By Samuel Menashe
The sea staves
Concave waves
Monday, October 5, 2026
Now
By Samuel Menashe
There is never an end to loss, or hope
I give up the ghost for which I grope
Over and over again saying Amen
To all that does or does not happen--
The eternal event is now, not when
Adam Means Earth
I am the man
Whose name is mud
But what’s in a name
To shame one who knows
Mud does not stain
Clay he’s made of
Dust Adam became—
The dust he was—
Was he his name
The Art of Blessing the Day
By Marge Piercy
This is the blessing for rain after drought:
Come down, wash the air so it shimmers,
a perfumed shawl of lavender chiffon.
Let the parched leaves suckle and swell.
Enter my skin; wash me for the little
chrysalis of sleep rocked in your plashing.
In the morning the world is peeled to shining.
This is the blessing for sun after long rain:
Now everything shakes itself free and rises.
The trees are bright as pushcart ices.
Every last lily opens its satin thighs.
The bees dance and roll in pollen
and the cardinal at the top of the pine
sings at full throttle, fountaining.
This is the blessing for a ripe peach:
This is luck made round. Frost can nip
the blossom, kill the bee. It can drop,
a hard green useless nut. Brown fungus,
the burrowing worm that coils in rot can
blemish it and wind crush it on the ground.
Yet this peach fills my mouth with juicy sun.
This is the blessing for the first garden tomato:
Those green boxes of tasteless acid the store
sells in January, those red things with the savor
of wet chalk, they mock your fragrant name.
How fat and sweet you are weighing down my palm,
warm as the flank of a cow in the sun.
You are the savor of summer in a thin red skin.
This is the blessing for a political victory:
Although I shall not forget that things
work in increments and epicycles and sometime
leaps that half the time fall back down,
let's not relinquish dancing while the music
fits into our hips and bounces our heels.
We must never forget, pleasure is real as pain.
The blessing for the return of a favorite cat,
the blessing for love returned, for friends'
return, for money received unexpected,
the blessing for the rising of the bread,
the sun, the oppressed. I am not sentimental
about old men mumbling the Hebrew by rote
with no more feeling than one says gesundheit.
But the discipline of blessings is to taste
each moment, the bitter, the sour, the sweet
and the salty, and be glad for what does not
hurt. The art is in compressing attention
to each little and big blossom of the tree
of life, to let the tongue sing each fruit,
its savor, its aroma and its use.
Attention is love, what we must give
children, mothers, fathers, pets,
our friends, the news, the woes of others.
What we want to change we curse and then
pick up a tool. Bless whatever you can
with eyes and hands and tongue. If you
can't bless it, get ready to make it new.
The Elephant In The Room: A Love Story Between An Orthodox Woman and a Leftist Man
By Menachem Froman
(Translated By Neil Fleischmann)
In the dark
both of us
feel around him
with cleaving but without hope
I hold onto his dragged tail
and believe it is rope
You
grasp his large, widespread ears
and surmise them to be wings
After giving up we both conclude
that what we have
never happened at all
And it's not just
a metaphor. He is right here.
Now he gets up
huge, upon us, awesome
May he not trample us
May he not knock us over
May what we have
not end badly
I
lift my hands in prayer
You
hold him with two hands
My G-d, My G-d - maybe
he'll carry both of us on his back.
A Poem For Yom Yerushalayim: Har HaBayit Veyadeinu
By Menachem Froman
(Translated by Neil Fleischmann)
In childhood of old there's a story we told
of two brothers who rose in the night
and tarried to carry bundles to one another, using their hands.
They went in private, so as not to embarrass.
In the place where they met, in the place where they
interlocked hands in silence
the Holy Temple was built.
Two with clean hands will ascend the mountain
One from this and one from that
At night, so as not to embarrass
They will raise their hands
In faith
Until the battle stops
and the war breaks.
When G-d returns
the Return of Zion
we will be like children
How it will surely be as once
carrying their bundles.
Why There Are No More Miracles
by Hal Sirowitz
God would perform miracles in the old days,
Father said, but nowadays if he set a bush
on fire, like he did for Moses, the fire department
would rush to put it out. The newspapers
would send out photographers. There’d be
an investigation. A reward would be given
to help find the arsonist. Some innocent person
would get blamed. God has enough people
believing in him. Why does He need
all that commotion for the sake of a few more?
Horns On Your Head
By Hal Sirowitz
The further you venture from the house,
Mother said, the less people you'll know.
Everyone on this block has either heard of
you or has seen you at one time. But
on the next block maybe only one person
will recognize you. Then there are hundreds
of blocks where no one knows you exist.
