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POEMS FOR ISRAEL, OCTOBER 2023 Don Kristt, Esther Cameron, Elhanan ben-Avraham, Vera Schwartz, Ken Seide, Chana Cromer, James A. Tweedie, Brenda Appelbaum-Golani, Lois Greene Stone, Suzanne Musin, Gerald E. Greene, Ethelea Katzenell, Simon Constam, Yehudit Goldfarb, Elana Wolff, Connie S. Tettenborn, Susan Oleferuk, Hayim Abramson, Rumi Morkin, Reuven Goldfarb, Pessy Krause, Mindy Aber Barad, Ruth Fogelman, David Weiser, Michael Brownstein, Yocheved Zemel, Richard Krohn, Donna Bechar, Chana Cromer, Frank De Canio,Yaacov David Shulman, Yakov Azriel, Malka Kelter, Channah Moshe, Avril Meallem, Judy Koren, EBL, David Shaffer, L. Ward Abel, Courtney Druz Poems are approximately in the order of receiving, so scroll down for the newest. Don Kristt ISRAEL AT
WAR * Esther Cameron [untitled] All the * Elhanan ben-Avraham PRAYER FOR THE ENEMY (a war song)
As roaring lions overhead thunder the skies with rage, our eagles swarm to battle bearing in their sharp claws vengeance due the savage who would devour our flesh and savour our warm blood, slaughtering our innocents in orgies of religious frenzy to their Divinity of Darkness, carrying away our children in arms of weeping mothers from safety of home and bed to fearful darkened tunnels, our swift eagles pour a wrath of hot flame upon the heads of the sons of death and dark, terrifying the terrible terrorist, searing a deadly dance of joy and bloated boast to mourning, shattering their demon dreams and schemes to nightmares. Y Elhanan 10-10-23
Vera
Schwartz
Not possible, today anyway. our nights and days alike. *Ken Seide
They Are All Our Loved Ones *
Chana Cromer * James A. Tweedie A Psalm of Lament So says the Lord: A voice is heard on high, lamentation, bitter weeping, Rachel weeping for her children, she refuses to be comforted for her children for they are not. Yirmiyahu 31:14 In Israel a voice was heard, *
Brenda
Appelbaum-Golani
until
he was imprisoned, wrote of a famous statue, * Lois Greene Stone Tears, and tears ripping black cloth
Bubby, long drive be my car buddy by phone. Bubby, waiting in airport be my text buddy. Bubby: I’m in a bomb shelter. Text with me please. Granddaughter wanted sukkot in Israel. Joyful. First flight alone, frightened then. First bomb shelter, missiles screaming in the sky, fright became terror, for herself and our people. Our people. My lifetime growing up during the last World War hearing in America “how come the gas chambers missed you” as I rode a green bicycle in the neighborhood. Did these young boys grow up to be radicals spewing hate for other Americans who prayed on Saturdays? Prayer. Hate based on nothing. But nothing under the sun is new. Will Hashem cry salty tears for the innocents?
