Category Archives: poetry

February 5, 2024 · 7:30 am

The Big Ask

by Rich Orloff (New York, NY)

To God
To my ancestors
To anyone who will listen
I ask and pray for this:

Bless me with a peace
That’s deeper than happiness
That makes room for profound sorrow
That accepts pain and loss
That’s not dependent on good news

Bless me with a peace
That comforts me when I feel anguish
That steadies me when I feel uncertain
That expands me when I think small
That finds a way through my fiercest resistance

Bless me with a peace
That stretches beyond my horizons
That heals even if I can’t explain why
That offers delight as an everyday gift
That allows me to see blessings

Bless me with a peace
That is a refuge from torment
That is an oasis from yearning
That is a sanctuary from trauma
That transcends all else
But never denies all else

Bless me with a peace
That renews my gratitude for life
And that I can access
Every time I let you in

Rich Orloff writes both poems and plays.  His poems have been published in The Poet, Fragments (published by T’ruah), and Fresh Words magazines, and they’ve been presented at churches and synagogues, performed in theaters and schools, read at meditation and yoga groups, and spoken at events both lofty and intimate.  Rich’s plays include the Purim-themed musical comedy Esther in the Spotlight (performed so far in New York, Toronto and Tel Aviv), the comedic revue OY! (over 50 productions in the United States – and one in Bulgaria), and many more, of all lengths, styles and subjects.  Rich’s plays have had over two thousand performances on six continents – and a staged reading in Antarctica.  More at www.richorloff.com. 

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January 22, 2024 · 7:30 am

I am the wound

by Haviva Ner-david (Galilee, Israel)

I am the wound. I am wounded. Forever. 

I am the crying child, the one who wants to scream and scream and scream. Why is the world this way? Why so much destruction and hate? Why so much killing? 

I am the children, looking at the destruction adults created. Aren’t they supposed to protect us?

I am the teddy bear, sitting alone. Abandoned. My child gone. Where is she?

We are the guards. The shields. We want to protect our children. But we are useless against the enormity of the danger.

I am the wounded player. We are all players in the game the politicians are playing with us. Wounded, hurt, screaming in pain on the ground. 

I am the shattered window. I was once clear. The world looked clearer through me. Now I am broken, shattered into pieces. Although maybe only part of me. Are there still pieces not shattered? 

I am the wounded knee. Will I ever feel whole again? Will I ever be healed? What will it take? Will I ever stop hurting?

We are the healers. We’ve come with a bandage, to protect the wound. But we cannot fix it. There will always be scars. 

I am the fist, hitting the wall. Frustration. Anger. Let it all out. 

I am the pirate, the enemy. Or am I the victim? I, too, am wounded, missing my hand. But I will move on, move forward. Wounded but not defeated. Life is still worth living.

Where does it hurt? All over. When I apply pressure, it hurts. 

Where is the hope? I am looking for the hope. Searching everywhere.

Don’t worry. I am here. You found me. It will be okay.

A note from Haviva Ner-David on writing these words: 

For my Soulwork course for Ritualwell, we explored four different “soul modalities,” one each session. On the first night, we did Soul Image Collage. Each person in the class made a collage.

A profound occurrence happened when I was creating mine. I chose my images (part of the process), pasted them onto the page to create the collage, and then I looked at the collage. 

It looked so painful, hopeless, despairing — which was not surprising considering that I am living in the midst of a brutal war. But there was only pain; I could have sworn I had chosen a hopeful image or two. 

I looked on the floor, the couch, my desk, but I found nothing. 

Just when I was about to give up, I stood and noticed a clipping that had fallen between the couch and the desk. I picked it up, turned it over, and it said (in Hebrew): “Don’t worry. It will be okay.” 

Yes, I had clipped those words from a kids’ magazine when I had done my image selecting. Wow!

I pasted the missing clipping onto the collage and wrote the words that appear above. (The prompt was, “I am the one who…”)

Here is Haviva’s collage:

—

Haviva Ner-David is a writer and rabbi. She is the founding rabbinic director of Shmaya: A Mikveh for Mind, Body, and Soul on Kibbutz Hannaton, in the Galilee, where she lives. She is a spiritual companion with a specialty in dreamwork and other Gestalt modalities (such as soul image collage, inner child work, and nature soul work) who companions a variety of clients of different ages and faith traditions, including (but not only) many rabbis and rabbinical students. She is the author of three spiritual journey memoirs, two novels, and one children’s book (with another soon to be published) — the only children’s book about mikveh. Haviva is also an activist, focused mainly on building a shared society of partnership between Jewish and Palestinian Israelis. She was born with a degenerative form of muscular dystrophy (FSHD), which has been one of her biggest life challenges and teachers, and together with her life partner, Jacob, parents seven children (one adopted and six biological). You can visit her website for more information about her work and books: https://rabbihaviva.com/

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January 1, 2024 · 7:30 am

Ancestors

by Natalie Zellat Dyen (Huntington Valley, PA)

Last year I searched for my grandfather’s grave at Har Jehuda Cemetery.

