Category Archives: poetry

September 29, 2025 · 7:30 am

Is God at my diner?

By Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

This Rosh Hashonah

I did not go to services.

I did not pray 

with the congregation.

I did not walk 

up to the Ark.

Instead, I went for my morning coffee

at the local diner.

Was this a crisis of faith?

I don’t think so.

God sat at the next table over

watching me, making sure

I was all right.

He’s OK with me 

ordering my usual fare

while I assure Him 

my belief is constant and true,

whether I’m reading a

prayer book or a menu.

The practice of religion

may be communal,

but it is also deeply personal,

I think, as I sip my hot coffee

and know with certainty

that in the coming Yom Kippur

I will be inscribed

wherever I happen to be.

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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September 26, 2025 · 7:30 am

Unetaneh Tokef

by Theresa Werba (Spring City, PA)

Oh God, I am so afraid.

The future looms before me, unknown.

I fear what I do not know,

cannot know.

I fear your power over my fate.

You’re going to judge me, so I must speak of the

sacred power of this day.

I pray for mercy and truth,

because you are the judge

who knows, and sees all.

What will you write, and seal?

How will you record, and count?

What will you remember, of all 

I have forgotten?

I love books, but the Book of Remembrance

I fear, as it reads itself aloud.

What will I hear?

What has my hand signed?

The sound of remembrance!

The shofar— loud, penetrating,

piteous, strong, strange,

elemental, earthy, and

yet of spirit— but within myself

will I hear your still, small voice?

Will I rush forth with angels,

seized with trembling and terror

as they proclaim, “Behold, The Day of Judgment”?

Will I be judged as angels?

Will you judge me as a shepherd does

his sheep, passing, counting, numbering,

decreeing my living soul, my nefesh,

its destiny?

B’Rosh Hashanah yikateivun,

Uv’Yom Tzom Kippur yechateimun.

Oh righteous God,

will I live? Will I die?

Do I have an appointed time?

Will I drown? Will fire consume me?

Will I be stabbed? Will an animal destroy me?

Will I starve? Will I die of thirst?

Will the earth shake? Will malady decimate me?

Will I be stoned? Or burned?

Will life be peaceful, or will I suffer more?

Will I be poor, or rich?

Will I be brought low, or raised up?

I worry about all these things, and yet,

You give me some control over my fate,

because I can turn to you, pray to you,

and do good in the world,

wherein you may alter the course,

alleviate the punishment,

change the decree of my future.

And so I stand, expectantly,

in the New Year,

knowing that I have atoned,

trusting in your judgments,

though I do not understand them, or you, or why.

And I try to be less afraid of the future.

B’Rosh Hashanah yikateivun,

Uv’Yom Tzom Kippur yechateimun.

Theresa Werba is the author of eight books, including What Was and Is: Formal Poetry and Free Verse (Bardsinger Books, 2024), Finally Autistic: Finding My Autism Diagnosis as a Middle-Aged Female (Bardsinger Books, 2024) and Sonnets, a collection of 65 sonnets (Shanti Arts, 2020). Her work has appeared in such journals as The Scarlet Leaf Review, The Wilderness House Literary Review, Spindrift, Mezzo Cammin, The Wombwell Rainbow, Fevers of the Mind, The Art of Autism, Serotonin, The Road Not Taken, and the Society of Classical Poets Journal. Her work ranges from forms such as the ode and sonnet to free verse, with topics ranging from neurodivergence, love, loss, aging, to faith and disillusionment and more.  She also has written on adoption and abuse/domestic violence. Werba is the joyful mother of six children and grandmother to seven. Theresa holds a Master of Music with distinction in voice pedagogy and performance from Westminster Choir College and is known for her dramatic poetry readings. She is a member of Beth Israel Congregation in Eagle, Pennsylvania where she will be singing “Aveinu, Malkeinu” for the high holidays. 

You can find more about Theresa Werba and her work at www.theresawerba.com and on social media and YouTube @thesonnetqueen. 

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September 22, 2025 · 7:30 am

Braiding the challah

by Miriam Bassuk (Seattle, WA)


            for Rachel


I watched as your hands melted

into soft dough, the dome of it,

puffed and swollen, and how naturally

your fingers formed and divided it

into four roughly equal parts,

then each of those into snakes,

the kind I remembered creating

in kindergarten with clay.