* Suzanne Musin "Seven Sirens" And she will tell you—if you ask about the man behind the mask that he is ready—he is strong— because you think that she was wrong but I can see them both revolving ‘round a wall that keeps dissolving— Now a candle falls upon the map that shows where lines were drawn— and here a chimney—there the stones a hearth for holding human bones. I do not think that you will see your way around the calumny— One damn hour in utter silence AAnd another filled with violence In the street where children play stands a sea. We march today— Bar the windows. Lock the door. Lay her back onto the floor— You may love your son and daughter (even as you see them slaughter) What he loves best is the sound of her blood spilled on the ground—
*
Gerald E. Greene
I Am Hatred
Ethelea Katzenell
Under fire in Beer-Sheva
*
Simon Constam
October 2023
Yehudit Goldfarb
Rumbling Above
*
Elana Wolff
When We Reach the Other
*
Connie S. Tettenborn
To Israel From
Afar *
Susan Oleferuk Blue Skies in New York
It’s complicated I read there are gray areas, nothing is black and white, examine the context exhorts the media in their hope to please all
A young woman and I watched our dogs play under a blue autumn sky in New York she worried about her child is there any gray in killing a child, any child we wondered is there any gray in entering the homes of the elderly and taking their final days is there any gray in raping women
I have many reasons to rob a bank I can name ten good reasons for me to get my hands on money I desperately need I will never rob a bank, nor will most people nor will they rape women or kill babies, children or the old there is no gray, for good people radiate colors like the sun warming the forest floor and lakes and streams chicanery is the gray face of those who blame and never progress
I saw a lot of gray in New York on another autumn day under another blue sky gray filled lower Manhattan in a cloak of illness and wounding there was no rightness to it Now from far away, in fact, I do see a little gray in the images of men in the streets carrying dead and wounded children and I wonder where are the women who bore these children how easily the oppressor cries oppressed we all are lessened by this. *
Hayim Abramson Beit El
[untitled]
once i had a dream
*
Rumi Morkin
Victims of war
*
Elhanan ben-Avraham
“The Israelis love life, but we love death.” -a Hamas spokesman
TO LIFE! L’Chaim! N Savage sons of a dark Divinity clad in blackness chant their cry for love of Death in craving hope for celestial brothels in the sky rewarded not to live but die in marching ranks arrayed to slay the waiting gathered sons of Life armed in force to accommodate the craven hope in the day of fight to taste the fire and fearful fate of Joshua and David’s burning sword to grant them their desired reward in Gehinnom’s dark eternal night, as we cling to hope of Life and Light! Y EbA 16-10-23
*
Reuven Goldfarb
PRAYING FOR RAIN
Listening to the rumble of fighter jets, the way you listen to thunder, anticipating the first drops of rain, but they’re dropping bombs, not rain, though we’re dutifully, yearningly, praying, Mashiv haRuach u-moreed haGeshem — “You cause the wind to blow and the rain to fall.”
I rise in the dawn. It is too late to go to shul, though I discovered my tefillin in my night table drawer a few hours ago, and packed my bag in preparation. My wife came to bed late and remains asleep. I can only begin a poem, scribbling the first few lines by the light of a salt crystal lamp, hoping I can read them later. *
Pessy Krausz pessykrausz@gmail.com
Call Up in Israel on Shabbat Simchat Torah
Just Gritting My Teeth...
This is no story tall.
Grandson’s called up, to the army he goes from Yeshiva, where he’s learning, in his Shabbat clothes on Simchat Torah. Stops singing. Not long ago, that sweet gentle lad Sat on my knee, always clad In cottony clothes, for kicking around A soft little ball, making hardly a sound. Quick!! His dad fast drives down South To his lad, now in base, Takes warm woolly hat, vests, scarves, pyjamas.
Just Gritting My Teeth…
But that’s far from all.
My older grandson, to the manner born That Shabbat gave a D’Var Torah Words of wisdom from our Holy Scroll His wifey’s hand holding, Her shining eyes gazing at him – she adores! Balloon burst their bubble – with rockets above To North he’s called up – Quick sharp Barely time for a hug, While tears there’s no stopping - never been apart
Just Gritting My Teeth…
Even that’s not quite all.
With sirens high screaming, rockets clang, kids call Come, Grandma, Quick! To the shelter come down My footsteps not steady, my knee’s feeling bad All this on my birthday, Simchat Torah’s Shabbat! The shelter’s a reminder of a childhood badly scarred My escape from Nazis, race against their barrage When Iron Dome’s sonic-like horrendous boom as though shot me ceiling-ward, to the sky, up and down. Shoulders, back, arms legs shaking quite involuntarily. All hugging, stroking grandma, Never seen you panicky... Slowly calmed down. No dears. It’s no panic attacking It’s shell shock from childhood, never since expressed Now war again, scars re-opened, to trauma regressed Just Gritting My Teeth…
This is no tall story
Now, Savta Omi, (that's what they call me) We see that somehow you’ve calmed down. And here in this shelter we’re all in for now For some time, who knows when will cease. Cannot muster a smile. We’re tense, ill at ease So here’s an idea, For you grandma dear Maybe you’ll give us all a surprise, Share with us your Yoga exercise.