Nathan Weisbord. 

Section C25, row 2, location 47.

But couldn’t find him. 

Once, I was able to run my hand over Hebrew letters incised into the stone.

Once I was able trace the date of his death from the Spanish flu: October 1918. 

But now he is twice buried.

This time in a jungle of tangled weeds and branches. 

Buried by neglect that afflicts old Jewish cemeteries like this one.

Cemeteries passed down to owners unwilling or unable to maintain what was entrusted to them. 

We are the caretakers of our ancestors.

Responsible for remembering them and reciting their names. 

It’s not easy for many of us to find our roots. 

Nature unchecked reclaims its own.

Paths to our history are blocked by twisted roots.

And burned records.

And toppled gravestones.

And the rubble of cemeteries in the old country.

The last time I visited Har Jehuda I was a volunteer. 

One of many warriors, armed with rakes, hedge trimmers, and bare hands.

Working to clear the paths, section by section. 

We have not yet reached my grandfather’s grave.

But we are persistent.

We Jews. 

That’s how we survive.

I had hoped to accomplish much as a volunteer. 

Bus alas, my ability to twist and bend

Had gone the way of my youth.

So I sat down and continued weeding and trimming on the ground. 

But when it was time to leave, I found myself stuck.

Lacking the strength to get back on my feet. 

So I wrapped my arms around the nearest gravestone.

A monument to man named Joseph Feingold

Who died in 1948. 

And he helped to lift me to my feet. 

As Jews, we are responsible for each other in life and in death. 

And as I honor my ancestors, they will continue to lift me.

Natalie Zellat Dyen began writing humor pieces and essays for newspapers while working as a technical writer. Since turning to fiction, her work has appeared in a number of publications including, Philadelphia Stories, The MacGuffin, the Schuylkill Valley Journal, Willow Review, Alternative Truths: Endgame, Jewish Writing Project, Damselfly, CERASUS Magazine, Every Day Fiction, and Neshaminy: The Bucks County Historical and Literary Journal. Her short story collection, Finding Her Voice, was published in 2019. Her debut novel, Locked in Silence, a work of historical fiction, will be released on February 1, 2024.

To learn more about Natalie and her work, visit her website: www.nataliewrites.com. 

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December 25, 2023 · 6:30 am

An Unexpected Invitation

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

Brooklyn hosts many different religions,

but for this less than practicing Jew,

the invitation to attend a Mennonite

prayer service was indeed a surprise.

Much different from traditional

services in my own synagogue,

this service was held in a coffee shop

with hymns and readings wafting

over the cakes and pastries.

What impressed me most

was the unmistakable

sense of community,

a fellowship of followers.

Fundamentalists, sure, but

holders of a tenacious grip

to the tenets of their faith.

I bore witness to their devotion, 

admiring the warm coat 

of their faith while I shivered 

in my own garment of doubt,

a requirement, it seems,

of the Jewish religion,

while I sat and prayed during

the High Holidays. 

It must be so comforting

to be so sure.

Mel Glenn, the author of twelve books for young adults, is working on a poetry book about the pandemic tentatively titled Pandemic, Poetry, and People. He has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years. You can find his most recent poems in the YA anthology, This Family Is Driving Me Crazy, edited by M. Jerry Weiss. If you’d like to learn more about his work, visit: http://www.melglenn.com/

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December 4, 2023 · 7:30 am

I forgot to light a candle

by Dennis Gura (Santa Monica, CA)

I forgot to light a candle the other day:

It was an uncle’s memorial,

But he was gone before I was,

And the recollections second-hand:

What my father mentioned,

The documents entrusted to me,

The rare, very rare, comments of my grandfather.

I did not know the precise date until

After they too were gone, when

I dug through the papers

And figured out the World War

Two details. They did not mark

The date.

Nor did they light a candle,

And certainly no prayer was uttered.

No kaddish for the boy gone in France.

My grandfather might have

Been bemused, or likely annoyed,

That I would recited the doxology

For his sons, or for him,

For that is an obligation I have

Saddled myself with.

But this year, I neglected

To consult my calendar in

A timely fashion, and the

Day on which I should have

Lit the candle to

Honor the sacrifice of

The too-young uncle

Had already passed.

