Worlds held together with waves; the delicate breath of dust rolling forward, weighted down through exertion into form until intent is revealed.

This being like a child who first yawns and coos until, later, he composes sonatas, writes poetry singing of that only he has imagined.

Worlds laid before him twirling with relaxed glimmer, as light pooling in bell jars.

The exhalation is grandeur.

Suddenly an impulse emerges from beyond the pearl, this veil of light never breached, and the world is filled with understanding.

Myriad branches, tree silhouettes, extend into the pale dusk as legions of untold forms.

Worlds pull and tug, bursting until generations refine limber marriages of Your love to the dust and an idea forms the other, the grateful one, plucked from vanishing fields, sitting in the place designated and shapely, drawing the heart to notice, the fire does not consume.

There is a fire born in the seams of the pillow;

a luminous sentiment

breaking through the stiff fabric

of routine emerging out from disciplined imagination.

I am Your traveler,

defining form in shadows, listening

to Your words, those living

breaths plied as effort, becoming work,

the occupation of industry

bound by no walls;

the verdict of Your gorgeous thoughts

free running

emboldened waters

over lands’ new stretch,

chasing Your horizontal pull.

I have written too many words on this and you’ve moved on, almost pathologically, so I will just say the poetry is vanquished, the light dimmed.

All those matters falling about us,

our love standing soundly

real for me and I am not afraid to say

that I wanted you in this life as one flame gripping two wicks.

Instead, I am humbled and shamed, only wanting to breathe and stretch, run but I have struggled and I have done so alone.

It ends;

along whatever lines drawn

break grid-side, and

the math flown

your veins

laid

like tables’ glimmer

into seas of hearts

pooling,

spirals collide,

until love

forms you

from nothing;

a quiet presence almost missed,

peanut butter cups.

Ein davar chadash tachas hashemes.

Avraham’s reach traveled beyond the mazal, the loop closing, mostly, with The Abishter’s bequeathing to us His holy Torah through Moshe rebbenu’s yad, at Sinai, removed the covering, revealed newness as light.

What is new except our holy Torah. Just as free will exists only regarding fear of Heaven* (though the jewel of this offering shimmers unlike any other), she sits among the decay of exile, her facets indiscernible from the crust. Our newness rests in the sleepy trap of weight, mass – which harbors good, hid in the shadows (ra sholet tov), great generators of light. Without means to capture it the vastness tells us how little we know.

On the heels of humility comes fear of Hashem and Fear of Hashem is the beginning of wisdom.

No part of the olam, except our moment to decide, lacks the exalted logic, and from world to world to worlds we praise Your Great Name. With faith, trust, humility, Israel’s praise through the “Ye’he Shm’eah Raba…” recognizes You without knowing, even a whit of Your wonders!

In the shimmer of that void, where in Adam chooses, lay the heart of Amelek to be obliterated so that the circle is whole and tov sholet ra reveals geulah.

Luminaries, so distant from me (I am grateful Hashem for their words, looks) their tremendous love for Israel, demonstrated in their lessons, their actions. Their light still penetrates the lonely depths revealing the true profundity of our exile. Like beacons of Emunah, and Rabbi Zaidy, z’t’k’l, grabbing my hand, The Abishter is with me, holding my hand, at every moment! Every moment! (Tehillim 73:23)”

They have conceded their wills, lovingly, to Your will, in the light of Your Holy Torah. Their’s, a shining manifest, a citizenship dwelling, whole with resurrection, in the realms of their holy souls perched on worlds in the glory of Your embrace.

Effervescent fireflies

bubble in the valley’s cusp.

Plunging,

rising,

boulders tumbling,

careening,

shouting and dancing

in rings of nebulae.

Am I old

like cracks in asphalt,

greys in tree barks,

patched quilt works

scene from aeroplanes?

Olde, like

candles’ light,

night’s refrain draping

quiet waters?

Or freshest, 

like life,

none diminished among any of these.

I saw you

with my own two eyes

fell the oak,

that presses soil

till coals’ foam,

sparking brilliant,

broke the ark’s

yawn;

the earth settling

over ancient cities,

founding new hills.