Elijah Invented Sarcasm - for the Haftarah of parashat Ki Tisa

Elijah invented sarcasm.
Before stones and altar;
before water flowed like blood;
before hearts moved backwards,
and fire rained down to
drench the waiting sacrifices -
First there was sarcasm.

Perhaps your god sleeps,
or maybe he's busy,
running a few errands,
said the Undying One.
We'll wait - and why not?
He had all the time
in the world.

Elijah is way too holy
to hide a smile behind his hand,
or wink on the sly
to all the terrified masses
assembled and cowering,
who had, after all,
backed the wrong horse,
and the wrong god
and knew not of sarcasm.

But they knew -
after the shouting and slaughter
the water and blood and fire
that streamed down like rain,
that lifted smoke and smells
to Israel's God.
They remembered,
and remembering,
returned.


Based on 1 Kings 18 1-39

How Shall I Know You: a poem for parashat Vaera

How shall I know
that you are God,
my Lord and Master,
Judgment in your right hand
And mercy on your lips?

How shall I know
that I am home,
that I will be gathered,
be beloved,
be returned?

Will I know You by my enemies,
by their decimation and ruin?
Is that Your glory, Lord,
Your secret name?

Are You the eternal Lord of Hosts,
battle-ready, all iron and stone -
My Rock,
My Redeemer -
Is there yet no give in You?

How shall I know You, God?
What shall I call You?
How will I know I am home?


Based, with a twist, on Ezekiel 28:25 - 29:10, the haftara for parashat Vaera

My Name Hides Me - a poem for parashat Shmot

My name hides me;
That's why there are so many.

I hear them, crying out
every one of my infinite names,

though some say there are only 72.
Perhaps; I've not bothered to count.

Still, names are binding,
and have power.

I spoke my name once;
not the ones you have given me.

You think them a benediction,
and do not see that they are merely parts,

adjectives of my glory.
They are not Me.

You call me justice, and sometimes mercy,
as if they are not inextricably twined,

as if they could be
made separate from me.

I hear their cries, and
all my names,

they hide me.
Still, I will answer.

I will make the ground holy
I will cause the bush to burn

I will be.
I am.

If not now

Who would have strength
to stand, truth to power -
a tightrope walk
against the wind,
with no net below
except for the hand of God?

Who would walk the road
less traveled, the one of
rocky crags and razor wire?
That curves into a
perilous wood and
still look up with hope?

Who would sing the song
of dissonance when it
is easier - far easier!
to slip into the stream
and be carried
by its current?

Who would dare
to demand justice,
show mercy,
offer comfort
shout defiantly -
who would love
in the face
of hate?

Puah stood, and Shifra
by her side, choosing life
and the cry of babes over
one man's harsh decree.
And Miriam, the one of
timbrel and drum
she danced across a river
and sang a song
of freedom's call.

Who will stand
now, if not for me?
who will rise
now and march
now and sing a song
of freedom's call
now? Who,
if not for me?

Once more, and
yet again
if not now
When?

Forever of Us

Maimonides and Rashi;

Spinoza, too,
and Buber.

I saw them,

just over there,

talking the deep talk

of this and that,
while the Partisans
sang drinking songs
and laughed at
the rumbling,
booming gravitas
of God's own mountain song.

Miriam tapped her timbrels,
in time to the thunder,
calling us all to dance -
Sarah led it,
and Deborah
and Ruth
and Yetta, my grandmother,
who could not go to school
because she had no shoes,
but she danced
that wild and weary
dance, holding hands
with Esther
and Golda.
We all danced,
and trembled.
I could barely hear
that tinny counterpoint
that threaded itself
just beneath the
deep and blaring bass
that shivered the air under
the deep bones of the Mountain.

Let Aaron and the
others play with
their tinker toy gold!
The rest of us -
the long chain of us
that stretched into
the forever of us -
we could feel it:
the fierce and jubilant
joy of it,
the not-yet-but-
almost of it.