No candle this year.

Perhaps this scribble will do

To recall the uncle gone

Before I, or my elder sibs,

Arrived, though both of them bear

His name in some fashion. Perhaps

Their lives will make do

For the absent flame.

Dennis Gura is a father, husband, and an engaged and serious Jew who tries to understand a complex and confusing world as best as possible. A native Angeleno, he has been deeply engaged in Jewish thought and experiences his entire life–the ethnic, the ethical, the secular, and the religious.  He was privileged to study at Machon Pardes in 1982-83, and has since bounced around various LA synagogues and Jewish groups.

If you’d like to read more of his work, visit his Substack page, where this poem first appeared (and is reprinted here with permission of the author): https://dennisgura.substack.com

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November 20, 2023 · 6:30 am

Needless To Say 

by Lesléa Newman (Massachusetts)

                                    October 30, 2023

“I’m back to counting noses,” says my friend

who needless to say is Jewish. As needless to say

am I. We bend our dark heads together

across the narrow table, leave our coffee 

to grow cold and speak in hushed voices

which needless to say is so unlike us 

usually so out, loud, and proud

which needless to say is now totally

out of the question in this New England café

as we quietly question ourselves:

Should we unclasp the Jewish stars around our necks?

Yank the mezuzahs off our doorposts?

Straighten our hair?

Change our names?

Ask friends if they would hide us?

Are we overacting?

Are we underreacting?

How did our ancestors know when it was time to leave?

Is it time to leave?

Needless to say, there is nowhere to go.

Lesléa Newman has created 85 books for readers of all ages including the dual memoir-in-verse, I Carry My Mother and I Wish My Father and the children’s books, Gittel’s Journey: An Ellis Island Story, The Babka Sisters and Ketzel the Cat Who Composed. Her literary prizes include two National Jewish Book Awards and the Sydney Taylor Body-of-Work Award. Her newest book, Always Matt: A Tribute to Matthew Shepard, a fully illustrated book-length poem celebrating the life and legacy of Matthew Shepard, has just been published. For more information about Lesléa, visit her website:  www.lesleanewman.com .

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November 6, 2023 · 7:30 am

21 Alternative Recipes: Notes from a Google Search History

October, 2023

by Tzivia Gover (Massachusetts)

what does ethereal mean

when is the pool open for lap swimming

what’s happening in the middle east

fighting in israel and gaza news headlines

the power of baking challah together in hard times

can you use expired instant yeast

how to make sourdough challah

how to make whole wheat challah

easy challah recipe

when was the yom kippur war

can you substitute honey for sugar

beautiful braided challah

how to braid challah

do you grease the baking sheet

what does taking the challah mean

what is the blessing for baking challah

what is the miracle of sarah’s challah

where to send money

does active yeast expire

where to put dough to rise

what if there is no warm place

Tzivia Gover’s most recent book, Dreaming on the Page: Tap into Your Midnight Mind to Supercharge Your Writing, combines writing, spirituality, and dreamwork. Her poems have been published in dozens of journals and anthologies including The Mom Egg Review, The Naugatuck River Review, and Lilith Magazine. She shares her poetry and reflections as she reimagines the life of the biblical matriarch Sarah in her Substack newsletter, “The Life of H” https://tziviagover.substack.com.

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October 30, 2023 · 7:30 am

The Last Lullaby

by Lesléa Newman (Massachusetts)

                                    (October 7, 2023)

Never again the sound of their laughter,

Never again the sound of their cry.

Never again the sight of their smiles,

Never again the sight of their eyes.

Their tiny starfish hands—gone.

The small stones of their toes—gone.

Never again their shrieks of terror,

Never again their shrieks of joy.

Never again to play peek-a-boo,

Never again to say, I see you.

Their milk-white baby teeth—gone.

Their desert-smooth dimpled cheeks—gone.

We didn’t know it would be their last supper,

The last sip of soup, the last slice of bread.

We didn’t know it would be their last bath time,

The last soaping up, the last rinsing off.

The last lifting of arms to slip into pajamas,

The last carefully chosen story to read.

Never again their warm weight on our laps,

Never again their quick hop into bed.

The last tucking in, the last goodnight kiss,

The last lullaby, the last shutting the light.

Gone….the last….never again.

We didn’t know. We didn’t know.

Lesléa Newman has created 85 books for readers of all ages including the dual memoir-in-verse, I Carry My Mother and I Wish My Father and the children’s books, Gittel’s Journey: An Ellis Island Story, The Babka Sisters and Ketzel the Cat Who Composed. Her literary prizes include two National Jewish Book Awards and the Sydney Taylor Body-of-Work Award. Her newest book, Always Matt: A Tribute to Matthew Shepard, a fully illustrated book-length poem celebrating the life and legacy of Matthew Shepard, has just been published. For more information about Lesléa, visit her website:  www.lesleanewman.com .