Just Gritting My Teeth…
Here’s the real story
My eyes, I close. My hand on my knees My breath’s deep and slow Close your eyes I suggest. Gently together rub, warming hands, Place them over eyes, Count to five, hold breath, Count to five. Breath out soft, slowly Releasing hands, gently open your eyes. Gently together rub, warming hands, Place on ears, count slowly to five Breath in soft slow breath, hold, count to five, Breath out soft slow breath, release hands Place gently on knees, Slowly turn head to the right, count five …. My voice soft and low, warm brownly hue lulls My Yoga-Riters into hypnotic like trance … Repeat on and on we barely hear the next bomb And Never Again do I Jump.
Just Gritting My Teeth…
Here’s the saddest story
The news all appals Countless young lives rent down The count is uncountable, figures keep rising Rising, rising, like in my throat there’s a stone And another, another, like building a wall Round Jerusalem, while my country’s been raped, Its innocence torn from my childhood love As for so many others. While some gave up their life. This trauma, unlike others, yet too will be treated And we’ll rise from the ashes, a Phoenix Bruised, scarred, uniting at last, never, ever defeated.
Stand your own ground by Pessy Krausz 10th October 2023 email pessykrausz@gmail.com
My dear grandson Precious, sweet one, Watched you grow up. Ever taller, broad shouldered, Yet with modest stoop. Only now, just learning To stand your own ground.
Noshing cookies - mother’s delicacies When her back’s turned Pops in another! But grandmother sees!! Called up! “Take biscuits!” shaped like crescent moon, Which waxes then wanes - all too soon To stand our own ground.
Piano you play, never before heard fingers tinkle ‘Fur Elise’ like yours. Why now stop? Call Up! My young grandson, Off to base in the south To stand his own ground.
Hard awork at your station, bent on saving our nation from even greater disaster, from rape of our country. Your eyes on the screen, to which you are glued A hero unsung. Like you, hundreds others Stand their own ground.
Thirty three pairs of socks not enough for my contingent, says grandson from his base in the north. Need mattresses, batteries, underwear, scarves, Need I say more? Yes Tzizit galore Fringes placed on corners four Our protection they are our own human shield These too are what we need …. to Stand our own ground.
We turn to our heroes for comfort and inspiration Not only for mind, but for soul’s consolation. Let’s hear Rabbi Sacks, so dear and lamented. ‘Are we telling a story? No! We’re writing a chapter.’ And said Sivan Rahav-Meir, brilliant media personality. ‘Israel will never be the same. No! It will be better’ Echoes of the past can surely imbue us With strength and determination To stand or own ground – on our Own Ground
*
Mindy Aber Barad
The Last Nectarine of the Season
I In the last hour Of the second day Of the new month I dare To eat a nectarine The last of its kind This is the way Its world ends Several bites In less than 90 seconds Plenty of time To get to the shelter At the next siren.
II I don’t want to dwell on it The war The boys The 90 seconds. Each war tugs on me Just a little more First one, then two, Now three generations I am ripped apart When I think Of my descendants Eating fruit Beneath descending missiles. Until the next season.
*
David Weiser
591. *
Ruth Fogelman
Iron Swords 2023
How did the joy of Simhat Torah suddenly turn to grief? The jubilant dancing with the Torah scrolls stopped. In mid-song, a young man felt a tap on the shoulder “Come on, brother, we have to go…” said with a nod towards the open door. “Call up – waiting van outside….” Barely time to fold the tallit.
In Gaza: hostages: infants, elderly, the infirm. In the Land: roaming children cry for their parents, now dead. Volunteers up all night – digging, digging, digging fresh graves. The names of the fallen announced on the news: soldiers, civilians, Bedouin, Arabs, mostly Jews – is this my loved one? My neighbor?
The wailing sirens: “Quick, quick – to our “safe room!” Huddled in a corner of our secure space our little ones cling to our arms. Ear-splitting booms: Iron Dome blocks missiles, rockets. Our pet dog under the bed wimpers in fear.
Lord, grant peace to Your people, Your Land Oh G-d, may Your light shine.
