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POEMS FOR ISRAEL, OCTOBER 2023 AND AFTER 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, Reizel Polak, Pesach Rotem, Michele Bustin, Bob Findysz, Mark L. Levinson, Roberta Chester, Lilian Cohen, Gerald E. Greene, Eli Ben-Joseph, Ruti Eastman, Laurence Seeff, Stanley H. Barkan, Gail Wasserman, Ruth Schreiber, Imri Perel, Shulamit Bat Or Poems are approximately in the order received, 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.
*
Reizel Polak - 2 poems
In the Land of the Living
In this
land of the living
civilian hands at work to take on
weeping over Tehillim naming the names
walking forward fearless in fear to overtake
made in the divine image to keep the captives *
Day 40 of the War
Forty days forty nights forty years
today with anguish
we the Children of Israel
Who has brought us out
we hold these words dear
we find we make we grow
Our soldiers carry with them
of light so penetrating to pierce in the enemy
on all sides *
Ruth Fogelman
The Sixtieth Day – Iron Swords 2023
sixty days since Simhat Torah since our elated rejoicing turned to the deepest grief since the massacre and its atrocities too vile for words
sixty days of anguished waiting for news of the hostages, our loved ones whose photos are plastered throughout the Land – babies and young children, grandparents, parents – with giant lettering, white on red, bring them home
for sixty days, we awake to the news – the names of the fallen soldiers and civilians the time and place of their funerals fifty-nine days of massive fighting the forces of absolute evil
sixty days – each one an eternity or one long nightmarish day
God of war, God of peace solve the humanly insolvable with Your heavenly light * Ruth Fogelman
Bring Home the Hostages
The images – smiling faces looking at me from posters plastered on store-fronts, billboards bus-stops, walls – more faces than I can count.
A red-haired baby with a wide smile a white-haired grandmother, her lips the color of wine. My heart cries out with silent screams my voice choking, holding back tears… Bring home the Captives! The Kidnapped! Now! Now!
In the evening, I view a short news clip from Gaza – an orange candy wrapper with Hebrew letters a baby's bottle, brown teddy bear – signs that hostages had been there in the web of tunnels beneath Shifa hospital... but now, where?
Lord, grant our men whatever they need to find Your children in Gaza’s Gehinnom wherever they may be hidden. Destroy those who imprison them return them to their loved ones. May Your sons and daughters promptly return home may light again shine from their eyes.
* Pessy Krausz
Forever on Guard
Gil’ad Nechemia Nitzan, that was his name, Painfully gone, of greatly blessed memory Middle of seven children, quite unusual Sandwiched son of twenty one, proudly decides to Serve in the regular army, whole heartedly.
Granddaughter married to Gil’ad’s big brother Hugely pregnant. Shield her in that condition From the tragic news which spreads like wild fire Sister drives fast, how can she impart to her Gil’ad’s no longer. Innocence ripped from her.
Parents, grandparents, brothers and sisters. Community mourn, wrapped in Gil’ad’s Shiva. Crowds visit his home in historic Shilo Bejewelled ancient city, many returning To our Tabernacle’s home, so long ago.
From far and wide, north and south came all kinds Some who flocked had served with him and others, Older, round his memory all wove stories. My bond with Gil’ad goes back many years, Younger, yet shared a positive outlook.
He’d declaim my name loudly, “Savta Omi!” Gleefully, swinging curls, dancing towards me Triggering past echoes, soulfully. My name Is after grandmother, in German, Oma, Left to cruel fate, still her memory lives on.
My bitter chronicle, transported in pain To this gallant young man, his future cut short. Does it have to be? No! Through his memory We’ll create positive history, and... “Death shall have no dominion” Gil’ad’s life...
Will be celebrated, fulfilled through countless Acts of kindness, while brides and grooms unite Future generations embrace his image Of conventional unconventionality. Who’ll love our land, far more than just in theory
From a young age, Gil’ad spent time gardening He’d weed and he’d plant, not just for his parent’s Neighbours called him, and Yishuvim nearby, By helping their gardeners his labour flourished Plant’s just couldn’t resist his magical touch.
He could not escape the call of the wild. Whenever the army gave time to relax, Pals in his unit, with packs strapped on their back Would follow their leader, Kippa on his head While unimportant for them was his headgear. “No matter we’re from backgrounds so different” Gil’ad would say, “We’re one person – body and soul.” From love of Torah and Yeshiva, he drew Inspiration, helped others to enjoy life. Nieces, nephews Savta Omi, all felt his love.
