Category Archives: poetry

July 14, 2025 · 7:30 am

Questions I Never Asked

by Herbert Munshine (Great Neck, NY)

It’s too late now, far too late. Both my parents and

both my sisters are gone. My wellspring of family

knowledge has faded into the mysteries of history.

I was smart with books and sports, but I am ignorant

of my own history, full of regrets and a desire to know

but missing the precious resources that would have

filled the holes, the chasms in my consciousness.

When did they arrive in the U. S.? Why did they leave

Poland and Latvia? What was life there like for Jews?

How did they meet? Was the meeting accidental, 

spontaneous, arranged? How long did they date before

he proposed? Where did they get married? How long

were they married before she had my older sister?

What did he help build as a carpenter (besides the

Museum of the City of New York?). What was her

favorite color? Flower? Song? Pre-TV radio show?

Which members of my family were lost during the

Holocaust? During the pogroms? Did any of them

make the Aliyah to Israel? Who were my living relatives?

Where did they live? What did they do? Why were we

and they so distant? 

Why did she have me 10 years after my second sister?

Was she happy when I was born? Did she feel too old

to care for a baby again? Is it true that she almost

aborted me but changed her mind literally at the final

moment?

Then there are the closer queries to my toddler self:

What did her voice sound like? What did her touch

feel like? Her scent? Her presence? Beliefs: Did she

light Shabbas candles? Did he attend synagogue 

regularly when he was much younger and she was

still a vital presence in our lives? Afterthoughts:

What was his favorite opera? Why did he switch from

being a builder to owning a store? The ethereal gems:

What would they feel about the man I have become,

the woman I married, the children and grandchildren

I had – – – and how little my progeny know about them?

One final question: Why did I wait too late to ask?

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 160 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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July 7, 2025 · 7:30 am

Repairing the World with Chicken Soup

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

Boil chicken bones and chicken parts with water, parsnip, dill, carrot, and celery in a pot larger than your firstborn. Ladle the soup into a bowl and add Goodman’s fine egg noodles if it’s Shabbos or handmade lokshen if it’s Pesach. Form dense matzoh balls with your hands. It’s all right if they’re misshapen. So is the world. Should the matzoh balls sink to the bottom of the pot and your stomach, it’s okay. They’ll soak up the golden liquid that soothes all that ails you and the world. Tikkun olam. 

Having kosher chicken soup from your mama’s stove is like no other. Better than the best kosher deli. Because it contains love like your mama’s kiss on your keppele. You’re all right, it’s the Sabbath, time to end one week and start another fresh and clean. The broth will clear your head, clear all mistakes, fill you up so you can curl up under your featherbed all cozy, warm, and loved.

And maybe this is the best of all. Knowing that your mama learned how to make the soup from her mama, Rayzel Entel, who learned it from her mama, Esther Taube Drewno, who learned it from her mama, Chaja Rojza Mularzewicz, who learned it from her mama, Buna Etla Przestreleniec, who learned it from her mama, Ruchla Herszkowna of no last name, born at the turn of the nineteenth century in Brok, Poland. You are a link in the chain doling out the remedy to repair the world a spoonful at a time.


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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June 30, 2025 · 7:30 am

Sh’ma, God, Listen   

by Nancy Smiler Levinson (Los Angeles, CA)

 On the boulevard near the bus stop in “Persian Square”

I glance a woman, small, mottled skin     California sun

one foot on the curb, the other in the street

She looks painfully sad, lost among the stream of shoppers                   

and I find myself at her side, my arm around her bony shoulder 

Are you alright?  Do you need help?

Her accent is heavy    with my hearing aids I lean in  

Money  mon-ey I need 

Is that what she is saying?  for food?  bus fare?  just in need?