*
Estelle Gershgoren Novak
The Terrible
Present
Michael Brownstein
A Crime
Without Meaning
Ugly is the darkness before the mouth of Hell
glazed not with hope, but ignorance and evil:
Do you really find a way into heaven on a baby's murder,
a pregnant woman's torture, a child hostage?
A surprise attack, a great number dead,
already too many wounded, too many maimed.
This is not the way of Rosh Hashanah.
the promised of a better world prayed for on Yom
Kippur.
Once I saved a gangbanger from his comrade in arms.
It made a difference. It made him morally stronger.
Where is the hope to thrive? Continue? Become better?
Out of the ashes of a holocaust came a dream.
Now, once again, hate brings us to the bowels of Hell,
its shadows threatening, but with our prayers,
our hopes, our love, our empathy, we will survive,
each breath of life another miracle, another end to
evil.
*
Yocheved Miriam Zemel
After the Shock
Going from room to room in the burnt-out cottage searching for my mother visions of her sitting in her light blue housecoat on her mustard lounge chair in the corner of the living room And she was gone.
My hands dry and blackened from the soot and ashes all over the smell of burnt wood. I tried to assimilate the scene My phone blared, “beware of terrorists,” gasping for air, I escaped to her beloved garden filled with the plants she loved geraniums, chrysanthemums, wandering jews.
Looking down I found her inert body on the soil between the flowers, bloody, burnt wearing her stained blue housecoat holding a bag of bamba* for her grandchildren on her way to my brother’s home no pulse, no breath, stained with blood.
No time to mourn. My phone alarm summoned me to help others. Mechanically, I ran back to the rubble of the scorched house found a hidden blanket wrapped her as tears streamed down my face kissed her lifeless cheek left her there awaiting my return.
After the shock I went from house to house searching for survivors striving to assimilate my mother’s death to comfort myself. Her suffering is behind her but my pain persists.
*a popular snack Richard Krohn Sentence For Larry, now in Tel Aviv
It’s finally come full circle, Israel, you, and I all born postwar, those primary days in Jersey,
crayons and air raid drills, late afternoons at the J.C.C. sliding dimes into blue-white tins
to fruit the Negev, we, ignorant to our own chants, to that alphabet read right to left, vowels below
like punctuation, to the lore of peoples and places, Philistines and Phoenicians, how the Jordan ran
sea to sea, Galilee to Dead, the lowest place on Earth, history and myth in tales of cruelty and pushback,
thus the holidays, Maccabees and their freedom fight, before them the flight from slavery to Promised Land
where you have now retired to embrace not just modern Hebrew, Israel’s waters and ascents of land,
Hebron and Golan, but also how sirens mean fleeing to shelter, today’s tribal attacks and massacres
as if lifted from Scripture, its lessons in ways to survive by raining plagues on the Other,
any except the 10th, the deaths of children – survival by any means except another diaspora
because there’s nowhere left to go.
Donna Bechar
Siren at Noon (Oct 23)
Afterwards, the woman in the penthouse across The street sweeps, then mops the balcony floor Her blouse a bright orange, shorts white Her Beagle follows her back and forth, then Back inside through the open sliding glass door
She’s sweeping and washing and wiping, and Watering the three hanging plants An hour later, still doing doing doing, as two Parrots prettily perch on the terrazzo wall, Their color mirroring that of the plants
An hour and a half has passed - she still sweeps And washes - how long does it take for a narrow Length of balcony floor, an expanse of glass door
But I do understand Choose a chore, whose repetition strokes you, Lulls you, sweeps your mind Of what’s come out from under the carpet
She finally sits on the one chair there Left arm resting on the armrest, hand Against her face - is she on the phone If so, perhaps with a relative or friend Who lives down south If not, is she contemplating what She has tried to sweep away
She sits there, facing me, who sits facing her In my expanse of living room, on my soft Blue sofa, with coffee, watching, swiping Through events – mind doing doing, Already having vacuumed parquet floor, Dusted marble-topped buffet Shelved with travelogue memorabilia, Wiped crumbs from kitchen floor
Good chores, to help sweep my mind
* Chana Cromer
My children
My people, my little children My beautiful young women and men Each so, so, so beautiful, each a spear in my heart When you strip them naked, my heart is exposed When you shoot them, it pierces my brain When you shove and jeer at them in the streets, my soul twists They are my body, they are my life's blood 1400 plus 200 plus 280 plus, plus, plus Every few minutes another face Each a beautiful terrible story Each another wrenching heartbreak We cannot count this way We don't count by hundreds and not by tens We count: One, plus one, plus one, plus one, Plus one
Sunday, Day 9
Frank de Canio
Pillaging Plants
*
Elhanan ben-Avraham (on the alleged hospital bombing)
JURY TRIAL The Press’s jury was in a hurry to vent their long and pent-up fury and prosecute the violated to exonerate who instigated, and swiftly hang before the facts might clarify whose wicked pacts had perpetrated the heinous acts, to perpetuate the preconcept of black as white & wrong as right! Y
*
Esther Marcus [untitled]
The Angel of death knocked on my door.
