Inspirational Poems
Beyond
Beyond the borders of black and white
streams of color flow –
yellow and green like fields of buttercups,
purple and crimson like a queen’s cloak,
and open the path to creativity.
Beyond the borders of ‘yes’ and ‘no’
lie ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps’
that lend nuance and shade
like the sun’s play between leaves
and open gates to inspiration.
Beyond the borders of words
the melodies of harps and flutes,
like long, delicate fingers,
reach within and open
the door to the soul.
Beyond the borders of space and time
imagination soars above clouds
for imagination is the gateway
to Heaven.
This poem first appeared in Voices Israel Anthology 2015
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Home
It’s not the ships
or kiddush cups
collected over decades,
it’s not the accumulation of books
or family photographs and collages
covering walls and shelves,
it’s not the eye-catching mural
painted across the living-room wall
that makes us call it home.
It’s knowing
that in the frying-pan, love is mixed with eggs,
in the oven, acceptance stirred into cheesecakes,
and faith braided with challah dough
that makes us call it home.
Beyond the borders of black and white
streams of color flow –
yellow and green like fields of buttercups,
purple and crimson like a queen’s cloak,
and open the path to creativity.
Beyond the borders of ‘yes’ and ‘no’
lie ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps’
that lend nuance and shade
like the sun’s play between leaves
and open gates to inspiration.
Beyond the borders of words
the melodies of harps and flutes,
like long, delicate fingers,
reach within and open
the door to the soul.
Beyond the borders of space and time
imagination soars above clouds
for imagination is the gateway
to Heaven.
This poem first appeared in Voices Israel Anthology 2015
................................................................
Home
It’s not the ships
or kiddush cups
collected over decades,
it’s not the accumulation of books
or family photographs and collages
covering walls and shelves,
it’s not the eye-catching mural
painted across the living-room wall
that makes us call it home.
It’s knowing
that in the frying-pan, love is mixed with eggs,
in the oven, acceptance stirred into cheesecakes,
and faith braided with challah dough
that makes us call it home.
This poem first appeared first appeared in Cyclamens and Swords, December 2012
The Festive Circle-Dance
And Miryam the prophetess… took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with circle-dances.
Exodus 15:20
Then, I danced with you in the circle of women
and gazed at the gold glinting on your wrists
as your hands flew across your timbrel
when we crossed the Sea.
Today, I dance in the circle of women
at the Western Wall –
I hold the hand of a woman from Ethiopia
in green-edged robe, gold bands on her wrists;
in my second hand, your daughter’s.
In our circle, the wise, the simple
and those who do not know what to ask.
Tomorrow, too, we will dance in the circle of women
and tell our granddaughters to hold hands
as we dance to timbrels, drums and pipes
up to the Courtyard of the rebuilt House.
In our circle, the simple and the wise
and our eyes
will shine with new light,
for even the children will understand
what the maid-servants saw
when they crossed the Sea.
This poem appears in Poetica Magazine - Contemporary Jewish Writing, Fall 2011
http://wwwpoeticamagazine.com
http://wwwpoeticamagazine.com
The Words of the King’s Son and a King’s Daughter
I
The king’s son writes stanzas in the wilderness;
A king’s daughter pens lines on a mountain-top.
They dip their quills – feathers from the same phoenix –
In the same fountain of ink.
His words stretch forth their hands and enter her soul.
Her words stretch forth their fingers, pry open and enter his heart.
The phoenix flies between the wilderness and the mountain,
Perches on a lily in the dunes,
Rests in a cypress on the mount,
And carries their phrases, like pollen, one to the other.
II
The phoenix rides the rolling winds far beyond the wilderness
And spreads its wings, carrying their words, far beyond the mountain.
Their words’ song is heard in the corners of the world.
They stretch forth their arms,
Embrace the children of Eve and open their hearts.
The phoenix carries the words, which stretch forth their legs
And form a ladder standing on earth and touching heaven;
From the ladder’s peak the phoenix flies into the light from the lost palace.
The words unlock its gates of pearl and enter its courts
And the phoenix sets them, phrase by phrase, in the scepter of the king.
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Uncle David’s Lullaby
“Amol iz gevein a meilech
und der meilech gehart a malkeleh
und di malkeleh gehart a Rutheleh…”*
Uncle David sang as I nestled in his arms.
A little girl, I did not know
that my Uncle David had been expelled
into my London home from a lost world;
I did not understand Yiddish
and knew nothing of a lost princess
in a lost land.
“Amol iz gevein a meilech
und der meilech gehart a malkeh….”
In Jerusalem, I remembered Uncle David’s lullaby
and asked his friend from the lost world
to sing me Uncle David’s song.
Although he sang the melody,
he did not know Uncle David’s words,
and I, a young woman, did not understand Yiddish
and knew little of a lost princess
in a lost land.
“Amol iz gevein a meilech…”
and when, in Efrat, cradled in the Judean Hills,
a rabbi chanted Uncle David’s words,
at fifty-nine, I knew the little girl’s soul
forever longed for a lost princess
in a lost world,
and all her years had passed
in search for the princess
the queen
and king.
* “Once upon a time there was a king
and the king had a queen
and the queen had [a child named] Ruthie”
– Uncle David’s version of a Yiddish folk-song.
“Amol iz gevein a meilech
und der meilech gehart a malkeleh
und di malkeleh gehart a Rutheleh…”*
Uncle David sang as I nestled in his arms.
A little girl, I did not know
that my Uncle David had been expelled
into my London home from a lost world;
I did not understand Yiddish
and knew nothing of a lost princess
in a lost land.
“Amol iz gevein a meilech
und der meilech gehart a malkeh….”
In Jerusalem, I remembered Uncle David’s lullaby
and asked his friend from the lost world
to sing me Uncle David’s song.
Although he sang the melody,
he did not know Uncle David’s words,
and I, a young woman, did not understand Yiddish
and knew little of a lost princess
in a lost land.
“Amol iz gevein a meilech…”
and when, in Efrat, cradled in the Judean Hills,
a rabbi chanted Uncle David’s words,
at fifty-nine, I knew the little girl’s soul
forever longed for a lost princess
in a lost world,
and all her years had passed
in search for the princess
the queen
and king.
* “Once upon a time there was a king
and the king had a queen
and the queen had [a child named] Ruthie”
– Uncle David’s version of a Yiddish folk-song.
This poem first appeared in Vox Humana, Winter, 2010