The Ram’s Horn
I no longer celebrate
The High Holidays by sitting
Long hours in shul waiting for services
To end so I can eat honey cake and drink vinegary
Tasting wine from a plastic cup the size of a thimble
That somehow still manages to get me just a tiny bit drunk;
.
Here I am not needed
To complete the ten-man quorum,
And no one waits for me to arrive to begin
The service or to say the mourner’s prayer; here I
Am not needed to open the Ark or recite the blessings
Over the Torah or lift the holy scrolls above my head opening
Them slightly for all to behold the holy words printed on the old
Yellowing cracked parchment I secretly imagine is the skin of God;
.
I celebrate these days of awe
Alone with the memories of my youth
When I would relish seeing my zayde sitting
On the bimah bickering with chaver Pinsky or
Mr. Fink or cracking jokes with the rabbi or Cantor Lind
While shuffling through the handwritten index cards that had
The names of the men who were to be called up to the podium to
Perform the variety of honors that accompanied the long day of services;
.
I recall that morning sitting between
My grandparents, it was a warm autumn day,
The chazzan chanting; Frank Mayer breathing
Through a tube in his nose; Harry Randell’s parents
Sitting at the back; and word that a war had broken out in
Israel began buzzing about the hall; I was only a boy of ten and the
Little I knew of war came from watching Rat Patrol and Hogan’s Heroes on T.V.;
.
So I sit at home while my baby daughters
Sleep in the next room and I remove the shofar,
The ram’s horn my great-grandfather gave me, from
Its blue velvet bag where his prayer shawl was once kept;
I set it down on the table before me as I remember all those years
Watching him blow it, especially those last few years where he seemed
Too old and weak to blow the final long Tekiah Gedolah with the same zeal as always;
.
He passed the torch to me that year, 1979,
And I studied with Rabbi Einhorn after school
And practiced every night until the holidays came
Around when I was thrust into the limelight, Mr. Satin’s
Own great-grandson Ricky will be blowing the shofar this year;
And my zayde was as proud of me then as he ever was, and pleased
As if he knew that would be the last year he would ever celebrate the High Holidays;
.
Tonight, at sundown, though I will be breaking
the laws of the Sabbath and the Holy Day, I will blow
My ram’s horn for him, and for my children and for my family
And for my friends and for all humankind with the hope that peace,
Love and goodwill among all the people of this world will reign eternal.
.
The Greatest God Of All
It’s about our creating a spiritual self
Where our Gods are implanted deep
Within our souls and as far from
One’s lips as possible for the
Human mouth has yet to
Evolve from speaking
Lies or merely
Repeating
What it
Hears;
Mine
Is a God
Who fears me
As it is I who has
Created him and it is
He who worships me as
I am the divine and omnipotent
Force who within the very depths of
My imagination creates everything I see.
.
The Smell of Autumn
When evening veils
The reflection of the
Willows in the pond
The sweetness of the
Autumn air pervades
The night sky and it
Becomes difficult to
Distinguish whether
The fragrant bouquet
Filling my nostrils is
One that conjures up
The delightfully pure
Aromas of life or the
Tragic stench of death.
.
The Physical Father
I’m far but not distant
Closer than you think
Always as near as you
Want me to be though
The space between us
At times seems as if a
Lifetime separates us;
.
There is not a moment
That goes by when you
Are not in my thoughts,
Yours is a constant face
Etched upon my mind’s
Eye and enclosed within
My innermost emotions;
.
I may not be a physical
Father, but I challenge
Anyone to suggest that
I am anything less than
One who is as caring or
Loving than any father
Living in his son’s house.
.
Concordance
Every man who has
Ever lived, who has
Ever loved, who has
Ever lived and lost a
Love, has something
In common with each
And every other man
Who’s ever lived and
Loved and lost a love;
And there have been a
Few of them who have
Managed to get record
And book deals so that
Their stories which are
Really all of our stories
Can be listened to on the
Radio, read in books or
Seen in cinemas where
The common stories of
Unrequited love and the
Broken hearts of every
Man remain preserved
For all posterity to see.
.
Only At Night
It’s there
In the lost hours of my life
So intense that my heart skips a beat
Dreams arouse me from the depths of sleep
I try and penetrate a barrier no man has ever broken through
Outstretching my arm and reaching toward the invisible space that separates us
And just when I am about to touch you I realize that if I do I will never awaken
I can see you in my mind’s eye, feel you as if you were beside me
I can taste the pungent sweetness of your skin
Your breath caresses me as I melt away
Into the lost hours of my life.
.
Shoebox
Everything about this place is small
The country, the cities and towns,
Temperaments and attitudes,
Food and drink—even the
Eensy hand-rolled things
They smoke that they
Keep in their mouths
Until they’re small
Enough to spit;
.
And the house in which I live is
But a shoebox, a long, narrow
Rectangle whose bedrooms,
Known uncomplainingly
As slaapkamers, simply
Meaning “sleep rooms”
Define the practical
Commonsensical
Way of life here;
.
But despite the Lilliputian WC
And slightly larger WC-less
Washroom (aptly named),
This diminutive place my
Family now call home
Is actually colossal in
The way it embraces
Us in its coziness
And tranquility.
.
Laundry
I’m not the sorting sort
White is boring anyway
Though there is a wholesome nostalgia
Seeing sheets on the line blowing in the breeze
So bleached they make you squint just to look at them there;
.
And to see the mélange of
My family’s clothes dangling,
Baby bodysuits, toddler’s jeans
The assortment of leggings, heavy metal
T-shirts and other teenage attire I use to discretely shield
Wendy’s sexy panties and my distended boxer shorts from view;
.
Of course there are the
Memories of my grandmother
Doing the wash in the basement, putting
The clothes through the roller to squeeze out the
Water then hanging them to dry in the yard while chatting
With the Mrs. Hart while zayde sat on his lawn chair reading The Forward.
.
The Mezuzah
I live in a place
Where not many
People know about
Jews or their customs;
And when my rugged
Mustachioed neighbor
Rang my doorbell last
Evening to pick up a
Parcel that I signed for
In his absence, he took
An interest in the silvery
Object that was nailed to
My door post which only
Prompted one question
After his commenting that
The thing was crooked:
Were you drunk when you
Tried putting that up?
.
Dalia
We have yet
To make each
Other’s acquaintance
Though I am
Well aware
That perhaps
We never will;
.
You may turn
Out to be who
I thought you would be
But then again
You may never
Turn out to be
Anyone at all;
.
But if you do
Come someday
I shall love you truly
From your first
Breath till my
Last and until
The end of time.
.
Skipping A Generation
Trying to make sense of the
Mathematical probabilities of
Studies and statistics and whether or not
.
Medical Science has already predicted my demise;
One half of my ancestors died well before their time
.
The other half lived into their late eighties
So if infirmity skips a generation
Where does that leave me?
.
Love
You picked
Me up and
Sat me down
On my bed and
Tried to explain
The best you could
To a five year-old
How a man who
Never came to
Visit or to pick
Me up to play
Baseball
Didn’t know what
Love meant;
You probably don’t
Remember that brief
Moment in time
But I have carried it
With me in my
Mind
Heart
And every cell
In my body
For a lifetime.
.
