Tag Archives: Jewish new year

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 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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