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

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.

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.

Reflections

I brush the small black spiders

out of my hair in the morning.

These creatures of death seek to retire

between the crevices underneath the baseboards.

My sleepy yawns echo

against the pile of broken bones in the corner,

remnants of my body that cried out in woe,

that broke when I fell upon this stone.

The rays of the sun glisten

upon the airborne dust.

The path of the sun hastens;

I glimpse a view of its brilliance.

The light through the window is golden.

The clarity of my mind is restored.

My tsedokah requests are overflowing,

I have to swim through envelopes to find the door.

Outside, the ice clings to pine needles,

dew covers the hidden manna on the lawn.

The sun’s brilliant rays melt the icicles,

water droplets combine with the dew as one.

I collect the manna – tastes like parfait on my tongue.

A gentle rain from above cleanses my sin.

Ahead of me is a land flowing with milk and honey;

above me is the Star of Jacob, my only kin.

This poem was written circa 2010, for a university poetry class, that was essentially a poetry workshop format. The class was divided in half; each week, half of the class would present poems. This poem was part of a three poem series. Each student’s series was read by the other students prior to class. The class would select one of the three poems to be read. When I presented, the entire class unanimously declared, Reflections as the poem to be read.