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October 2, 2023 · 7:30 am

Rebel

by Lori Levy (Sherman Oaks, CA)

If everyone else is doing it, that’s a good reason not to do it—

     Dr. Richard (Reuven) Sobel, my father, RIP

In my granddaughter’s jujitsu class

there’s a boy named Rebel—

a name to live up to, I think.

I am not a rebel

but the rebel in me roars

when it comes to holidays, traditions, rituals.

I want to do them my way

which means no fasting on Yom Kippur.

Fasting gives me a headache. I need coffee

when I wake up, food to start the day.

Only then, belly full, can I contemplate my sins.

If it’s up to me, we don’t have to bother with the symbols

required for a Passover plate: shank bone, bitter herbs, haroset.

Can’t we skip the long prayers and just eat matzo?

One year we are in Spain on Rosh Hashanah,

all of us there for my nephew’s wedding.

We celebrate the holiday with apples and honey

on a blanket at the beach. Perfect, I think.

My rebel smiles and disappears.

Sometimes, filled with guilt, I accuse my rebel:

you’re just lazy—too lazy to cook and host

a big holiday meal, though you don’t seem to mind

when others do the cooking. What kind of Jew are you?

No, not lazy! I shout. (Am I my rebel?)

I do want my loved ones at the table with me,

not for prayers, not for the Bible I never read,

just a meal, togetherness.

I wasn’t raised on holidays—except Hanukkah,

for a few gifts, so we wouldn’t feel left out

when all the other kids in our small Vermont town

were getting toys and clothes under their Christmas trees. 

No Purim for us, or Succot. No synagogue in our town

or Jews in my class. No Bar Mitzvah for my brother— 

but when he turned 13, my atheist father and 

non-religious mother took us on a trip to Israel.

Several years later, there we were, living in Israel.

I could talk about history, the Holocaust—or just say

I fell in love with the country. Or maybe

with Israeli men. I married one.

We celebrated the holidays with his family,

but now, years later, I’m back where I began,

not wanting the rituals that were never, back then,

a part of my life. I’m happy to be a Jew, but

this is my Judaism: my Israeli husband,

Israel, my kids born there. It’s not about Moses or

the Torah. Maybe it’s nothing more than

hummus and pita, Israeli pickles and olives.

We eat them in Los Angeles now.

Lori Levy’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod International Journal, Paterson Literary Review, Poet Lore, Mom Egg Review, and numerous other literary journals and anthologies in the U.S., the U.K., and Israel.  Her work has also been published in medical humanities journals and in Jewish journals such as The Reform Jewish Quarterly, Shirim, and The Jewish Journal. Her chapbook, Feet in L.A., But My Womb Lives in Jerusalem, My Breath in Vermont, is forthcoming from Ben Yehuda Press in the fall/winter.  She lives with her extended family in Los Angeles, but “home” has also been Vermont and Israel and, for several months, Panama.

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September 24, 2023 · 7:30 am

A Psalm about Grappling

by Rich Orloff (New York, NY)

Grapple with me, says God
I do not ask you to believe in me
Or extol me
Or worship me
These are orders humans have decreed

But grapple with me
Not for my sake
But for yours

Would you feel you lived if you had never seen the color blue
(and you had a chance)
Would you feel you lived if you had never heard music
(and you had a chance)
I offer you this opportunity
To grapple with me

And if you don’t know how to start
Ask questions
What are my dimensions?
Where do I reside?
What are my office hours?

Ask patiently
Then ask again
Ask a third time, just for fun
Ask a fourth time, just in case
And a fifth time, so asking can become a habit

Please
Grapple with me
I may not provide the answers you wish for
But if you let me
I will show you the colors and sounds you’ve missed

Rich Orloff writes both poems and plays.  His poems have been published in The Poet, Fragments (published by T’ruah), and Fresh Words magazines, and they’ve been presented at churches and synagogues, performed in theaters and schools, read at meditation and yoga groups, and spoken at events both lofty and intimate.  Rich’s plays include the Purim-themed musical comedy Esther in the Spotlight (performed so far in New York, Toronto and Tel Aviv), the comedic revue OY! (over 50 productions in the United States – and one in Bulgaria), and many more, of all lengths, styles and subjects.  Rich’s plays have had over two thousand performances on six continents – and a staged reading in Antarctica.  More at www.richorloff.com. 

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