before blades
rotating full throttle produce the perfect lawn
even the song of the dead wren floats in silence
where voices in the crossword subways of history
survive way past their use by date,
voices orchestrated by foreign tongues with funny sounding names
malka moshe dorka chaim shloime, laughing crying cajoling talking loud
soft whispering sad songs, tosia to efroim ‘icyk’ to zofia fruma to ‘zyg’
leszek whistles to malka silent as waves collapsing on clouds passing over
the crib at belzec treblinka auschwitz at kulmhof lublin and sobibor.
Inside the subway of history
clouds roll over the crib of pompeii
over the killing fields over my lai and kosovo
wounded knee and darfur, listen to voices
with suspicious sounding names, sitting bull
big foot ng ngo and nguyen abdel tuyen suong
funny names, dodo is a funny name for a bird
extinct, but you can hear the grass murmur
amina rusonga rugova attilius corelia ampliatus.
Listen tosia hums a sad tune to efroim, a strange sound
like sharks behind glass with eyes the exit of release,
mouths opening and closing.
We are all bricklayers and stitchers
The men arrived with trowels, buckets, tin-snips, flint, rope
the women dragged baskets of cotton, thimbles, needles
required for the craft of stitching embroided stamps of
superstition inside schoolbags, pillow slips, beneath
the celibate bridal dress. The men of course engineered
masculine borders, walls of concrete, steel, glass of water
fire and ice of twisted wire bowed and noosed, of bricks
fired in the antique kilns of the village, baked in heat
where camel trains wind through time, from ghettos
from sunken valleys and sinking islands. From the
woodcutter’s cottage they came to squat on virgin soil
harvesting hope in a new land yet always marking
divisions with sewing skill and labouring hands
turning face down the queen of sorrow in the cards.
My father was a bricklayer
developed a hairline crack in his stare
between shifts addicted to play solitaire,
my mother arrived and remained a stitcher
member of the ‘Friday Sewers’
mending rips in bespoke myths,
leaving home I stopped chewing cotton.
factNfiction
factNfiction intertwine
the unchecked ivy
rampant on the vine
suffocates the rose
exhales the final breath
from seedling gums.
factNfiction intertwine
the weaving carpet thread,
who can explain so many lands of plenty
still have plenty searching for their bread.
scenes upon the movie screen of action war and life reveal
how factNfiction intertwine
word for reel exact
as midday's news on channel no. nine.
the annual trek is constant to take the waters of the cure
to break the bread and sip the wine,
but when the lame and sick and tired depart the same
they leave no doubt that factNfiction intertwine.
tennis now is played on artificial grass
artificial flowers appear so real
when bees start begging on the street for money
factNfiction intertwine
beware the spread you place upon your bread
will consist no doubt of artificial honey.
now allow me space to prove my theory
something akin to: E=mc2
a=fact
b=fiction
donald is a duck: fact=a
donald duck is fiction=b
therefore donald duck =aNb
factNfiction intertwine
disprove my theory using algebraic rhyme.
The Butterfly
Last night
and before then
the full day,
before
the full moon
crying like a lost child
crept into the warm bosom of stars
my first thought lingered in the valley,
lingered for the first word to arise.
The first awareness
first sight of spring;
firsts all on the up-draft followed,
from that first word to the first wound
from the first burning sun to the first smile
from discovering hate to the first stirring
the first rain the first parting then loss.
The first butterfly
first fresh wheat first morning sky.
Without each first my thoughts would stumble,
sink forever in the soft snow of the valley below,
without words no thought
without thought no words.
Last night
and before then
the full day,
before
the full moon
crying like a lost child
crept into the warm bosom of stars
a butterfly sat on my window
clothed in designer outfit
the colour of fresh wheat and morning sky,
sat in the hue of my first sun
then revealed in the blue of the night by the light
all my firsts in his eyes.
From that valley
from the rising smoke of all my yesterdays
can I share with you my visitor
who came, gave and departed.
copyright © Josef Lesser
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