Gil’ad Nechemia Nitzan his sublime names, Each one tells a story, so what means Gil’ad? Hebrew Gil means joy and Ad, everlasting What is more fitting as our heroes motto Whose influence will guide us as an example
Each name tells a story, so what means Nechemia? “Comforter; God comforts.” Gil’ad too gave comfort To all those round him, thinking ‘out of the box’ Yet bringing others to his box, mission achieved, The ultimate connector in so many fields.
Each one tells a story, so what means Nitzan? That was his surname, his family carries on Nitzan in Hebrew means ‘bud’ or ‘blossom’. When your little sprout arrives, help it to flourish, That’s what Gil’ad did, and his family continues.
We see Gil’ad in his tent, at time of war, Engrossed in a book, wearing army gear. None were like you, an inspiration, unique Forever on Guard, ignite our spark, unite us, You are our model, with your spirit we’re imbued
Indeed, your Memory is for a Blessing.
Written in humility by Pessy Krausz 9th December 2023 * Elhanan ben-Avraham
VENGEANCE * Don Kristt
Survival in the whirlwind of death and destruction (Dedicated to the five fallen souldiers)
We are trapped! These terrible, awful winds of death, of destruction. With satanic power they consume my days, rip at my soul, tear lovely children from our arms; taken for ever - evermore. Is there hope? I cannot survive, endure another day like this if there is not hope. I believe we will survive, I must believe we will endure to a time that the joy from within creation is again released to our world. Clutch at His garments, and plead until He grants us respite: a return to life with meaning, with tranquility and love. Hug me Hashem! I am overwhelmed with sadness; my every atom despairs. Reach out with Your right hand and touch me gently, dear God, bring me close to you, in tranquility. Restore peace to my soul. 12.23 * Pesach Rotem
A TIME FOR WAR AND A TIME FOR PEACE
לַכֹּל, זְמָן; . . . עֵת מִלְחָמָה וְעֵת שָׁלוֹם. “To every thing there is a season, . . . a time for war and a time for peace.” Ecclesiastes, chapter 3
In the fifteenth century, in the time of Joan of Arc, England and France were at war. In the nineteenth century, in the time of Napoleon, England and France were still at war. An intelligent observer could have concluded, reasonably, that England and France were destined to be at war forever. And yet . . .
And yet, today, in the twenty-first century, not only are England and France not at war, they are so not-at-war that it is impossible to even imagine England and France going to war.
I predict that by the twenty-third century, just two hundred years from now, Israel and Palestine will also be not at war. Like England and France, like Czecho and Slovakia, they will be so not-at-war that it will be impossible to even imagine Israel and Palestine going to war. And yet . . .
And yet, today, in the meantime, in the harsh reality of the here and now, in the bloody shadow of Simchat Torah, in the vow, once again, of Never Again, there is no alternative to victory.
Peace will have to wait. * Hayim Abramson
9318 Desert Dawn Michele Bustin - 2 poems Israel November 2023.
In the centre of the country in a pleasingly decorated café, we sit serenely and sip afternoon tea, a stand of small sandwiches, artisan biscuits, scones and strawberry jam before us, await our tasting, soft music soothes us into a sense of security. Suddenly, sounds of sirens and loud cracks thrust us back to reality. We make our way well-practised to the familiar safe place. Ten minutes later we are once again sitting and sipping and tasting, as if this is how it should be, always will be. Not far away guns are firing, bombs are striking, people have been snatched from their lives only living at the mercy of murderers. Yet we go through the motions: we sit, we sip , we taste. Like a surrealistic painting or creation in the fantasy mind of a Dali or a Magritte, like a hectic dance to the discordant tones of a Schoenberg or a Stravinski. Yet life goes on and the world turns in its unwavering orbit….
*
Faces on a poster ( October 2023 )
1. She's there... but where? And who's brushing her hair? Curls swirl, smile shy. Why?
2. Eighteen, awaiting adulthood confidently eagerly, looking ahead. Now only dread. She's abducted, life's disrupted. *
Bob Findyzs
Bridges
The shining slit in an eastern sky is a gorged grapefruit peeking out from behind thick, thorny branches. This crescent of new moon draws me to a city still securely snoozing away in its forested evergreen blanket. Refrains of Simon & Garfunkel on a pre-dawn radio playlist bridge for a moment the troubled water worrying a world I choose to call my home.
Boarding a bus I'm off to pick lemons in a grove enveloped by sounds from the battleground -- the least these old bones can do at a time like this.