*
Yaacov David Shulman
(There they were again: the women
Yakov Azriel THE SHIBBOLETH OF WAR "Outdoors the sword shall bereave, and indoors — dread …" (Deuteronomy 32:25)
We cannot sleep, for dreams are filled with dread Of what we fear the most — the shibboleth Of war, the eightieth, the ninetieth, The hundredth time we dream our sons are dead. Each night we dream the monster lifts her head Above our soldiers' open graves; each breath She breathes is rank with death — our children's death; Her mouth is red with blood our sons have bled.
We shudder as we cry for help, O Lord, Against the monster's fangs, without a shred Of hope our children can survive her claws, Unless You beat her polished, two-edged sword Into a ploughshare's tarnished blade instead; For she is War, the mother of all wars.
THE BURNING BUSH “An angel of the Lord appeared unto him [Moses] in a flame of fire in the midst of the bush; he looked — and behold, the bush is burning with fire, yet the bush is not consumed.” (Exodus 3:2)
How high the flames flare up! The bush is doomed To die by fire, for how can it survive The blaze and heat? How can it stay alive? Yet look — the burning bush is not consumed. The flames do not despair, but have resumed Their war upon the stubborn bush and strive To scorch it all; but then the leaves revive, A verdant green — not charred, not singed, not fumed.
And Israel, who wilts before the heat and flame Of hate that yearns to burn alive each child, Mother and father upon the stake and pyre — Will Israel survive? If only the same Angel might come to shield her from these wild, Ferocious flames in furnaces of fire! * Don Kristt
Day 14 of the War: Awakenings
(The challenge of Amalek) Malka Kelter – Two Poems
Surreal Sunday
Back from India first flight out he could get while planes were still coming in.
We collect the items he requested make sure to shlep his heavy duffel bag stuffed with soldier and medic equipment search through bags and drawers in his childhood bedroom bring anything that might be of use borrow or buy whatever is missing try to imagine what a hungry soldier might want to share with his waiting comrades-in-arms.
Standing in the Arrivals Hall many other passengers also carry trekkers’ backpacks. I try to imagine what he looks like after two months away.
There he is! I run to him and give him a long hug it’s not easy to pull away, and make room for Abba.
In the parking lot it’s time to repack and rearrange the items he needs to take with him and leave behind what’s not for this mission.
Waze directs us to his Army base traffic increases as we approach the site soldiers tell us to pull over a bus will come by soon to take him the last stretch.
He gets out of the car steps out of his trekking pants steps into his green uniform prepared to do the job he came for.
The bus arrives the soldier walks up the steps and off into his future.
May G-d protect them all so they can return safely.
Laundry Story
So many people are volunteering these days coming up with countless ways to help those who have left their homes behind evacuated to safer environs.
We also want to do our part to contribute to the valiant efforts. Neighbors send out a notice: laundry needs to be done for families from the South.
We receive the bag of laundry empty out the clothes dump it all in the washing machine no time to separate the dark and white loads.
We go about our business the machine washes, rinses, spins we pay no attention to whatever is going through the cycle we load the dryer so everything will dry quickly.
And as we fold the laundry, we notice two identical pink dresses, two identical yellow dresses, two identical green jerseys, four pairs of matching white tights and we imagine the twins who like to wear the same clothes.