And it goes on that way until you get
to Nebraska, where it gets even worse.
There, the people never met a Jew before.
They think you have horns, & will want
to look for them. That's why you should never move
too far away from me. You don't want
strangers to always be touching your head.
Mother Said, Pg. 28
God Is In The Details
By David Ebner
How detailed are the details
that God is in?
I am looking through the haystack
of my inbox and outbox,
my delay box and ignore box,
for the detail work
of the needle
on which He balances,
watches infinite angels dancing,
and waits for me to find Him.
It is a note
I am searching for,
a memo on the back of a receipt:
“large”
or
"small"-
A reminder to myself
about whether my wife
prefers
that I buy
large or small
eggs for her baking.
Is this too mundane a detail
for God?
Or will He pop out of the egg box
when she says:
“You remembered,”
and say:
“You found Me”?
Somewhere a Man is Asking a Question
By David Ebner
Rabbe Nachman said:
Somewhere,a man is asking a question
but has no answer.
Somewhere,a man is giving an answer
but has no question.
When will they meet?
Neilah
By Samuel Adelman
Day softly tiptoes
Out through the western horizon.
Soon night
Will encompass my heart –
To bring the shadows
Of fear
And uncertainty.
Words become blurred,
They cease to
Touch my reason –
Sound alone now
Moves me –
Carries me aloft
Before the Golden Gate.
Faster –faster
I hear the
Chorus of the Hosts on High.
Not words
But G-d’s soft unspoken plea is heard –
“Keep open your gate!
Keep open your gate!
Close not
The last remaining
Hope
Of man –.”
The stars wink down
Above me –
The gate is closed
As I turn to
Walk the lonely path
Of another year.
Faith
By Samuel Adelman
Dear Lord, in thine abounding grace,
Let me ever see thy face
Though years may their sorrow bring,
May the winter be like the spring.
Keep fresh in me the love I felt,
When first I met thee as the snows did melt,
When as a child, I asked not why,
Only to see thee in my soul's eye.
I plead for the vision of my heart,
By which alone I see the part,
Thy spirit plays in making liveThe stars above,
who strength do give.
May I look at each blade of grass,
And see thine appointed angels pass,
Doing Thy bidding to make it grow
And not by my feeble efforts to sow.
Though my head turns white with years,
Though life is filled with many tears,
Yet, may my faith in winter be,
As 'twas in spring, when I first met thee
Each Of Us Has A Name
by Zelda Schneersohn Mishkovsky
Each of us has a name
given by God
and given by our parents
Each of us has a name
given by our stature and our smile
and given by what we wear
Each of us has a name
given by the mountains
and given by our walls
Each of us has a name
given by the stars
and given by our neighbors
Each of us has a name
given by our sins
and given by our longing
Each of us has a name
given by our enemies
and given by our love
Each of us has a name
given by our celebrations
and given by our work
Each of us has a name
given by the seasons
and given by our blindness
Each of us has a name
given by the sea
and given by
our death.
© Translation: 2004, Marcia Lee Falk
From: The Spectacular Difference
Publisher: Hebrew Union College, Cincinnati, 2004
Four-Fold Song
By Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook
There is a person who sings the song of the Self. He finds everything, his complete spiritual satisfaction, within himself.
And there is a person who sings the song of the Nation. He steps forward from his private self, which he finds narrow and insufficiently developed. He yearns for the heights. He clings with a sensitive love to the entirety of the Jewish nation and sings with it its song. He shares in its pains, is joyful in its hopes, speaks with exalted and pure thoughts regarding its past and its future, investigates its inner spiritual nature with love and a wise heart.
There is a person whose soul is so broad that it expands beyond the border of Israel. It sings the song of humanity. This soul constantly grows broader with the exalted totality of humanity and its glorious image. He yearns for humanity’s general enlightenment. He looks forward to its supernal perfection. From this source of life, he draws all of his thoughts and insights, his ideals and visions.
And there is a person who rises even higher until he unites with all existence, with all creatures, and with all worlds. And with all of them, he sings. This is the person who, engaged in the Chapter of Song every day, is assured that he is a child of the World-to-Come.
And there is a person who rises with all these songs together in one ensemble so that they all give forth their voices, they all sing their songs sweetly, each supplies its fellow with fullness and life: the voice of happiness and joy, the voice of rejoicing and tunefulness, the voice of merriment and the voice of holiness.
The song of the soul, the song of the nation, the song of humanity, the song of the world-they all mix together with this person at every moment and at all times.
—Rabbi Abraham Isaac Hacohen Kook (1865-1935); OK 2, pp.444-445
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