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.

I want to go home-A mother's plea

Her new home-

she's come a long way, baby

Laura Ashley-

goyish, but gorgeous,

delicate, refined

the smell of  “Waspy” freshness

in every corner-

“It's very clean” she mutters, an accent 

 of some far away spot

far away from the shimmering shores of the Hudson river

and so long ago, before her world died,

when she could boast  of a father

with  modern machines who

could crush kernels into

bread,

and recite the  mantra of

lines of gentile farmers waiting for

the miracle of a wealthy Jew-

“I want to go home” she declared, eyes blankly looking ahead 

at some dim memory of 75 years ago-

“and where is home” she is asked, fear in the daughter's voice,

lest she reply

“the Queens!”

“Sosnovitch” came the barely audible 

reply,

a tiny shtetl

 of carefree days,

not a Jew in sight today, unless 

you dig a bit underground.

Another home, another grey haired lady 

lost in the emptiness of time

upon hearing her plea-”I want to go home!”

a social worker asks, pity and professionalism mingled in a desperate mind,

 “Where is home?

And she answers with a certainty born of confusion

“Auschwitz!”

Hands-in memory of Betty Lederman, 1917-2015

Kneeling, not in church

but by mother’s bedside

not standing, superior, dominant,

not even equal in line of vision

but humbled in devotion 

to her source of life;

her cold, red hands 

caress the stretched out skin

of blue veined hands,

almost bloodless with age 

and severe anemia

“Azoi kalt!” she exclaims

eyes widening with surprise and concern

the supplicant still kneeling, rubs the skeletal bones 

of her personal supernal Imah,

and coldness thaws, redness turns pink

and the warmth of a mother’s heart 

flows beyond blood’s coagulation.

Modeh Ani-Thank You

Modeh ani,

Good morning God,

My thanks to Thee,

For the usual and the odd

I open my eyes,

Wriggle my toes,

What a surprise 

 and know what nobody knows

I can bend my knees

And do as I please

Jump out of my bed,

Or roll off instead

Hear my heart beating,

Either fast or slow

Up and down belly breathing

Like putting on a show

On a wintry morn

Shivering and cold

I snuggle  reborn

A life to unfold

My heels on the rug

Soft and sure

Toasty and snug

I feel so secure

Sounds all around me

Silence and snores

A morning melody

The opening of doors

Through the clear window

I am able to see

Lights coming on below

And   rising sun’s   mystery

My  nose  can smell

The toasting of bread

My ears can tell

Of a family  being fed

A mother’s smile,

A father’s hug,

Lying back a little while,

Relishing life’s tender tug 

my eyes still shut

 I open my heart,

getting out of the rut

A new day to start

 Im alive, with no effort

And nothing  must I do,

For Your gift and support

I sincerely thank You.

A WInter's Snow

On a rocking chair,

By a winter’s window,

From prayer book I stare

At the glistening snow.

The white beyond price

Disappears in the speck

Of a droplet  of ice

On the edge  of the deck

As if in trance,

All the colors in the sky,

A moment of chance

Nature’s miracle I espy.

Like a neon sign

Flashing off and on,

My heart could only pine 

For the rain after dawn

Not to advertise,

A car or  boat,

Nature’s wonder  to promote.

And open heart’s eyes.

Many minutes  go by

And all I could do

Was to fix my eye

On  God’s  tiny clue.

Green and red ,

Like traffic lights above,

Gentle guidance ahead,

Flickerings of love.

It’s Shabbes and  quietly I sit,

Looking in  the book and looking out,

To catch God’s presence if only a bit,

Within my soul a silent shout.