And then we see a solitary sock big enough for a toddler’s foot red and white stripes the twins’ baby sister.
We return the bag to the neighbors thinking about the sweet sisters. It’s not the same to hear news reports as it is to see the little girls’ clothes. *
Channah Moshe
from flood to falcon 28.10.2023
after the flood of our tears the world we once knew although evaporated will crystalize from this devastation
as the fallen falcon flutters its wings so our voices in harmonized unison will plead for the hostages beckon for the safe return of all our loved soldiers supplicate for the full recovery of family friends and others and pray for a government that loves the country placing the people’s welfare above all else fearing none other than the Almighty above
*
Chana Cromer
An enlightened world Avril Meallem
We Stand Before You
My King, Creator of all I weep from the very essence of my being – remember us!
Your cycle of nature continues to turn birds sing their morning song flower buds open up their glory rain falls and the wind blows all seemingly oblivious to our suffering.
You brought the world into existence and formed mankind to be your partner to use the gifts You blessed us with: hands… feet… language… music… colours everything with which to be creators too.
But so many have turned against You destroyed that which You created used the tools You blessed us with for cruelty and devastation.
We stand before You now, a nation in pain and humbly acknowledge that alone we cannot prevail.
Your servants bow their heads in shame – we have sinned, betrayed Your love.
Help us return to your fold, gather in your flock bring us into Your palace – we have suffered for so long.
Let the true spirit within each of us shine out to the world become examples of love and compassion, humility and morality; a shining light in the prevailing darkness.
Almighty G-d, in our distress and with one voice we humbly cry out – we need You now. Your world needs You now. * Suzanne Musin
An
Interview * Judy Koren Perhaps An elegy for Judih Weinstein of Nir Oz Perhaps a woman and her husband, out walking in the calm of early dawn paused, hearing noises on the morning air,
a burst of gunfire, an anguished shout; exchanged a glance, perhaps, then thought to warn their sleeping grandchildren, raced back to where
their house had stood but half an hour before a horde of devils plunged us into war. Are they among those we already mourn or were they dragged away, perhaps, and borne
as hostages to Gaza in a jeep? We do not know, may never know their fate, we only know that help arrived too late, we only know that while we win, we weep. * Lois Greene Stone
“Never again
are meaningless words”
"Can't happen here; no it can't happen here.
this isn’t Canaan, this town is mine;
can't happen here; it just won't happen here,
countries today treat its Jews just fine."
Vandal-charred torahs were buried in soil
December in nineteen sixty-eight.
Shaaray Tefila, a Queens synagogue
set fire year later; hate; so hate.
Government blames
the unrest on all Jews!
Poland, March
1969. Headline could be
any year any
place. But we had a homeland
beginning 1948:
all welcome.
May, 1939, some Jews escaped Europe
aboard the Saint Louis sailing ship
Cuba refused, then America too, death
waited back in Europe. Round trip
"can't happen here, oh, and never again"
pre-Haman, post Hitler, words we spew,
"civilized man doesn't scapegoat today"
but under the sun there's nothing new.
Hamas orders
violence October 2023
in the Jewish
homeland, now where can we flee?
Hate’s happening
globally. Are we bewildered?
Who did 9-11 in
America? Who initiated
this current war?
Yet...
chants never
change, world’s Jews have fear.
*
Don Kristt Day 14 of the War: Awakenings (The challenge of Amalek)
Awakened by a rumble overhead, somewhere beyond my vision. Continuing now for many hours. Engines of destruction defending our homeland, our children, everything we love and know. But at what sacrifice, our humanity? This double-edged sword, Must we grasp its hilt? Oh, dear God, end this nightmare.
Awakened by the empty counsel of the world: restraint is needed, I hear. Cries for humanitarian concerns; a trap! Our moral standing is attacked. How could that be? We were pre-empted, brutally attacked, massacred. Restraint? We must believe in ourselves, But, indeed, we must take moral responsibility
For the antecedent fracturing of our nation. We are healing now; maintain the inertia; strengthen our bonding, our unity of purpose, our sense of common destiny, our recognition, finally, that we are one people. Now unified, empowered, We must strike, destroy a dreadful enemy; expunge from the world this cynical, irredeemable evil, this Amalek reincarnate.
