There are tunnels crawling through the earth
where worms and bullets in the afterbirth fester, stew in the noxious fumes of hate creep in a cartel’s slime to desecrate the land of playgrounds, parks, prayers and schools - beware reporters’ outrage, false as fools, frenzied, mistake the reason for the cause, proclaim in pompous blindness, ‘pause, oh pause’ - let your blood, like sacrifices of yore, flow from the Wall, and on the altar pour - No, and no, and until when, the Jew replies- deceive yourselves with evil in disguise, cry peace, peace, you prophets without peace, honor is a stain, empathy caprice. beware the god in the chamber of a gun, the idol worshipped that worshippers shun - There is a time for war, for war to end, a time for the garden and the friend but against the truth, like a solar flare, you cannot stand, hide in a liar’s lair. wail, distort, prevaricate and cry Israel lives, endures - Am Yisroel Chai
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I saw my past in the park today between the lilacs and the evergreens strolling on the lane in the evening glow- I on the north loop around the lagoon, a weekly walk or two to stay in shape. I almost didn't see it, or him me so focused I on my walking breaths and my past on - well, I couldn't say. We stopped and double-checked with stares, my hands too sweaty for a proper shake. "I did not think to see you here." I hope I did not sound chagrined. "I come and go," was all he said, yet did not move, but stood as if the standing - just there - might do some good. I had no invitation left to give, so said, "you're looking rather pale, you know." "Truth be told," my past replied - it might have winked, twas hard to tell in the fading light - "I've been away, a vacation roundabout." "Ah, that explains the bumps and bruises." "Yes, one gets tossed on these ocean cruises. It was depressing for a while, at sea; we wandered aimless where we'd been, the captain lost the compass or the stars - or so I thought - but one hope steered me on and here I am - an unexpected place." "Well, there you are, but I must walk, my health, my breath - thanks for the talk" - and then, I had to ask, although I knew: "That hope?" "Some day, I would be you." Sardines are an old man’s breakfast
and a young man’s lunch - if he eats them at all, with lettuce and chips and a glass of beer between meetings, on the run to teleconferencing without brushing his teeth or poring over spreadsheets in green-shaded light. Old men savor the bone-picking with tongue-clicking approval and sop the oil with pinches of bread, lingering over the morning paper droplet on ink of editorial ads, and taste a bit of scotch - single-malt to start a day of walking in the park of memories and the next project within the house of years and soul. Old women feed sardines to cats and those on the bench mumble to the birds. I was born in the cold time,
when the frost glass cracks, when the snow dances, when the lines of life run rivulets through ice, when the bare tree wind lances the skin as it sleetly dances - I was born in the cold time. In the time of leaf, thistle and sprout I was born in the time the grass is greenest with doubt in the time when brown is mulching about in the time the petals are twisting tips and berries play at bridging the thorns in the time of the sprig and the smell of the earth I was born. I was born in the silence that sings between the stars where the strings and the tesseracts wave and flutter the galactic shoal, where the horizon ends where the soul eclipses the solar flare where a quantum whisper echoes the choice that across the cosmos in a still small voice just then, just there The Sunday paper fades: on the corner
the grizzled man handkerchiefs his brow, lounging on a chaise of canvas and wood - under the umbrella the June sun beats and blinds upon, he glazes in the fumes; he’s selling news already stale, ink soured in the heat; flyers, blaring bargains, almost melt, the plastic sticky, coupons past their date; the gossip’s all black and white and prurient as a bygone belle in a gown of dingy yellow crepe; summer swarms of gnats and scores of runic games, read for signs of future gains, a play by play of yets-to-be, and paneled stories in color for a time; stacks unsold on the green table stand towered like a paper pyramid soon crumbled into pulp, a decomposing mold, of photos in pixelated blur and out of focus words, life transcripted, a buzz of headlines smeared with yesterday. The glitch in the mouse used to run in the house,
but it seems to have gone in the ether; and whether we find in the wires that wind around the battery base cantilever, or whether she’s lost in midsummer frost and icicles whose flavor amuse her, she’s sure to return, this glitch never learns, and circle the circuits, the sneaker; yet going around the keyboard profound we’ll search through the web til we meet her - the caught little glitch no data will snitch so with pixels and bits we will treat her. If Shabbos is a bride, why are there tears?
the candle dances, a flame a whisper, the smoke the wispy remnant of a prayer; a daughter’s dreams a mother’s half-held hope: Heaven may not have them, we’ll gather sighs- angels do not need the soul within the heart. O, daughter, your tears refract the world, the blessing flows between your covered eyes the healing of our future in the pass of hands that circle, gather in the light. Healing comes in the blink of an eye - seeing worlds in multiples of life - tears sowed in sorrow shimmer in Shabbos when daughters sing and mothers rejoice -there is a generation yet to come an awe-filled wonder of how we’re here- oh woman of valor, survey the years and with your smile, sanctify the spheres. She sits on the couch, feet tucked under a cushion, though mommy said not to, and curls a strand of hair around her finger in rhythm to the syllables pronounced with care; she leans over the book balanced on the arm rest - five is too young for glasses except such eyes blind the betrayals of age. How can I hear what angels cannot see? She smiles me over, finger to her lip: “Mommy’s crying because she loves my book. she says I read for all the children here and doesn’t mind about the cushion now. I chose the book myself because I saw another butterfly and thought it’s time to kiss the world hello. Jews have gardens now and pillows for our feet” - she wiggles her toes - “and bread and boats and songs” - she stops, wrinkle browed she puts a finger on a line ‘daddy, you promised to bring me books’ then at me wiggles the finger, “like you.” She closes covers, eyes, and sighs, then stands. “I like the pictures but don’t know the words it’s hard to read but I promised I would, if I could bring it home I would not cry and I have done all I said, and been good, now mommy’s making challah with her tears so I will help it rise above her fears.” Pausing, “I wonder what it’s like in there,” she points, “where every soul becomes a prayer.” Friday night the shtetl shul prays silent:
stars - Shalom Aleichem - welcome angels - peace descends in waves of words and candlelight; after prayer the men linger in hats and formal coats and talk of crops and croup, of news and nu, vos macht du - how are you - the gentle time before the journey home. Unnoticed slips a not-yet-man, a boy, a student of the day, to the stand where the leader sings and in loud self-discourse declares his name to the wall, or heaven - his voice thunder trembles through the talk, a lilt off-key a warning note the soul’s askew. Held-breath we listen to the rave, a mind in quiet rage against itself, declares the Shoah of its soul in words that shock the Shabbos in us all - inside ‘my struggle’ turned around. He ends as if in prayer, head bowed, descends, raven-rimmed eyes turn, search, expecting nought, or all, a plea perhaps. In echo of the still small voice the rabbi says ‘ok.’ The not-yet-man with thanks, deflates, and prattles through kiddush, a Sabbath band-aid on his tortured mind. 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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