I begin opening my pocketbook, but her hand stops mine

and she pulls me close  I am Jewish, lady,

tomorrow night comes Rosh Hashanah    I need honey

Ah  of course  I too am Jewish    come   I guide her to the bus bench,

bid her wait for me while I take off on foot, a mission of sorts

Blocks on, thank God, in a small market I find honey on the shelf

To the woman, trusting, waiting for me I hand a bear-shaped bottle

God bless you lady, she says, God bless and keep you 

Shana Tova and an abundance of blessings to you, I respond

So. . .  I performed a small mitzvah quietly with heart and soul

But if one speaks aloud of one’s good deed

it might appear as if acted for applause

and thus in the eyes of God, not count

Now listen, God    Sh’ma   I need to share this

because there is a story here  

almost every mitzvah is a story   

or perhaps a small poem

Nancy Smiler Levinson is author of Moments of Dawn: A Poetic Memoir and a chapbook, The Diagnosis Changes Everything. Her work has appeared in Poetica, Jewish Literary Journal, Hamilton Stone Review, Silver Birch Press, Ink in Thirds, Burningword Literary Journal, Minnesota Memories, Constellations, and elsewhere.In past chapters of her life she worked as a journalist, educational book editor, Head Start teacher, and she published some thirty books for young readers (including a biography of Emma Lazarus).

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June 9, 2025 · 7:30 am

Folk tale

by Susan Kress (Saratoga Springs, NY)

My aunt died

in the age of letters

and no one told my grandmother

for fear the news would strike her dead.

She couldn’t read

a word of English and

my aunt lived

in another country 

so it was easy to lift sentences

from old airmail letters and pretend

she was still alive.

Years before, when my aunt

had married out of the faith

that no one practiced,

the family mourned.

They chanted prayers, sat on low seats,

folded her away

in a locked drawer—

and for seven years,

until her son was born—pretended

she was dead.

Susan Kress, granddaughter of Jewish immigrants from Russia and Poland, was born and educated in England and now lives in Saratoga Springs, New York. Her poems appear in Nimrod International, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Salmagundi, New Letters, South Florida Poetry Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, La Presa, and other journals. Her poems have been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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May 26, 2025 · 7:30 am

Cossacks

by Rich Orloff (New York, NY)

I was raised in a middle-class home

In a middle-class neighborhood

Safe and secure

But raised with the fear

That the Cossacks might be standing outside our door

Ready to rape and kill everyone inside

This was never spoken aloud, of course

It was planted wordlessly

My parents never intended to give me this gift

It was simply how they approached life

My mother, born in Belarus

Trained as a little girl where to hide in their little house

If and when the Cossacks came

Her family left in the middle of the night

Telling nobody

Erasing themselves from the world they lived in

My father, born in Chicago

The son of immigrants

A mother from Poland who never learned to read or write

Or show warmth

A father from Ukraine whose only advice to his son was

Never show fear

As you’ve probably guessed

The Cossacks never stood outside our door

But they had already successfully invaded

The souls of my parents

I learned how to protect myself

And have been prepared for annihilation ever since

I share this with you

Not so you will pity me

But so you know who I am

And if, when we meet

I treat you like you may be a Cossack in disguise

I apologize for not seeing who you are

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, Miami, 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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May 22, 2025 · 7:30 am

Hands

by Rick Black (Arlington, VA)

I watch others pass by, pushing strollers, 

carrying tallit bags, wearing yarmulkes.

And I imagine them in shul, reciting ancient prayers, 

their hands uplifted  to God.

And yet I would rather be here,

bent prostrate, nurturing the arugula seedlings.

Hunched over in torn jeans and invisible phylacteries,

I worship with them daily, my co-worshippers.

I use my hands to dig into the soil,

to clear away stones. 

Rick Black is an award-winning book artist and poet. His artist books are represented in private and public collections, including the Library of Congress, Yale University and the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum. A journalist for many years, Rick’s poetry collection, Star of David, won Poetica Magazine’s 2012 poetry chapbook contest for contemporary Jewish writing. A reading of Star of David was held in the Middle Eastern & African Division of the Library of Congress. He recently published a new collection, Two Seasons in Israel: A Selection of Peace and War Haiku.