Awaken to a new dawn. Bless the dawn for its potential for renewal, for life and tranquility; still a small consolation, for a troubled creation. Dkristt 10.2023 EBL Gaza Lament Give us cement, they cried that we may build For our people, hospitals and homes Give us cement, they cried that we may build For our people, schools and mosques Give us cement, they cried that we may build For our people, walls against the enemy The United Nations gave donations, the world believed And the enemy relented.
But they built not hospitals and homes, schools and mosques, Not even walls against the enemy. Instead they built, of concrete, With our children’s labour, spider webs of Tunnels, wide and tall as a tree, solid and deep Beneath or next, hospitals and homes, schools and mosques, Even unto the borders into the land of the enemy And they filled the tunnels with Mortars and missiles, rockets and launchers And deadly weapons from foreign friends For many years they terrorised the enemy, Whose citizens were cowered and killed Daily, weekly, monthly, year on year Super rockets fired at their villages and cities. But the enemy loved its people and Built shelters and an Iron Dome to deflect The onslaught which saved many lives.
Now is the Day of Reckoning, the enemy has retaliated In seeking to destroy our tunnels, filled with food, fuel, Ammunitions for our fighters And retaliate for our atrocities of October, seven They have bombed our hospitals and homes, schools and mosques Our people have no shelters, flee says the enemy but Hamas forbids We are human shields against enemy fire Our children, educated to hate, are crying, dying. You, Hamas, who love death more than life. The Shahid’s blood shall not be your fuel. You have betrayed us by your evil teachings, You have sacrificed us on your altar of hate. Give us peace that we may Rebuild our hospitals and homes, our schools and mosques And live, side by side with our brothers. * David Shaffer
AMALEK THE SON OF ELIPHAZ (Poem without an ending)
They mocked my mother: Concubine! His need for her, desire perhaps, was paralleled by Rivka’s (when she cooked a kid to feed and cheat her blind husband who’d thought he’d smelled venison my grandfather, who loved him, would stalk and stagger home with). It’s well known my father has the blood of Avraham, the blood of Yitzhak. Thus, I and my own children can only hate our heritage. Those Hebrews and their holy god I damn! When I am done, there will be no vestige, no memory. I’ll teach them who I am.
*
L. Ward Abel
The War Begins
A theodicy cries out on borders tonight— how can the sun set, they ask, how can evil rise up here, now? There can be no return to a status quo ante as the force-quake begins.
Indifferent to the free will that challenges others, there’s a justified shuffling of boots on hard, waterless fields in a merger of anger, fear and grief. * Courtney Druz
The Eighth Day
Away from this scratching of letters truth exists clear in the heart’s eye but mist to senses, a cold and stinging cloud hovering low, a unity perceived in winking droplets.
Cloud bursts and letters bleed their ink in watercolor wash of dark massed cloud: a mirror finally, but no, a trick— nothing looks like that shape anymore.
Nothing fits the concept of that cloud. Nothing you can touch is made of glory. Walls and roof were porous as I am an open shelter to the blowing fog.
The great could scan forever deeper tunnels through endless earth until the end of time but only the smallest heard the sickening wings coming through the thin symbolic net.
There is no repair for such wreckage; even names are lost among the ashes. Look upon the failure and then think what to build and what to leave destroyed.
Take these words as silence, as they are neither heard nor spoken, rather bound into the texture of this fleeting page or coded into shapes of dark and light.
Time has stopped for us here or runs both fast and slow like the old puzzle and now weeks later is the same hideous morning and winter night falls in a hot afternoon.
Festival booths still stand that were not trampled, the whole country frozen like a crime scene taped around with banners, blue and white, proclaiming not restricted but together
we will win: together, moving again, steadily, holding up each other with awkward hands, raising up a shelter, a table in the face of oppressors,
the frame of a new world built of kindness. Find here comfort—not exactly rest, nothing’s close to finished—but a strength to see each other in the weird new light
of this eighth day, the longest, not yet setting though sharp stars glint already through loose thatch that is a wing of cloud on lasting noon. |
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