The Minyan

Driving through shadows,

The world asleep,

Some trudging to the  toilet,

Splashing  stored up urges

Into unknown paths of darkness

Flickering  amber

Dancing along charcoal coated streets

In the distance a red thread cuts 

Across the sky, a reminder of sun yet to rise.

I head toward the harsh light

Piercing the blackness around it

Blinking I step into a space awash with 

The white  glare of fluorescence ,

A blank page inscribed 

With black circles of leather straps

And black  boxes, holding tiny gems

Of holy letters.

Some stand, waiting silently,

Some sit, waiting with eyes shut

Relishing traces of tucked in warmth

Some peer at prayers, preparing,

Lips limbered up for the race to God.

Silence is broken-“I have Kaddish to say 

For my father”- almost tearfully,

Pleadingly, “will there be a minyan?”  

Amidst the chorus of assurances 

Footsteps are heard , the arrival of the morning messiah.

Chanting begins and curls along

The  white walls of  this miniature sanctuary,

A tiny chapel to fit the smallness  of the crowd

Its crannies cramped with the drone of ancient words

Words centuries old.

Some sway, some simply sit,

Frozen in a far away stare into

A distant past-

Some sing, 

Bringing a lilt to morning’s awakening.

One is wordless, his prayer-

 His presence, passing along alms plate,

And when aging , shaky hands, barely able to hold  hymnal

Are summoned to raise the weight of Torah scroll

He praises with powerful arms lifted on high-

And all can see the black on white, like waves of the sea

Flowing over beds of dry land, watering thirsty mouths

Parched  by time’s irreversible passage.

Yisgadal v’yiskadash-

Sons praise God, purging guilt

Preserving  memory

Sustaining the soul somewhere

Widows weep, sitting patiently,

Wondering what to do,

Now standing , the center of attention,

Whispering  sounds of loss and loneliness,

Letters mispronounced, love grammatically correct.

I step into the sunshine of a new day

And above, draping the world in hope

Is a canopy of blue, unfolding, outstretching, from 

The  single  thread of  a humble  prayer shawl.

Holy Anagrams

I’m in love with  anagrams,

Like children’s toys 

Letters , the muddy clumps  of

Tiny castles , a new architecture

On the shores of my mind.

My most beloved leggos are

Holy ones,

Letters of an ancient tongue,

The language of God-talk

On shiny parchment 

Found beneath the sands of time

I bite into bread-LECHEM-

The staff of life,

Its crumbs crushed by coursing fluids 

Along dense avenues of digestion,

To seep into cells and

Support my habit to live.

I sleep and dream-CHOLEM-

Man does not live by bread alone,

The soul seeks sustenance too-

Pie in the sky, the fruit of imagination,

The pottage of possibility and  purpose, the meat of meaning.

I awaken from a nightmare-LOCHEM-

My mind is at war-fear and anger,

Dread of death, of evil others,

Of wishes that wreak vengeance

Leaving behind  the debris of want and hunger.

I weep-CHOMEL-

My heart breaks with waves of mercy,

Humanity’s breast has dried up, 

The milk of human kindness has soured.

The bald head of a child,

The ribs of a baby reaching out 

For anything that will restore a barren body

To its rightful place 

Under a weltering sun

That robs her of LECHEM-

Of the stuff of life.

As long as I dream, draped by  CHOLEM-

As long as compassion caresses soul with  CHOMEL,

As long as I resist cravings of LOCHEM, of battle and 

conquest 

Then at last 

There will be LECHEM for all

Morning After Genesis

 Morning after Genesis

The sun  still asleep

 Awakening at appointed time

It has no troubled soul 

That  rouses rest from its nest of night 

While darkness hovers over  God.

But man awakens 

 in the shadow of dreams that prick one’s past, telling a story steeped in fear ,

 tales of disguised darkness, 

Of buried bones now come alive, resurrected in the valley of  

Visions visible only to the sleeping soul.

“It was evening”  but the morning hasn’t come-the sun still sleeps-and I must wait for its cleansing light.

Stars stud the sky;  blankets of cloud  

Bar the  way of sparkling  night-

It is morning, without rays of sun but the moon's  silver crescent bodes well for the day yet to come.

Je Suis......

Je Suis.....

“I am what I am”

 Declared by bush burning

Je suis,  what a jam!

Ray of  light, world’s yearning

does that mean for us

a road open to all

to make all the fuss

whatever the call

words of satire

bullets of hate

a world set on fire

why not hesitate 

before He decided

to make us from dust

could have longer abided

Before He could trust

that word and weapon

in hands of my brother

too easy to step on

the Je suis of another

what ingredient in soil

what part of our frame

allows us to spoil

life’s championship game

is that God’s reflection

tender children to slaughter

nothing’s left but dejection

abandoned by the Potter ?

perhaps Je suis.

in the end is the quest

who do we want to be

life’s ultimate test

I am Je suis

challenge-mystery

answer for now I see

a broken heart, humility.

Scenic Mountain-Jerusalem-November 18, 2014-7:01 am

The sea of Talmud has turned red,

Its depths drenched in the  blood of sainted scholars

Where was the staff of Moses?

Where was God’s outstretched hand?

Why finger pointing to hatred’s poison?

Who will part raging waters, red with blameless blood?

No  magical wands, meat cleavers instead!

Murderers’ outstretched hands , stabbing white draped backs bent in prayer,

Talit turns red!

“Allah akbar,” the God of desperate death

Paid a visit to the synagogue that morning,

seeking sacrifices of unblemished souls

“If your sins be like crimson” a  prophet declares-

Seven in the morning, prayers

borne heavenward  on droplets of red,

Ascending from altars of bloody floors

and holy pages crimson splattered.

will bloody offerings 

cleanse sinful stains? 

will white ashes

soothe broken hearts,

a balm for lesions of love?

Worshipers watch arid dust 

poured  upon  corpses of consecration,

the deep is now their home

swallowed by the sacred soil of the  restful mountain .

Not pursuing enemies, sinking in sea’s churning waters,

but stricken Jews

drowning  in  tears of inconsolability.

“Allah akhbar!”-God of terrible might-

Away with Your furious face-

Get off Your bloodthirsty throne!

God of murderous might-turn around, do Teshuva,

show  Your back , that side seen by Moses on another mountain,

the tefillin knot that blunts  a bloody blade,

a back benign  and merciful;

Please take a seat on a fleece pillow, one soft as snow.

Sex,Suffering and Song

Sex, Song and Suffering 

People’s lives 

Stand on many things

On what survives

And on passing flings

A Jew would say,

With faith and trust

Study, give and pray

without question a must

I don’t disagree

With any of  this

Yet it seems to me

We dare not miss

The true reality

Whether we like it or not,

Of another basic three

In their snare we are caught

Sex, suffering and song,

The gist of  humanity

 If right or if wrong

 Outlines of our sanity

Whether young or old,

Just ask Dr. Freud,

To life’s joy we can’t hold,

Without Eros buoyed  

 Disappointment and pain,

 Loss and much sadness,

They come like the rain

So do death, grief and madness

Amidst all life’s  story

All the good and the bad,

Strains of grace and of glory

That make the heart glad

Sound of music and  song 

Made by one or by throng

Spaces empty and aching

Filling souls as they’re breaking

One song  to endure

Either  popular or obscure

How can God walk away

Without one tune to play?