 
I watched as you designed four

round Challahs as Rosh Hashanah

gifts for friends. You said it was easy, 

and I wanted to believe that, as I observed

you, the snake charmer, plaiting the strands. 

You alone knew the rhythm, the form 

of what would soon become four fragrant crowns.

Miriam Bassuk’s poems have appeared in Snapdragon, Between the Lines, PoetsWest Literary Journal, and 3 Elements Review. She was one of the featured poets in WA 129, a project sponsored by Tod Marshall, the Washington State poet laureate. As an avid poet, she has been charting the journey of living in these uncertain times beyond Covid.

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September 19, 2025 · 7:30 am

T’shuvah

by Richard Epstein (Washington, DC)

It was just before the high holy days. 
My brother traveled from Hawaii to the east coast
to spend the holidays attending my father’s shul. 

He was invited to have lunch with an orthodox family,
members of a local Chabad.

I found the location of the house and decided
to surprise him. I knocked on the door, entered
the house, and asked for my brother by name.     

I was not dressed as an orthodox Jew. 
Nor was my brother. No beard, no white shirt,
no black fedora, no black jacket, no tzitzits. 

“Jack! Is this your brother?”  I heard someone call out.  
“Yes…  T’shuvah!” my brother announced with a sly smile.  
We greet with a hug. I’m vaguely familiar with the word. 

Like a password: it explains my appearance, my presence.  
Ahhh, T’shuvah! They shouted the word as if it was a toast;
their faces alive with smiles

Richard Epstein, a long-time resident of the Washington, DC area, was brought up in the Orthodox and Conservative temples of Scranton, PA. He has also spent some time as a student of Buddhism. Richard often examines and questions his religion through poetry. He has been a featured reader at the Silver Spring Civic Center, Kensington Day of the Book festival, Philadelphia Ethical Society, U.S. Navy Memorial, The Vietnam Woman’s Memorial, the Memorial Day Writers Project, and Walter Reed National Medical Center. He is the editor of two veteran anthologies and his poetry has appeared in The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The Jewish Writing Project, Poetica, and others.

Author’s Note: T’shuvah — One who returns.  Being that all definitions are inadequate, t’shuvah involves repentance. 

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September 12, 2025 · 7:30 am

We Must Have Apples

by Beth Kanell (Waterford, VT)

Rain returned as we met the new year. She danced,

spread perfumed presence. Rosh Chodesh Elul sang to us. 

Mouths wet at last, our tongues merged in prayer, chanted

gratitude. Thirst assuaged.

The calendar refreshed proclaims the Days of Awe.

Yesterday’s air, dry with drought, hung dusty with death—

now the tree trembles, as droplets pelt the leaves,

soak into soil. Roots

demand tenderness. Who longs for honey on the tongue, 

while the hills bruise to umber, tarnished with gold, splashed

with blood-bright crimson? The weather forecast misses this:

proposes paper profiles  

as we taste promises. Out to sea, cyclones seethe. Rain

may increase this evening. The first day of the Jewish new year

starts at sundown, rarely the same day of an autumn month

the calendar also dancing

which is why we are picking apples in such rain; wind could

scatter them on the ground, bruise them, aromatic invitation

to passing deer, who devour in darkness. We are almost ready,

recipes laid out. Memories

of grandparents and of children’s questions. Of answers

that we can’t yet believe. Of what we could not prevent: raw

grief for the unrescued, the damaged, the struggle to praise

as we witness death. Wash

with tenderness. Fruit, too, desires cool water. Paring. A wiped

board for sorting, slicing, blade laid to red-green apple peel 

that curls in crisp helix around our fingers. Regrets, resolutions:

a busy kitchen, scrubbed hands,

heart shaken and struck by the evening news. Rain splashes,

weeping. It falls on the just and the unjust, the judged, the parched

urgency of the garden in autumn as squash ripens, carrots swell,

atonement hesitates, the Taurid meteors

spit fireballs across September’s crisp crust. Aroma of apples.

Of my mother’s cinnamon willingness, my father’s tobacco,

the sour tang of sweat and fear in any crowded room. Open doors

admit fresh forgiveness: hear the rain.

