Angel cards

Finger tips slide along

the glossiness

of two tiny cards

Tucked inside so many others, hiding in a 

 black velvet pouch, waiting to be seen in the light

of someone’s hopes,

Not a game of poker, not a game at all

But a guide , words that rouse the  Sabbath soul 

after weekdays heavy toll

Angels walk you home

From synagogue at night

So that you wont get hurt

By muggers on the way

By those who steal  the holiness of time

Wishing  to rob for unknown  reason or rhyme

By the light of a dinner table,

Home at last,

Two little cards,

Like sacred  tablets with one word

To show the way,  lighten up the path

Of treks through wilderness of worry , ways winding  with

wrath.

With  closed eyes , 

magnifying  mystery , chance,

What word  will arise,

What answer, adventure or romance,

Not prophecies that need come true,

Words of choice,  not happenstance,

But do what  angels do

Climbing ladders,

They take your heart and lead you to what matters

“Shalom aleichem “

we sing

Our guests,  angels coming home

some magic, and some peace they bring

Then off they go to roam

Searching for  the sacred spark

In places cold and dark

For wine that warms

And spongy bread that forms

A family that loves.

Letters  bouncing in my view

The font of faith-PURPOSE,

a sign of Sabbath, a simple clue

A question beyond the surface

life’s essence  is on trial,

where can I find  my soul’s holy smile

I pause  to take the second card, 

A word to forge my fate

What will the next  word have me guard

My life’s goal indicate

Letters carved deep

penetrating, through and through

a font to savor and keep

 my heart makes a lilting  leap

I know its message to be  true

COMPASSION :

 the word its dictionary  divine

Presents itself  in mysterious fashion

 A way of life yet  to be mine.

 when feeling tired, sad and down

And searching for some solace

In city or in some small  town

Compassion is my talis

It girds me tight,

In measures always  fit

It shines on me the gentle light

Of  precious holy writ.

Beyond all praise

Back from morning prayer

God  praised, again and again

looking everywhere 

to find His hint in the company of men

Again  words declaring

Magnified and Sanctified be your name

Kaddish- worshipers daring

To assure Him of His fame

honored, adored

exalted, acclaimed

toward heaven sounds soared

lofty thoughts  inadequately framed

in a flash, image biting

piercing message, an alarm

father blessing reciting

choking words at life’s harm

wooden boxes in sight

seven in number

angels now taking flight

bodies buried in slumber

children’s smiles and laughter

 now cinder and smoke

infinite pain that comes after

can God’s name one invoke?

“Above all praise”

can these words that follow

drown out dread and the daze

lifting heart, hard  and  hollow

Beyond love and fear

way out of mind’s reach

nothing far, nothing near

can life’s sorrow slightly breach

For a story book ending

we pray God would show

but life  keeps on sending

tiny coffins in a row.

Imagine the day after....

Every now and then

 words pop into my head

words of women and men

to be said after I am dead

my life rolls on before me

I halt it here and there

taking stock of my life’s journey

did I cruise or did I care

I hear them all articulate

pretty much the same

a  fairly decent friend and mate 

heeding  all the rules of the game

good father, and  a husband true,

as rabbi, teacher  grew

to be more honest , test things new

trying hard to be a little more  loving too

an effort made, with poetry,

and many words of  prose

to touch a depth of integrity

its goodness only God knows

to see life as a gift,

 lesson learned a little late

and not make  short shrift

of every open gate

will it matter what they say

I’ll hear them not I’m sure

but to imagine  being ever away

some sadness now can cure

what’s left behind 

is now my focus

so others will find

something genuine, not hocus- pocus

a passing smile

a kindness here and there

without shrewdness and guile

just doing what’s considered fair

A Patch of Snow

Like an island in a pond of green

a little patch of white thumbs its dirty 

nose and face at the forces of disappearance

by some miracle, 

the sun’s rays, the warming winds,

scraping shovels have missed their objective-

the snow stays, not pure white,

blackened by time’s onslaught

yet still glittering under a clear blue sky

awaiting the clouds.

The dead squirrel

middle of the road

lifeless

run over scampering for safety 

unaware

of giant monster that 

squashes helpless things into nothingness

no longer darting as if driven by ions

or 

racing up tree trunks 

or skipping along branches in search of an acorn,

 a darting flash-gone-

inert, snuffed out, instant death

a photograph;  a far away land,  dirt road, car-less,

a child lifeless, lying alone, distant bystanders, no wailing by his side

 terror has vanished from cherubic face

eyes closed, asleep , feeling nothing,  in the world of darkness,

like the  squirrel

a monster, unseen and sudden,

squeezed  flesh and bones into oblivion

Morning, father and daughter off to school- holding hands,

care-free  eyes, exuberant, laughing, skipping along  not to keep pace

but to keep alive the joy of being alive

The Squirrel

I saw a squirrel this morning

under shopping carts, at the A& P,

without  any warning

scurrying everywhere, seemingly carefree,

for the stray nut

or morsel of food

they do nothing but

they brighten one’s mood

with their speed so jerky

impossible to caress

their movements so quirky

telephone wire homes’ address

not long before,

with a friend at prayer,

not God to implore

but together to share

doubts and dismay

about life and its use

early feelings falling prey

to our minds on the loose

Left with a sigh

surrender to living

so frightened to die

we fall back to giggling

like kids in a classroom

carefree, immortal

a respite from doom

from life's final portal.