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May 19, 2025 · 7:30 am

Sugar Coated 

by Marlena Maduro Baraf (White Plains, NY)                                                                                              

I am a palatable woman

I’m a palatable old

a palatable white

a palatable jew

a palatable latina 

not a palatable latina    

   too white

   too jewish

who is?

who is palatable?

sugar-coated jew

should one be

should one not pretend

should one not pretend

are you?

pre-tending

tending

under-standing

finger-licking

tooth some crone

are you?

paleta – flat on your tongue

open wide 

arghhhhh

you’re acceptable

for now

palateámosnos

pat ourselves on the back

sweetness!

pinch her cheek

engineered

to be palatable

pleasing

merely agreeable

barely tolerable

you’re ok

you’re ok

as long as

you hide 

you hide

nose 

teeth

wrinkles

don’t cackle

be a lady

mientras aquí

palatum 

roof of the mouth 

foot in roof of the mouth

– don’t gag

smile

Glossary

a paleta – a small, flat, wooden board used by doctors and nurses to press down on the tongue and look into a person’s throat.

palateámosnos – Let’s pat ourselves on the back. (usually used in a congratulatory way)

mientras aquí – while here (on this Earth)

Marlena Maduro Baraf was born and raised in Panama and left her tiny land for Los Estados Unidos when she was fifteen. She is author of the memoir At the Narrow Waist of the World.Marlena’s writing has been featured in Ms. Magazine, Lilith, The Jewish Book Council, Night Heron Barks, Poets Reading the News, and elsewhere. She writes the newsletter Breathing in Spanish, where she interviews immigrants from all walks of life. You can learn more about Marlena at:  https://breathinginspanish.substack.com/

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May 12, 2025 · 7:30 am

Ladies and Gentlemen Lunch is Served

by Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca (Calgary, Canada)

After Tadeusz Borowski’s ‘This way for the Gas Ladies and Gentleman.’

The well-groomed student 

Formal yellow jacket, white shirt black pants bow tie

Starched white napkin over his left arm

Announces lunch at the College of Catering

Where I teach English in a pristine environment,

‘Ladies and Gentlemen lunch is served.’ he says

No pistol by his side, no baton thrust into my ribs

No barking command for immediate compliance.

A flash of white sarees, black pants and white shirts

Move in animated chatter

Professional dress as per the code

Rushing up the stairs to the dining room

Following the tempting aromas.

Taking our seats quickly, we study the menu

Devour the three course French meal

Served to us in style, the company delightful

No food fights necessary, portion sizes are generous.

A walk around the campus

Works off the meal and it’s back to work.

No guards or dogs to chase us

The walk is leisurely, pleasant

The hot Bombay sun the only thing at my back

I imagine the barbed wire around the campus

My imagination cast back to prison walls 

Only beautiful trees and flowers bloom happily.

Here by the friendly gate.

Borowski lived  history, I read its horror

Dazed people stumbling out of cattle cars

Stripped naked headed for the gas chambers

Unaware of their gruesome destination

Unlike me headed for a sumptuous meal.

What evil could devise this violent plan?

I want to give away Borowski’s collection

With the haunting title, but to whom?

Everyone wants to read something edifying

So many are in denial

Survivors don’t lie, make up stories. 

The plateful of food  before me now could  feed two

I put some back into the pot, remembering

The children starved by hatred

The women beaten violently

The man calling out to his God

His mouth dry, his thirst unslaked.

When white smoke emerges from the chimneys

Here in the winter landscape 

I see the blackened sky

The birds fly frantically for fresh air

Trees turn to the color of ash

Some birds disappear and I weep

When I can’t see them.

The six million blur my vision.

What violence prompts people to herd others

Like cattle over a cliff?

Violent thoughts stirring in a violent mind.

The camps an invention of cruel machinations

The journey, the deliberate torment of hell.

