Something New, Something Adar; (Valentine's Day 2011)

When the sands of time melt into the gold of love,

and the auburn hue of the sun's syrup, 
rest on the edge of man's home....

The sugary breeze, wafting past my ears,

i can ever so faintly hear my King calling me home...

elul, so we may 4 give ourselves.

When it came to me, the world trembled. Unsure of its now possibly threatened existence. Weary of the hands it now lay. These small incapable hands, now entrusted with a destiny beyond their understanding. The way seems bleak. 

However, did it matter? Did it differ in what hands it where?  A job needed to be done. Whether, or not I was capable or not no longer mattered. The task needed to be fulfilled. It didn’t matter if for me, to save the world was impossible. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it get done. Sometimes that’s the way it is, we must do the impossible, because that’s what is necessary. Do the unimaginable because this is what must be. We were given a job, a job we were made for. And though at times we cry out because it seems impossible, after all we’ve been through, all the mud, muck, and scum we’ve been living in, to then return to our father’s table. How can we approach Him? How do we return to whom we’ve abandoned? So sure that we’d survive, against His pleading, the tears burning His eyes stinging our soul, we turned our backs out of the foolish thought that we somehow knew better than the creator of all. How can we now apologize? How will it be enough? He’ll always accept us but it’ll never be the same… 

And so, we continue our wallowing in our crime. Wallowing in our sorrow as our beloved begs for us to return. Wishing He’d never made such a world, for a father’s pain of lost is not worth the songs of a thousand sparrows. Not worth the praises of a million priests. Not worth the dances of a billion galaxies. 

But what’s done is done. Now He waits, alone at a table for two. He ever awaits us to accept His invitation into our own home. To just let Him in. This is the daunting task which we all subconsciously fear. Can we do it? Can we begin to forgive ourselves so that we may heal, and perhaps, then so will He. In fact I’m sure of it. He guaranteed it. “The gates of heaven are always open to the tears of he who comes home.”    

A Soul's Turmoil

11 elul:

As the voice got clearer, her face fades, disappearing into the ether of the abyss known only as the dream’s cloud. That cotton candy-like cushion, for subconscious wanderings. I hear his voice crying. I feel his tears burning, his words as constant as my heart’s beat. “I’ve done all I can”, his pleading cries, a constant reminder, when will I do all I can? When will I awaken from the deep self- induced coma I so casually wear, whilst trailing through life? When will I do all I can to prevent my lover, my partner from falling into a place beyond recognition?

I feel guilt. Terror. Anxiety. Fear. That I’m losing Her to the animal that is my neighbor. I’m practically giving Her over as if a pagan sacrifice. I see Her in chains sobbing, pleading, begging me to reclaim Her, but I’ve lost the feel for Her, I lost the sight of this pitiful situation. Too busy absorbed in my convoluted self- made mirage, of my “life’s complications.”

I then see Her captor, as he laughs & drags Her in the dirt, I see a tear fall from his eyes! Lightning hits! The fog lifts & I remember the face & voice crying “I’ve done all I can”, was mine! It was mine, & Her captor’s.

A fake. An impersonation. A facade. My voice ‘til I gave up trying. ‘till I stopped doing all I could/can to relieve Her suffering; that’s when the beast took over, convincing me something was wrong with me & didn’t need to care for my special passenger anymore. My lover. My partner in life. My queen. My piece of the king. My flame. My neshama.

*

 A pale flush. A dark burst. Dry drops of dew scatter the pitter patter of storms. A flash of white. A pure shriek. A sharp tear in the fabric of night. The crack of fire in its name of light.

rain's blessing

9-10 teves:

As every drop of G-d’s sweat, every drop of G-d’s tears spill over from His cup, they pour, they drip down, blessing after blessing. One for the girl who cries for her father, far gone; One for the man, faithful in His promises; One for each of His only children. A comfort, A cleansing wash of this planets treasure. The blue that makes this earth the sparkling sapphire to light up, the universe, G-d’s treasure trough.

G-d’s  wet embrace, His warm hug, His kiss to close the cracks of man’s heart.

The lullaby to His baby; the “hush” sound of its meet with surface. Pitter patter, splish splash. Splish splash.

from my dear friend, Yehuda Welton

Sometime b4 10 cheshvan:

"… As all the confusions swirl through my mind,

One candle in the middle,

A steady calm in the eye of the storm,

One light finally becomes clear,

“ faran a eibishter in velt”

& His will is that we accept good news & bad with joy.

It is in this,

His secret,

The pearl of truth, to survive the dark, & difficult times.

For  joy- “simcha” breaks through all restraints,

Even those of a hospital bed,

& (especially) those of your souls restraint; the body.

So, with joy we breathe,

With joy we must pray,

With joy we must cry,

with this our dream will never die.

For the ilui nishmas of chanan velvel simcha ben breina."

bila maves. the end of death.

7^th night chanukah

Dec. 7 2010

30^th kislev 5771:

When all the roses are dry,

When people forget how to cry,

When the the mercy of man dries up,

This is the day I no longer wish to have a name.

When my father’s smile no longer shows,

When the laughter of children no longer snow,

In the end of days, by the completion of time,

When the river has flowed its last,

This day I abdicate from life.

In the world of truth,,

There is no room for wars,

No room for conceit, hate, or self,

Only one.

Only the only truth will be visible.

 The magnificence of life will be smelt

& dealt a righteous hand to the fog of death:

“Bila hamaves lanezach”

lcha dodi

12 teves 5770

Dec 29, 2009

:

The birds of sorrow sing balads of joy,

The wingless eagles dance with that little boy (moshe holtzberg),

As the sky turns purple, a magical shade,

The darkness of night have begun to fade.

She’s my queen. She’s my doll,

My pet, my love, my wondrous all.

Without Her, I’m a lifeless shell,

It’s only her that knows me so well.

Once a week I host her with glory,

Every moment’s like a wondrous story,

My taste of heaven, our  smell of eden,

Just as we smile, once again she’s leavin’.

Ever tantalizing that awesome feel,

As the folds of black begin to peel,

The brightest pure is seconds away,

It’s time my brothers, to call her name:

“l’cha dodi likras kalla…..”