And then the words came.
Oh! they came
like rain, like riddles,
Like ropes of silk,
And caught some inner light -
Some spark left over from creation -
And flowed like water over rocks;
All those words of binding and gift and grace,
They carried us,
And caught us,
And led us,
The long forever line of us,
The words that created
the All of us,
led us
Home.

The darkness did not save me - for Parashat Bo

Darkness was not enough,
not even one I could
touch, a darkness
I could feel,
like a curtain
of silk, light
and smooth
and flowing
like liquid night.
It covered my eyes
and weighed upon me
so I could not move
or change.
Darkness was not enough
to soften my petrified
heart. It drifted, with infinite
slowness
and a glimmer
of God,
And settled there,
between stutterstep beats,
heavier than silence
or time,
Until my heart,
heavy as Darkness
cracked, a lattice work of
Thin lines, though it did
not Break.

Darkness was not enough
to soften my heart,
or free me from the
bondage of my
self. But light shone
through those cracks
Rivers of color
and heat, bathing me
in holiness
and grace.

And Miriam Sang.

And Miriam sang
God's song.
It flowed
Rising like smoke
Like a pillar of fire.
   And Miriam sang
   her brothers' song.
   wild
   jubilant
   Free at last, free at last!
      And she sang
      her mothers song,
      crooned
      in velvet darkness and liquid as day
      A lullaby--
      A love song,
      her mother's song was.
         And Miriam sang
         the people's song:
         soft and loud at once
         and liquid still, and edged in smoke
         and wild
         Oh! so wild.
            A babble of song
            that lifted her feet
            and rang out--
            sang out
            with cymbal and lyre.
               Her voice rose
               Like smoke,
               Like air.
                  It soared.
                  And she sang the people's song
               Sang her mother's song
            Sang her brother's song
         Sang God's song.

      They poured forth from her
   as she danced.
The sea bed was rock-strewn
and dust
and blood now,
mixed with the dust.
Emet.
And Miriam danced 

on sharp edged stone
and she sang,

her arms lifted, with cymbals

and timbrels

and ribbons of fire that caught the light,

caught the eyes of the people

as she danced them across the dry desert sea.

And she sang, Miriam did.

And she danced on feet that bled

arms lifted

and weary

with fluttering ribbons of color and light

And she sang God

   Singing faith

And she sang Moshe

   Singing freedom

And she sang her Mother

   Singing love

And she sang the people

   Singing celebration, singing fear.

And she danced

on feet that bled,

with arms raised in 

jubilation

supplication

Surrender.

Weary and raw,

singing,

she danced on feet that bled

to a distant shore,

green and cool with a light that shimmered

   Like freedom

   Like love.

Miriam danced and raised her bloodied feet 

to stand upon the cool and green

No song, no cymbal

Just silence:

A final offering.

And into that stunning, that glorious silence,

she gave her weary body
   her bloodied body,

      her ribbons and cymbals,

         her vision,

            her voice.

            And God sang 

         Miriam's song

      and it lifted her, like fire

   and it filled her, like love

Selah

The Holiness of Broken Things: a poem for parashat Ki Tisa

I carry my brokenness with me
It is holy--
as holy as my breath,
my heart,
my wholeness.

It is a part of me, these
scattered pieces
of shattered longing
and battered dreams.
My sins.
All of them.
I carry them--
all of them;
All these broken things
that bend me and bow me,
together with my wholeness,
these holy things.
Idols to my shame,
wrapped in gold and
adorned in abandon.
I fed the fires of that sacred forge
with fear and guilt,
and the altars ran slick with salted tears.
I offered--
offer--
the broken pieces as
my sin offering,
for they are holy,
and I carry them with me,
together with my wholeness.

I carry my brokenness with me--
all my sins
and shame
and salted tears,
and I place them
together with my wholeness
on the sacred altars
holy, holy, holy.
They twine together in red and gold flames,
Broken
and Whole
offered together
and returned to me ,
Whole
and Broken--
Holy still,
carried together
until I reach the next altar.