-- January 2024
*
Chana Cromer A walk on the beach
*
David Weiser
210. My soul sits in a tunnel Of terror underground, Unable to escape. I hear the constant groan Of children and the aged; I feel the flames of hate. In hopeful ignorance We had a dream of peace, But now we are awake. *
Julian Alper War for Israel
It’s a dark night, the moon and stars obscured by dense clouds A dark night, a dark time I’m restless and irritable, unable to sleep I’ve been pacing up and down Waiting, worrying, nervous, frightened – perhaps even terrified Will we be at war in just a short while from now? How long can we resist an attack? How many deaths? How many casualties? No thoughts of gain at all - we just want to live in peace This will be an existential war Will we survive or be wiped out? No wonder I can’t sleep The approaching army is huge, well-armed, well-trained A well-oiled war machine While we are few in number, poorly-armed, no training Boys fighting men.
I return to bed, to get some rest even if I can’t sleep I’m drifting in and out of slumber, barely dozing But dreaming and waking in a cold sweat Jackals are howling like they’re telling me to flee I wish I could, but it’s too late to think of that We’d be overtaken and overrun in minutes I have a recurring dream – I’m being attacked by a colossal giant More like a monster or a ghost than a man, I lash out but don’t strike I’m frightened, even distressed, I struggle, but will I prevail? I can’t hit him, but he lands blow after blow to my body Hyenas are laughing like they’re enjoying my demise My legs are heavy with pain I want to give up, surrender, but I’m clinging to life I’m resisting, I’m struggling, I’m fighting, I’m prevailing The night is ending, the sky is lightening Birds are singing, flowers are blooming The sun is rising, a new day is dawning I wake up with a burning pain in my leg The nerves of my thighs are on fire I rise, I stumble, I limp, but I survived I’m a new man, Israel is alive Am Yisrael Chai - the people of Israel live!
There’ll be more wars, that’s for sure We’ll be hit hard, we’ll suffer much Our pain will be great, there’ll be casualties and death But we will resist, we will struggle, we will fight We might stumble, we might limp But we will survive, we will prevail Israel will live forever Am Yisrael Chai - the people of Israel live! *
Ethelea Katzenell Remembering an innocent victim of blind hatred
About one hundred meters ahead
Mark L. Levinson Beneath the Lamppost
January 2024
* Roberta Chester Requiem For Our Fallen Soldiers I and every day another There is no measure II
*
Lilian Cohen We don’t need the pictures
of babies burned and beheaded young people raped and slaughtered old people dragged out and shot – our haven irrevocably breached.
Awash with memory we know the hatred preached by clerics absorbed with mothers’ milk, the terror loosed by baying packs thrusting scimitars and swords, the stench of burning flesh and ash-filled air - expulsion from refuge time after time ...
Even now toxic bubbles ferment unhindered in academic halls and bastions of power insinuating poison into unformed minds, flooding the media spilling onto streets ...
Awash with memory we don’t need the pictures. October 2023 * Gerald E. Greene Seventy Percent
While buildings crumble and homes disappear
While plumbing collapses and sewage flows like melting snow
While food becomes scarce and children starve
Seventy percent still believe the October 7 atrocities were good
While hospitals become bunkers and supplies run out
While patient rooms are arsenals and offices turn into barracks
While pharmacies empty and injuries go untreated
Seventy percent still believe the October 7 atrocities were good
While hostages die and families grieve
While children stop learning and teachers carry guns
While leaders rejoice and live in exile
Seventy percent still believe the October 7 atrocities were good
As purpose flows down and method flows up the innocent are martyred by the seventy percent
Miriam Jaskierowicz Arman
DAUGHTER OF MY PEOPLE
Eli Ben-Joseph
Nahariya Shore, Winter 2024
The sea sends little breakers. The shoreline keeps its coves, the sun’s rays ripple Round the rocks and, further up to Lebanon, They fade on the horizon, where border boulders, Huge and gray, feign tranquility. Look, sweetheart, at our feet the waves Toss conch shells and sea-worn bits of colored glass Onto the sandy beach, then take the prizes back With jeering regularity.
Long ago Jeremiah cried out in this land, Thieving priests and hollow kings Would bring God’s wrath And foreign invaders burn our fields and trees, Disperse or bear us off, And break our Temple stones.
But belief was steel, renewal held sway. We Israelites in caravans came back. Faith found a new day And held us in her mothering arms. Within and out, over and over, Escaping even ovens libel-lit, Our people fell but rose. Today patrol boats guard our coast And howitzers return enemy fire As mere whitecaps hit the beach.
