The universe is more vast
than we could begin to contemplate
forty billion galaxies of
forty billions stars, thrust out
a child, an aged one bent by time
mothers with children in tow,
giants standing above with
names belying their stature.
Sitting here, pen in hand
it is comforting to know
there is another, and another
stretching infinitely, secure
in their uniqueness, in the shadow
of their suns, casting
words into the void.
“Every once in a while,” he says
and the screeching in my head
drowns out what follows. I know
what he means of course, that is
the easy part, but the gulf between
meaning and saying is so broad
I can stop and count the traffic
of ideas floating by, each seeking
its own purchase, each finding none.
It could be worse, I know, he
could have said “each and every
once in a while, and he does that
as well, though not in a while,”
but even the once was enough.
I notice he is gone, and I wonder
how much life flowed by
while I was otherwise engaged.
My shelves grow heavy
with volumes of words
I wish I had written, neatly
bound up in books
that stare at me, at once
bidding me welcome
and challenging me to enter.
One shelf is set aside
for books of pages,
blank, on which I have written
each day now for three
and a half years, words
I did write which, on rereading,
I often wish I hadn’t.
I could write in pencil
erase later in the face of regret,
but the pen seals failure
and, I am sure, helps build
character, which I have in excess
If you are asked “who are you?”
how will you reply, and who
is the person asking the question?
If you answer, you are blind
if you say nothing you speak loudly.
The sage will tell you
that there is no you and if
you doubt him he will hold up
a mirror and ask what you see.
If you answer “I see myself”
he will laugh because no one
can see themselves unless
they see everyone, for you
are both the reader
and the writer
of these poor words.
It was a dark alley
with no apparent end
and I wasn’t certain
how I came to be here.
Actually I was.
I followed her
into the alley,
followed the promise
of light she made.
I do tend to follow her
not for her beauty
though she can show that
when she chooses,
but because I need
to release the words
pent-up within
and my Muse
demands I do it
for her.
I write
because words must be said
words must be said
because they eat at my tongue
they eat at my tongue
because they recall the flames of the ovens
they recall the flames of the ovens
because they were forced to shower
they were forced to shower
because they were Jews
they were Jews
because they embraced Torah
they embraced Torah
because they walked through the desert
they walked through the desert
because they followed the trail of manna
they followed the trail of manna
because it led to freedom
it led to freedom
because I saw it in a dream
I saw it in a dream
because a voice whispered it to me
a voice whispered it to me
because I write
Sit down and be silent,
you always want to speak
at the worst possible moment,
whispering incessantly in my ear
when I cannot answer you.
When I call on you, you prefer
to avoid me, playing off
in a corner somewhere
sampling the joys of the day
to be forgotten by nightfall
when I seek to converse.
You take great joy in teasing me
dangling pearls and withdrawing
them at my first grasp, playing
hide and go seek while knowing
all the nooks and crannies.
You prosper in the dark
flitting about, and I can only
feel the breeze as you dash by,
and occasionally touch your skirts
as they brush against by leg.
You are the spoiled child,
petulant, pouting for days
when I chastise you, mocking
when I have little to say to you,
frustrating to the point of distraction
and loved nonetheless.
