Pruning Time

To write, or not to do so,
in ink, pixels, or pencil;
to express my views or not,
and risk being deplatformed?

I am aware of the climate
of intolerance, sprung up
from the same inflexible voices,
in the hallways of Universities.

The seasons are changing
and the times are rearranging;
the values of the past have become,
like branches that must be pruned.

Yet, each time they grow anew,
they are trimmed back even further;
until, perhaps, nothing will be left,
except the barren trunk of a tree.

And, when that is reduced to nothing
except for a stump, planted firmly in the ground,
the seedlings will quietly sprout up elsewhere,
remaining hidden, until the light reappears.

Humility

Am I on the derech (path),
or have I not even begun the journey?
If I have already taken that first step;
then, why do I feel stuck in the mire?

The adage, there are no shortcuts
in life, seems to be ingrained in me;
yet, too often, I miss the moment,
distracted by my surroundings.

I do not know where to start,
in order to begin anew; perhaps,
by humbling myself to the L-rd,
for the penitent man kneels.

In this manner, redemption calls,
every day, at the first rays of dawn;
when inclined to hear His voice,
the soul will be refreshed.

For the journey has begun,
despite my misgivings;
only there has been as a test,
stumbling blocks on the way.

Choices

To try, or not to try, that is the question.
No, do or do not, there is no try.°
Yet, I feel so hesitant about making a choice.
If you do not choose, you still have made a choice.*
My voice fails me; I no longer have words to speak.
Give your will a voice. Find strength within.
My will is weak. Strengthen me, master.
The Force will strengthen you.

G-d will strengthen you, my child.
Father, I feel so weak. Temptation abounds.
Let His will for you, be your own.
My voice falters, my words are diminished as I speak.
His words are greater than our words, my son.
I can hardly choose the right path, nor find my way.
The way is narrow, and the path is straight.
Then, I will try to make my way through the darkness.
If you try, then He will meet you halfway.

credits:

°Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back

*Rush, Free Will

Aviv

O Aviv, upon your full moon, hinge all of the promises anew. The grains of the barley harvest, are roasted, ground, and sifted. Mixed with oil, a handful of frankincense placed on top. Then, consumed by the flames, it’s smoke arises to Shomayim. Thus, completed, we may partake of the abundance of the harvest.

The sheaf of the first fruits stands as a reminder across the generations. To all who aspire towards righteousness, as upright sheaves, standing in the field. Waiting for the harvest, we seek renewal, when the day arrives for joyful reaping. And, the sheaves will be gathered, waived like lulav branches in the wind. Carried across the lands of the earth, to be planted anew in Yerushalayim.


Pesach offering,
unleavened bread, wine, and guests;
waiting for next year.

The Sculptor

B”H

Constantly trimming away,
these stray hairs on my head,
as if some perfect, ideal
appearance will form.


Like a sculptor’s hand,
my own is steady, as can be,
under the circumstances –
my DIY Covid Haircut.


A continual effort,
a self reliant endeavor;
akin to the painstaking task
of refining my soul.


Everyday, no effort is in vain,
when the Sculptor’s hand,
is permitted to have free reign
over His creature’s design.


Like a clay vessel,
I am subject to being molded,
by the Divine hand that spins
the potter’s wheel of my life,
always in the right direction.

Blue Calling

Blue is the color of techeles:
sky blue, looking down from Shomayim.
The ocean, likened unto Torah
flows within our veins,
whether recognized or not,
sometimes, only latent.

Until some rich experience,
a wake up call orchestrated
from He Who sits upon His throne
in His place (makom) gestures,
in a way that the designated angel
understands, and makes its way
to place the holy intuition
within the mind of one
who will be born anew,
as if he always knew
his origin, roots, and mission.

This constant tug of war will give way
to one side or another when the day is over.
The push and pull, compels me to sway,
back and forth in an era of uncertainty.

Once, upon the shores of this country,
did I stand in bold proclamation, hope
for the huddled masses, seeking solace,
countless gathered from overseas.

Now, as far as my eyes can see,
and as bright as my torch reveals,
I search for an inkling of the truth,
for which I stand upon this harbor.

Amber waves of grain cannot conceal,

the discontent across the land;

nor, can the majestic mountain ranges

inspire my children’s hearts to sing.

Instead, the voices of the populace

rise up in protest on the right and left;

a people, divided, falling prey to unity,

akin to tyranny on the horizon.

Out of the silence of the heart,

patience is born, derived from

the eternal nature of the soul.

Patience blooms best in silence;

when the heart becomes still,

the entirety of the soul listens.

The fertile void of the moment,

births words of truth spoken,

within the heart of silence.

The soul that is present, here

in a moment of time, is waiting

to hear the footsteps of Messiah.

Redemption is at hand for all

who are able to acknowledge

the potential of every moment.