Dear, let us shield our love And keep watch on family and friend, For despite the porches on our tree-lined streets, Our homes and businesses that seem so usual, Tunnels hide sly battle tools around our edges, And enemies hold even toddlers hostage While we take our walk along the shore And go about our normal ways Beneath the swoop of taloned war. * Eli Ben-Joseph
Mother Owl
Mother owl had once lost chicks to weasels. A marten now killed one and threatened more. Alarmed, she fixed her telescopic gaze, maternal care within, and swooped and dug her hooklike talons in the creature’s heart. The marten’s young would get no food and die. Yet mother owl did what a mother must.
Her defense was something like human war, if not like Dresden, where civilian Germans paid the price for Hitler’s bombs on London.
Moral quandary cannot escape a bombing, not in Germany, nor Gaza, where Israel targets only terrorists, but common people suffer rulers’ acts, whether rulers rule by vote or threat. Defender, like mother owl, must defend.
*
Ruti Eastman
Do You Sleep?
19 February 2024 - Day 136 of the Simchat
Torah War: Operation Swords of Iron
15 April 2024 - Day 192 of the Simchat
Torah War: Operation Swords of Iron
*
Laurence Seeff
STRESS
1) It's now more than 6 months since the 7th of October When the world, that we knew, it did change A heinous attack made us cool, calm and sober The feeling was so horribly strange
2) From that moment on we all felt the strain For our families and ourselves – I confess Israel was under attack once again Experiencing very great stress
3) The soldiers were called to the battlefield Their mission was nothing less than success Their job was to protect and to shield The citizens from the pain and the stress
4) But with so many hostages abducted that day We were struck with an unusual numbness There was so little we could do or could we say To relieve the country’s shared stress
5) So as the weeks went by there was some negotiation Leading to a degree of progress The release of some hostages was some consolation But even that process was not without stress
6) But since last November the war intensified Negotiations seemed to have been meaningless With no deals concluded - as much as we’ve tried That’s only added to the national stress
7) As the killed and the wounded grew in number Our feelings were impossible to repress Families and friends in a stupified slumber Causing greater and greater deep stress
8) Demonstrations and protests were seen countrywide Frustration and anger we did express Our thoughts and our feelings unable to hide Telling the world of our ongoing stress
9) Here in Netanya it’s been rather calm Although tensions run high nevertheless Our city and people have been spared major harm Permitting a reduction to our level of stress
10) Despite the situation we must try to dream Of a much brighter future – I guess Positivity, hope and great self-esteem The best way to alleviate our stress
* Stanley H. Barkan THE HYPOCRISY OF THE HUMANITARIAN
In the fight between good and evil, there’s only one side to choose, for the true Humanitarian.
—Stanley H. Barkan I
The baby’s been put in the oven live.
The mother, while being raped, is screaming not because of the rape but at the sound of her baby’s agonized cries, all up in flame and smoke.
But the Humanitarian is concerned with “both sides.”
II
Her skin made a nice lampshade. Her husband and children, soap.
Is there enough soap to wash away the Humanitarian’s hypocrisy?
III
“They tossed the babies like cabbages onto trucks.”
So the old witness told me.
“Tsk-tsk!” says the Humanitarian.
IV
The little boy showed the tattoo on his arm, as he and the other children were led to the ovens.
Just so much smoke from the chimneys.
V
Yesterday, I bought a big long hunting knife.
*
Stanley H. Barkan UNDER THE RAGING MOON with thanks to Dylan Thomas 17 February 2024
I am raging under the moon, the sun, and the stars for all the hostages held by Hamas, all the satanic forces, those who worship Death, instead of Life.
I am raging for the mother, who just announced her support of the IDF to finish their mission, to destroy the demons of darkness and to bring home all the hostages.
She, the mother of a hostage, a young handsome, full-of-life son, who only brought humor and joy to all—to his wife and friends and extended family and others of the community of his kibbutz.
By this public announcement, this mother of a hostage son, has risked her own akedah (sacrifice) of her son, as those who have captured and imprison him may take revenge on him for his mother’s valor.
Those who seek to make Gilad Schalit-type appeasements, releasing some 1500 blood-on-their-hands fiends, just one of which organized the Oct. 7th day of horror, by such an exchange, risk diurnal Jewish genocide.
And so, history repeats itself, again and again: from the Babylonian destruction of the first temple, to the Syrian Hellenists’ defilement of the second, to the Romans’ destruction of that temple and the diaspora, . to the crusaders who burned the Jewish villages while on the way to free Jerusalem from the domination of the Moors, to the torture of Torquemada’s Inquisition & the pogroms of Khmelnytsky’s Cossacks, to the terrorist rampages of 1929 Hebron, birthplace of Judaism,
to Kristallnacht, and the Shoah, right up to this little shoah, of Oct. 7th, the persistent desire to solve “The Jewish Question.” And now, the mother of a hostage risks her own akedah— but where, this time, is the staying voice of the angel of God?