Beth Kanell lives in northeastern Vermont among rivers, rocks, and a lot of writers. Her poems seek comfortable seats in small well-lit places, including Lilith Magazine, The Comstock Review, Indianapolis Review, Gyroscope Review, The Post-Grad Journal, Does It Have Pockets?, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ritualwell, Persimmon Tree, Northwind Treasury, RockPaperPoem, and Rise Up Review. Her collection Thresholds is due in early 2026 from Kelsay Books. Join her for conversation (bring your own tea) at https://bethkanell.blogspot.com.

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September 8, 2025 · 7:30 am

Maple

by Lori Levy (Sherman Oaks, CA)

My friend says I’m always looking for maple—

for what’s good and sweet, like the syrup made from

the maples of my childhood in Vermont.

Not everything in life is maple, she says.

Maybe I’m looking for it more these days.

The older I get, the more I notice

the bittersweet taste of life. I wish I could say

it’s like the chocolate I use to make brownies,

but it’s more like this:

as I’m sitting with a friend in rapt silence,

watching Itzhak Perlman play violin in Los Angeles,

another concert is going on in Gaza,

a bloodcurdling one of booms, bangs, screams. 

My siblings in Israel send me photos of flowers blooming

in green fields: lupines, cyclamens, clovers, daisies.

The war is in its fifth month,

but there they are, walking among irises, anemones. 

I read about an 84-year-old woman

held hostage by Hamas in a dark, airless tunnel,

how she’s given six dates to eat, her food for the day,

a bottle of water placed just beyond her reach:

she’s too weak to get up from her mattress.

Palestinians are dying. Israelis are dying.

Children in Gaza are starving. Israeli hostages are being raped.

My worldview begins to crack and crumble:

Was I wrong to believe people are basically good?

I used to laugh in denial when my daughter said evil exists.

Now I dig in the dark, desperate for a trace of maple.

Lori Levy’s poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod International Journal, Poet Lore, Paterson Literary Review, and numerous other online and print literary journals and anthologies in the U.S., the U.K., and Israel. Her poems have also been published in medical humanities journals and Jewish journals. In 2023, two of her chapbooks were published: What Do You Mean When You Say Green? and Other Poems of Color (Kelsay Books) and Feet in L.A., But My Womb Lives in Jerusalem, My Breath in Vermont (Ben Yehuda Press). You can find some of her poems on Instagram at IG@lorilevypoems. Levy lives with her husband in Los Angeles near their children and grandchildren, but “home,” for her, has also been Vermont and Israel. 

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September 1, 2025 · 7:30 am

Displaced Jews 

(Written during the LA wildfires, January 2025)

by Harriet Wolpoff (San Diego, CA)

About 16 million

That’s how many Jews 

Are in the world right now

Of them,

Over 100,000 are displaced

Inside Israel

And here, in LA,

How many 

Of the over 100,000 displaced

Are also Jews?

How many Shabbat candles

Will be lit tonight

On hotel dressers?

How many heads will rest

On pillows not their own?

How many fears will surface

In strange rooms

Or in tunnels?

We need a miracle Shabbat

There and here

One that returns 

Internal refugees

To their homes safely

One that provides 

New, hopeful dwellings 

For our homeless

Protected from

The ravages of terrorists,

The ravages of climate change

Ufros aleynu sukkat shlomecha

Ceilings, walls, floors

That will never be taken for granted. 

Harriet Wolpoff is retired after several years in the New York City public school system and a forty year career in Jewish education in San Diego, winning many awards for ground-breaking programming.  She has been studying Israeli poetry with Rachel Korazim for over four years. Harriet is proudest of being a wife, mother, and Bubbe of three grandchildren who inspire many of her poems.

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August 18, 2025 · 7:30 am

August in Galilee

by David Allard (London, UK)

 We went stone-gathering at dawn,

Thinking ourselves young pioneers

Redeeming the land,

Ungainly in old boots,

Still sticky-eyed and dry-mouthed,

To gather the rocky crop

Risen like dragons’ teeth

From the newly ploughed earth.

My heart awoke first, and

I forgot to breathe for a moment

When I saw you – once more

As if it was for the first time.

Your long black hair curtained your face

As you stooped to gather jagged chunks,

Then slid back when you rose, 

Loose-limbed and lambent, 

To cast your harvest, 

Clanging, echoing,

Into the rusting, dented tractor-drawn trailer.

“ He’s dreaming again,”

 You said to Bernice,

“ Hey you, wake up.”

