Author David YB Kaufmann
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Walking to Shul

I hold my grandson’s hand as my father
held mine, palm to palm with the warmth of life
in the fingertips of reassurance,
each step a question or pointing “look” - 
Oh how many whys a day beholds
trucks and cats, jackets and trees - 
time flickers, and I think of all the prayers,
word searches for the soul, I have struggled
to solve, and here in the gentle grip of trust
the answer flowers in the here I am
the impulse overflow that stills the thought.
How simple when my father’s shadow walks
in his namesake’s joy and I in ghost-mind walk
as zaydes walk on Friday nights, when heaven 
and earth have come to rest and angel songs 
are all that’s left, and blessings for each step.


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photo credit: Templar1307 via photopin cc

Night Songs - by David YB Kaufmann

Picture
photo credit: paul bica via photopin cc
Sign up below to receive your regular dose of poetry and thoughts from David YB Kaufmann. 
The wicker chair on the porch, the open screen:
The air at 3 AM smells slightly strange - 
stickly, sweet and stale, vanilla tinged -
I'd say honeysuckle but I've never met one -
and its song between the day seems unsure
Which note to carry, stillness or whispers
Of the other time. 
Across the street, voices
With a beer tinged lilt talk of mysteries
Immature and dreams deeply felt, vaguely
Seen. They drift into the hum of silence,
reminiscing youth of a future not yet lived.
The birds skitter with the stars, twinkling tunes
in echo light - a tweaking of the dawn
that’s yet to come in the hours I hope to sleep -
the mind needs calm exhaustion, but mine
has thoughts of a thousand ifs
aswirl in the multiverse of night.

The Last Red Leaf of Winter

The Last Red Leaf of Winter
by David YB Kaufmann

The last red leaf of winter
sidewalk stilled before a blower, or winds of snow, sweep it down the street of frost and fear
flutters as my feet approach, 
as if to move aside,
for it has seen, 

I suppose, 
so many leaves of orange, green and brown, 
crushed beneath a heel that careless treads or takes perverse delight
what though the leaf has fallen from its tree, 
there is still the chlorophyll within and beauty in the colors of our age - I raise my collar against the sudden breeze, lower my hat, and think of warmth and ease then look in memory for the last red leaf and wonder how I saw it, 
in joy or grief.


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  • Home
  • Books
    • Scotch and Herring Mystery Series
    • Trees and Forest: A Mystery
    • The Silent Witness
    • Two Minutes for Torah
  • Reflections
  • About
  • Contact
  • Fan Club