Tag Archives: Day of Judgement

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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Filed under American Jewry, Jewish, Jewish identity, Jewish writing, Judaism, poetry

Chance

by Mel Glenn (Brooklyn, NY)

In Atlantic City,
wind and water claw at the boardwalk,
quickly reducing it to kindling.
Chance, like a coin slipping into a slot machine,
registers winners and losers on a neon screen,
complete with ringing bells and bright lights.
Late-leaving patrons before the evac orders
hurry to try their luck at various games of chance.
Blackjack, roulette, slots, wheels of fortune promote
both the odds and rewards of landing
on the right side of the table, or
race the dealer to twenty-one, but outside
the howling wind offers a bigger crap shoot
with the jackpot winnings of your life.
Storm shifts a few degrees north: survival.
Storm not shifting a few degrees south:
your house in ruins, your cars destroyed.
God’s plan not understood as
His throw of the cosmic dice rolls
as unpredictably as your next flip of the cards.
Who by fire, who by water?
Or both.

The author of twelve books for young adults, Mel Glenn has lived nearly all his life in Brooklyn, NY, where he taught English at A. Lincoln High School for thirty-one years.  Lately, he’s been writing poetry, and you can find his most recent poems in a new 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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Filed under American Jewry, poetry