You might have smiled, 

A muse then and now, 

Unknowingly holding

My fragile heart.

Why wake? Soon enough, 

The red sun risen from the distant ridge

Will turn a fierce yellow-white

And these last floating moments

Bathed in the night’s warmth

Of a faraway summer 

Will be gone, 

But never lost.

David Allard, now retired, lives in London, UK. He lived in Israel through the seventies. He writes poems and short stories, and has been published in the USA, UK and Israel. A detective novel, The Last Resort, set in a sleepy seaside town, has been published under the pseudonym David Strauss and is available on Amazon.

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August 10, 2025 · 7:16 am

In His Hands

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

My grandfather once held my grandmother’s hands in his. I never knew her. He held the keys of his wooden register in his hands. Canned goods. Fresh produce. Milk bottles for the 1915 free milk campaign as announced in the Newark Evening Star. He held my infant father in his hands, an American-born baby of a Litvak and a Galitzianer. He held his aging mother’s hands and when I was born, and my mother asked him for a name, he gave me the name of his mother, Bryna, and his eldest sister. Doba, who died in the 1918 flu pandemic. He once held shoelaces that he dipped in leather in his first job at a Newark tannery. He once held pencils and rulers in his work as a joiner in Russia. He once held the parcels of his Russian life as he steamed across the Atlantic at age 19 on the SS Rotterdam in 1899 to join his brother in Newark. He held the fringes of his tallis and the leather straps of his phylacteries that I now keep in a special treasures drawer. My grandfather once held the remote to his Amana television to watch The Lawrence Welk Show and used it to change the channel to The Wonderful World of Disney for me. He once held the lever to vote for Al Smith for American president after he became a US citizen. He once held the keys to a corner lot house after decades of living behind the general store he and my grandmother owned and operated. As he aged, he held the iron-wrought banister of the outdoor stairs to my father’s car. He held my father’s hands for support. He held onto life itself to the age of 93.

But with all that my grandfather held, I don’t think he ever once held me.

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies (HGS) from Gratz College, where she teaches in the HGS graduate programs. The author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse, her work has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, Tiferet, Minyan, Jewishfiction.net, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She serves as Director, Mercer County (NJ) Holocaust, Genocide & Human Rights Education Center.

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August 4, 2025 · 7:30 am

A Cultural Jew

by Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)

I am a cultural Jew, a result of my upbringing.

I am not religious in terms of doctrine, attending

synagogue or following the rules of Sabbath or

the strictly kosher culture. Still, I’ve never thought

of myself as anything but Jewish. 

The religion has a magnetic hold on me. 

I felt this way most potently when I was dating 

the woman who became my girlfriend, my wife, 

and, finally, my much more than significant other. 

She came from a kosher life, a family that celebrated 

holy days and attended synagogue … if you’ll excuse 

the play on words …  religiously. 

I was not a smooth fit, not the final piece of a sacred

jigsaw puzzle. It took much flexibility and patience 

for them to welcome me into the fold, a little like a 

shepherd embracing the prodigal lost sheep … but 

in time it happened, and there was a wedding which was

instructive to this somewhat ill-fitting member of

the congregation.

I recall with fondness seeing so many happy faces,

standing under a chuppah for the first and only time,

breaking the glass. At that time, to me, a rabbi was a

rabbi. But I later learned that the rabbi who said magical

words that united me and my ever-after wife was special. 

He’d helped liberate Buchenwald and had supervised 

the start of new lives for Elie Wiesel and a thousand other 

orphans … and this night he was leading me and my bride 

to our own new life.

I am now in my eighties and remain a cultural Jew,

but I say with pride that I am as Jewish as I can be.

I show all Jews respect, love learning, try to harm no one.

I stand as tall as my fellow Jews. I look upon all Jews

as children of HaShem. I know my place in the scheme

of Judaism and am sincere in my love of all the tribes.

And when the time arrives, I will sit among my ancestors 

and I will be quite comfortable and proud of the life I led.

Herbert Munshine grew up in the Bronx and graduated from C.C.N.Y. with both a B.S. in Education and a Master’s Degree in English. You can find his baseball poetry on Baseball Bard where he has had more than 100 poems published, and where he was recently inducted into that site’s Hall of Fame. He lives with his wife in Great Neck, NY.

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