I wonder today,

so soon to Yom Kippur

is there something to say

that can rid me of the bitter

truth, clutching and rolling,

like the darting squirrel

we whirl and twirl

death's ringing bell tolling,

another year of closer to 

who shall live? who shall die?

where to find the clue

whether low or high?

in a parking lot

or up a tree

like a squirrel not yet caught

skittish  and free.

Wishful Thinking

“Look toward heaven and count the stars” (Genesis)

Twinkle twinkle little star-

Abraham's wish weighs his will into the dust of the earth,

a burden of expectations, promises and pledges

awaiting four millenia of worry

where wishes squeeze their presence into

crevices of consecrated prayer,

stars seem so far away, untouchable,

the dust is home-from dust you come and to dust you return

but the stars merely twinkle in cold, callous reaches of circling constellations

“I will make your offspring as the dust of the earth”(Genesis)

That's more like it! That rings true-

and so we worry on a particle of dust,

knowing that multitudes -beyond counting or measurement,

will enfold our  being buried below

and  the offspring of our lives-dreams, thoughts,  laughter and loves,

will  float through the void,

stardust- that's all that  remains,

“a haunting melody of love's refrain.” (Hoagy Carmichael)

Me and Abraham -In honor of my 75th birthday ( Nov.1,1939)

“Abram was seventy five years old when he left Haran”(Gen.12:4)

Sixty two years ago, tomorrow,

the Sabbath of Going Forth

 I wander from the warm comfort of nouveau Outremont along  cold yet sunshine drenched  sidewalks  

to winding  staircases of poor Pine Avenue,

arriving finally at a holy place , an altar from which I ascend into Jewish adulthood-

floors creak beneath my feet as I make my nervous way up the Bimah to bless,

bent backs and creaking bones , my choir of hallowed response

-And Abraham was ninety nine years old when he circumcised the flesh of his skin-

youthful chant filling wooden spaces echoing with sighs of yore,

crescendoing in a hail of holy sweets, candies consecrated to sweetening  the sourness of years yet to come,  released with shouts  of praise and hope  from the balcony of beckoning and tear- drenched prayers

Today I am a man-not an ordinary man but Abrahamic-one going forth

stepping into life with only a promise-”and you shall be a blessing.”

Five and seventy years , so many wanderings, alters built and broken,

tests passed and failed, so many questions, so few answers-pleas and arguments, stunned silences , celebrations of success-

Seventy five years later, still stuck in Haran,

A place of haron-of anger, of a closed heart hardened by disappointment 

and broken promises-

it is time to go forth again-from hardness to an open heart, from the altar of anger 

to the shrine of gentle softness-

will I reach ninety nine , a time of circumcision, of peeling away the foreskin of hurt and rage?

Perhaps not-I hear the ancient blessed bidding-Get you forth from Haran, - now, at this crossroads, between Haran and Canaan, the place of surrender,  my seventy fifth year of life - go forth to circumcise the scars of your soul, removing bloody bandages of broken dreams

so that the heart of flesh, bruised  but  able to embrace the blessings of one more day.

My 75th birthday

Three quarters of a century

Seven and one half decades

Nine hundred months

Thirty nine hundred weeks

Twenty seven thousand,three hundred and seventy five days-

six hundred and thirty seven thousand hours

thirty eight  million two hundred and twenty two thousand  minutes

two billion two hundred and ninety three million and two hundred thousand-seconds

If   physicist I would measure  nanos

If  physician, heartbeats,

If philosopher,  infinity

but merely a child of the universe

my only gradient is gratitude

Ode to the “I” phone

They walk down the street,

Heads lowered to the ground,

As if not a soul is 

Anywhere around

Cars may pass, 

people walking by,

On concrete or on grass,

world has shrunk -what remains is the “I”.

 No, the world 's an oyster,

 press a button and see,

a private space-my cloister,

Whatever I want I can be.

I can text, talk and skype,

any place any hour ,

whether to praise or to gripe,

its within everyone's power

no longer apart,

or terribly bored,

now instantly smart

entertained as a lord.

A mirror to look at 

and  indulgently preen,

the world’s again  flat,

its all on a screen.

Ere the I phone,

not  long ago

Feeling so alone

Without a place to go

But now, beyond space and time,

a gentle tap,

on the lap,

no need Mt. Everest to climb

The world at finger's tip

Like God feel divine

From app to app we flip,

our shrine , a click on line.

Life  is now a great joy,

so eat , drink and be merry,

As long as your toy

is a Noika or Blackberry.