To God, who divides the waters: a poem in response to hurricanes

Nachshon ran from the narrow places, 
racing to freedom and God. 
He was stopped on the shores 
of the forever sea,
until he walked into the waters,

until they almost swallowed him whole.

Past his chin they came.

He walked; they rose.

And then they parted.

Just like that,
a miracle of divine order,
and the angels flew about,
singing sweet psalms
cheering the all those marchers onward,
until God reined them in,
showering them with shame.

The waters rise once more,
a new forever sea of
chest-high currents
that eddy and ripple and 
drag at the angels' sodden feet
and leaden wings, 
hosannas sung in a minor key.

Dear God, who moves 
upon the water's face;
who divided the waters 
and makes the rain;
Who sends the storms
and attends the tides -
do You wait again for Nachshon,
wrapped in his faith 
and in his folly,
to walk, and show You
once more, where the waters 
need to part?

I am meant to follow: an approach to the Days of Awe

The road is mystery still,
yet David's harp urges me
and the horns of Abraham's
dilemma push me,
and Jacob's ladder is crowded
with angels. They move aside,
not without some attitude,
so I may stumble up those
narrow rungs; still -
elevated though I am,
there is only dust
and a blaze of Glory
in the far distance.

I am meant to follow,
with open hands
and open heart,
to feel the quickening
of my blood
that moves in equal time
with my shame
and my joy, my fear and
love, my grief and my ecstasy,
So that I may claim them
all, as they have
claimed me;
so that I may dance
at the gates
and be whole.

A Kaleidoscope of Angels: for parashat Vayeitzei

Put the stone under your head
and rest; don't be disturbed
by the kaleidoscope of angels
on their merry ride of
up and down,
between heaven and earth
and there and back again.

They may be lost,
those angels, or at least
Stuck, intractable in their
proscribed tracks,
their lesson a cautionary tale
in thinking heaven is up.

Let your stone,
cold and hard,
remind you that
there is no place God is not,
even in that rock,
and all those hard places
that the angels fear to tread.
God cares not for the ladders,
But stands over you,
And waits for you to notice.

Heaven is now,
not where.
This is the entrance.
This is the glory.

Hagar's Song - a poem for parashat Vayeira

I hear the desert when you cry -
wide and open,
empty as Heaven.

I cannot hide from it,
neither the desert
nor your tears.

The angel bade me "Stay!"
with words of tarnished gold
and stolen silver.

What is greatness
laid against your pain?
What of glory
in a thousand years,
while you thirst and I despair?

I hear heaven when you cry -
absent and empty,
an echo of angels
and the glory of God.

Uriel's Sword

Uriel handed me his sword,
all blazing light
and fiery glory.

"Well, I'm off,"
said he.
His wings,
dusty with disuse,
fluttered, three times in all,
leaving behind a shimmer
of old feathers
and the smell of
thunder.

God! but that sword
was heavy, laden
with a dangerous beauty.
I had to shield
my eyes from its refracted radiance.
It set off sparks, there at the
suddenly unguarded Gate.
Its hinges sang  a dissonant and rusty hymn,
a sound like a gathering host of angels
readying themselves for battle
or morning prayer.

I stepped into the Garden,
where nothing had died
for ten thousand years,
and then ten thousand more,
and then more,
and then more.
Nothing could die, leaving
the Garden choked with weeds
and the glorious Presence of God.

What a waste.

I let the sword lay
where it lied,
smoldering
pointless,
a plaything of angels
and Gods.
in an overgrown, empty garden
and closed the Gate
behind me.

Ascent and Deliberate Fall

I walk under a canopy of letters, 
half-formed words of script 
and block print.
They fly, like bees, or crows,
in a swoop and a swarm
of black and gray fire.

I walk, a basket riding 
low on my hip,
and a ceaseless flow of letters -
down, and up again,
again and again,
in delicate arcs
and deliberate angles, 
like the wings of angels 
that climb and descend,
flowing like time
or an absence of light.

They smell of water,
or maybe winter,
and they whisper stories
of love and shame
and the secret name of God -
which is no secret at all,
but is merely unpronounceable
as breath - so they say.

They can cut you
those letters -
all sharply angled
and razor thin, like wire.
My fingers come away bloody.
every time I reach into
that basket of blessing
and curse;
and I reach in,
again and again,
my blood mixing with
their black and gray fire,
and the swarming,
swooping canopy
of half-formed words
and graceful curves.

The basket chafes my hip
and I bow under the
boundless weight of canopied
letters that dance in magpie joy
just out of reach,
and my fingers grow
blistered and raw;
but I feel the butterfly kiss
of every letter in its ascent
and deliberate fall,
from down to up
and down again.

And I walk under a canopy
of letters, a basket of
blessing and
curse at my side.

Miracles

I searched for miracles,
for signs and portents
of wondrous delight.
I longed for
a pillar of fire,
or maybe a column
of dark ash,
that smelled of incense
and myrrh.

There came then
a fierce wind,
a great gust of air -
or perhaps merely a breeze
with just power enough
to lift my hair
and cool my skin.

Wonders and miracles
are counted on
the wings of angels
who dance on
the sharp end of a pin,
and whose feet come
away bloody.
They are a mighty host
of smoke and mirror
to move the heart
of God.

I searched the horizon
for a Sign,
for a portent
of Wonder.
I almost missed
my Beloved
smile.

A Long Line of Dreamers

I come from a long line of Dreamers

My Fathers
dreamed of the desert,
a great swath of golden dust
and sculpted sand
that stretched from here
to eternity.
They dreamed of mountains
that cast long shadows
over growing grain
and shattered hearts.
They dreamed of angels
and Men,
and sometimes,
they could even tell
the two apart.
Sometimes.
It was never a
perfect science.

My father was a master of visions
and dreamed of God,
as well as angels
and Men,
who romped on ladders
and waged fierce battle
in the dark,
and shrouded by fog.
They claimed the  Power of names
and Prophecy,
though they could not defeat
the sunrise when it came.
But of the stars,
skittering like sand
across the vault of heaven,
my father planted his feet
and his flags of possession,
and built a nation upon
that scattered field
of time and
Light.

I, too, have dreamed of stars,
and wheat that bowed
in graceful supplication.
Even the sun, in its radiance,
and the Moon -
a silvered disk against
a fold of night -
They bowed to me in
my Dreams.
What need do I have
of nations and time,
of angels
or Men,
when all the spheres of Heaven
and the bounty of God's earth
have given me
my proper due?

I am a dreamer of
Greatness.

Confession

I dance -
And rest
In the palm of Your hand.
I thought to stay
For a moment
Or a day,
At least until I caught
my breath.
There was a box of treasure
That I carried,
An offering
Of grace
And sin.
I will set fire to it.
And watch the smoke drift
And tangle
In the feathered wings
Of angels.

I don't believe in angels,
Or their glorious
Wings of
Opal and fire,
And their voices that
Sing hosannas to
Your name.

I will sing
A broken hallelujah.
My offering
Of ash and dust.
It is Yours--
The ash of my sacrifice
And the dust of stars,
The angels' tears
And their sacred indifference,
And the holy silence
That fills me
As I dance
And rest.
It is all in me
All of it
In every breath
And blessed sigh.

And I am so tired.
Even the dust of stars
Is heavy.

And so I will rest
In the palm
Of Your hand,
But I will no longer
Dance.