*
David Weiser
[untitled]
Sin and War together
*
Gail Wasserman
In Denial
***
Ruth Schreiber Our turn now -- Here we are
As Abraham responded to God -- straight off and Samuel to Eli, three times in one night,
Our fathers, brothers, husbands, sons daughters, grandkids, neighbours, friends…
Dog tags, rifles, helmets, boots, semen frozen, Get and will
Phones and snacks, prayers and hugs --swallow swallow, breathe breathe
Through the portal, so proud but veil of terror shutters down
Look the same, do your work-- Automaton.
*
Ruth Schreiber
New normal
To awaken daily to the dreaded words hutar lepharsem no six degrees of separation, we all know some of “The Fallen” so many beautiful boys
Shot crushed burnt exploded gassed or wounded (hundreds, thousands patzua kasheh) limbs, eyes, breathing, brain “The families have been informed”
And we smile at our children jigsaws, reading, bikes, the park burying the terror by baking and cooking cleaning again to blanket the shaking sneaking the news on, on the hour and the hour, and the next
hoping not to know the names
“hutar lepharsem” הותר לפרסם released for publication “patzua kasheh” פצוע קשה badly injured
*
Imri Perel
THINGS THEY DIDN’T TEACH YOU
There are things they didn’t teach you in school, and even the best parents gave no guidance. Such as how to take a first toke under cover of the low bushes without coughing. Such as how to calm the storm raised in the heart by the sight of a girl and her dimples. Such as how to swallow shame of being human, dust. Such as how to prepare for the second war of independence, or the third world war after they promised no more and never again. And when you grow you won’t go into the army because then there will be no more wars. And they gave no guidance as to what sound you should utter when before your eyes they slaughter the white dove of peace, and skewer baby birds with the olive branch. They don’t pinch their necks with the thumb like the high priest in the sacrifices; they use another method which they didn’t teach you. (But on the other side of the fence, they taught this well.) And they didn’t teach you that when someone comes to kill you kill him first. And they didn’t teach you to roar when they stab your living flesh.
But they taught you about Rabin and the “noble” peace prize. And they taught cultural colonialism masked as compassion. They taught us now not to listen to the other, to his intentions and his words, to his declarations and proclamations, but to see the proved reality – to see the candies thrown to celebrate the blood of those slaughtered for lack of cultural understanding, the weakness of the weak, the cry of the needy, the despair of poverty. They taught us to embrace and tolerate and flagellate ourselves for being alive when the world loves dead Jews, And shame for living on a flourishing land, breathing air that is not ours.
And what will you teach your son? Who sits on the windowsill seeking his sister, What will you teach your son that he shouldn’t step out the door of his house? And what will you teach your son about his brother the soldier who can’t play soccer with him because he is not. And will you say to your son when you grow up you won’t go into the army, for then there will no longer be wars?
* Shulamit Bat Or
To
my friend the poet the late Judih Weinstein-Haggai & her husband, the
musician Gadi Haggai, who were murdered by Hamas, on 7.10.23, on their
kibbutz, Nir Oz. Incantation To the poet Judih Weinstein Haggai & her late husband, the musician Gadi Haggai.
You will be back soon! Before the heat of the sun completely surrenders to the gentle autumn chill, you will return to us. The Jacaranda trees will lay out carpets of purple on the Kibbutz's paths, in your honor. You will be back soon! You, the missing, the gentle, the people and world loving, you'll be back home in Kibbutz Nir Oz. into the arms of the legendary Ficus Bengali trees, the bosom of the green wheat fields, the yearning hands of the folk who love you dearly. You will be back soon! It's a belated declaration of love, which it's not too late to declare. The deluding hands of evasive time passed between us. I felt they have woven hidden azure threads of grace for us, October 7, 2023, brutally slashed them. You will be back soon! That day made me realize, I should have more often told all the people I love – I love you. You will be back soon! Grey ashes to red ashes - may it be a lesson of survival to us all ! We must be reborn from the ashes, start anew on our path as an enlightened nation. It must be a work of love, of true compassion, that the Jewish Phoenix "Chol'', can bring forth. You will be back soon! My heart mourns for the friendship it will miss out, yet it will begin again. With lips scorched by fire and horrid memories, it swears to remedy!
You will never be back. |
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