I cry out to the oppressors with Borowski

Your country — a stock market transaction
 and hoarded sacks of grain.
My country — the gas chamber
and the Auschwitz flame.*

In a career spanning over four decades, Kavita Ezekiel Mendonca has taught English in Indian colleges, AP English in an International School nestled in the foothills of the Himalayan mountains in India, and French and Spanish in private schools in Canada. Her poems are featured in various journals and anthologies, including the Sahitya Akademi Journal Of Indian Literature, the three issues of the Yearbooks of Indian Poetry in English, Verse-Virtual, The Madras Courier, and the Lothlorien Poetry Journal, among others. Kavita has authored two collections of poetry, Family Sunday and Other Poems and Light of The Sabbath. Her poem ‘How To Light Up a Poem,’ was nominated for a Pushcart prize in 2020.  Her poems celebrate Bombay, the city of her birth, Nature, and her Bene Israel Indian Jewish heritage. She is the daughter of the late poet Nissim Ezekiel. 

 *(Author’s note: These lines are from Two Countries – Poetry of Tadeusz Borowski (wordpress.com))

(Editor’s note: This poem was originally published in the Usawa Literary Review in a slightly different form with the permission of the author.)

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May 5, 2025 · 7:30 am

Passing

by Susan Kress (Saratoga Springs, NY)

I was summoned

by the big girls

at the convalescent home

where I was recovering

from that illness

and I remember

the biggest one

twelve years old at least

sitting cross-legged

saying You think

you are chosen because

you are a Jew

and I could not imagine

how they knew—

maybe the nurse

who said I have a bone

to pick with you

because I’d told

my mother I did not

get the chocolate

in the package she 

had sent—opened

before I ever saw it—

maybe that nurse had

spread the word

and there I was

accused and not even

seven years old

sure I would be shunned

for being different

like my father

even after that big war

so all I said was But 

I believe in Jesus

and perhaps I did

since my school

had taught me all

about him and I sang

the hymns and carols

loving the music

and the words Breathe

on me breath of God

which I could feel

lifting my hair

like a halo

and those big

girls let me go

though not before

enforcing my un-

easy Yes I do I do believe

in Jesus and I could

leave it there

except this was only

the first time I

was afraid and passed

but not the last.

Susan Kress, granddaughter of Jewish immigrants from Russia and Poland, was born and educated in England and now lives in Saratoga Springs, New York. Her poems appear in Nimrod International, The Southern Review, New Ohio Review, Salmagundi, New Letters, South Florida Poetry Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Third Wednesday, La Presa, and other journals. Her poems have been twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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April 28, 2025 · 7:30 am

6:00 am Call from Israel

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

My younger brother, David, and I

have had our differences over

women, religion, and politics,

but the thread that has held us together

is our shared love for the Mets

and deep hatred for the Yankees.

We would get together regularly

over beer and baseball out at City Field

and would scream our heads off

when the Mets dramatically won.

Those were the best times with him.

But he suddenly found religion 

and moved himself, family, and work

to a suburb of Tel Aviv where

he quickly found a job in technology

and developed a quick ear for Hebrew.

We would talk on the phone once a week

but it wasn’t the same thing.

Then the bombs began to fall.

I was constantly worried and scanned

the news for reports of damages.

Exhausted one recent night after a tense 

Mets game, I fell asleep at 11, early for me.

The phone suddenly flooded in light.

“David?”

“What happened?” he asked frantically.

“What happened where?” I said, my voice equally raised.

 “Do you know what time it is?” I shouted. 

“Are you all right? Sarah and the kids?”

I pictured him bleeding on some hospital gurney.

“The game, man, tell me the score. 

The Israeli sports feed went out in the 9th.

I was up all night. Did they win?”

“The Mets won, David. Calm down. They’re in 

the series against Philly. If they win, they

get the Dodgers, tough team.”

It felt as if we were back together at Citi Field,

just like in the old days.

“Good night, David, glad you’re all right.”

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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