*

SEPTEMBER SONG

The plain of the sky, mountainous with clouds

above the mountains

as remnants of the warm breeze slouch

toward the refreshment of autumn's

red-and-yellow fountains.

I could walk there, nearer to God

(maybe farther)

if at the end of each leg, I had a bird,

not these aching bone feet.  I'd rather

soar, but I wasn't born to feather.

Still, there are avenues of sky

along the ground

for a man to travel, and I

can hear the songs that rise without a sound

and hover all around.

                                           —JB Mulligan

*

AUTUMN
 
That very day, like golden wings
the leaves shifted in the wind
endless chimes rang and parted from the pines
and from the season of love.
 
The eucalyptus cast twisting roots into the limbs
of the hidden stream to slake their thirst
into the roots of the rock arms of the mountain.
 
Beneath the shadow of the mountain the valley slept
deep in contemplation of that sirocco day,
the sun grew old, dimming into a polished pearl of light
and not one bird voice could be heard.
 
Pale gold, the trees were kindled by comets
of leaf and bud, blinded by the rising flames of autumn.
 
Day darkened and soon night rested upon his boat in the stream
upon the flow of dark waters.
 
The halo of his hair, crowned with a garland of stars
became a corona of keen splendor.
 
For the soul, memory is an awakening
a voyage of pain and joy,
but it is not memories that the weary heart seeks.
 
Oarsman, he cleaved the gleaming river
as he would a burnished leaf.
                                                       —Shira Twersky-Cassel
 

*

THE CRANES
 
Summer is gone, the time of flying kites
and eating sweet corn on the beach
                   the time of doing nothing
and not feeling guilty.
 
Confronted with the pensiveness of autumn
I start thinking how each day may be the last
of my life and I am remiss of so much I meant
to accomplish. Can I console myself with those
who know mysteries that we are given second
chances in future lives to correct our failures?
 
All this because when I opened the door
and looked at the sky, I saw a flock of cranes,
their white wings touched by the gold of the sun,
making their way to other pastures.
 
They will be back in spring and like the seasons
of the year that reassure us with the constancy
of renewal, reveal the blessed never ending cycle
of arrivals and departures.   
                                                 —Gretti Izak
 

*

NISHMAS
 
Through the open door of the shul
Came the song of geese in flight
Leaving behind brown food-famished fields
For rich black streams, rivers and lakes south.
 
Before I could stop it, my heart,
Peering out from beneath my tallis,
Ran to the door and, leaning against the jamb,
Beat in rhythm to the wings of the lead bird.
 
It returned only for Nishmas,
Slowly at first, but settling then within my breast,
Dreaming of wings as broad as the heavens
Of water, woods, sun and moon.
                                                             — Gershon ben Avraham
 

*

WINTER NIGHTS
 
Sleep deep in winter night
in the silence of hard cold
drift into the womb of the earth
and espy the stars and moon
where every dog is a wolf
and man large legend
stepping across constellations
like lighted bridges            
linking the lost, the gone, the forbidden
we are hunters of brighter seasons
but sleep down deep in winter’s night now
and read the signs hidden.
                                                 —Susan Oleferuk
 

*

OVERNIGHT LOW:  7 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT  
 
In the mix
of tall White Pines,
 
slow brush of lynx,
and whispers of passing antlers,
 
a coyote’s gypsy song
gives anthem to all that
 
I—removed—
can never be.
                        —Cynthia Nankee
 
 * 
 
WHITE CAT IN THE MIDST OF A SNOWFALL
 
Grace everywhere —
on the field, in the air,
 
What is softest
fashions vertical rows of prints
 
down an evolving canvas,
like delicate Chinese lettering…
 
or perhaps,
Braille for a world
 
that’s slowly disappearing
from sight. 
                      —Cynthia Weber Nankee
 

 *

  
MORNING PRAYER
 
He left her lying warm beneath blue blankets,
To trudge through snow to morning prayer, as
Reluctantly as Adam leaving Paradise.
 
Light snow landing in his beard soon warmed, and
Rolled like mourners’ tears down his black coat’s front.
 
Wrapped in tallis, his spirit moved through
Fiery places. The windows crusted with snow,
Could not contain his soul.
                                                   — Gershon ben Avraham
 
*

TKHINE FOR TU BISHVAT

            Woman's Prayer for the New Year of Trees

Will we be like the trees of the fields

whose bounty to come is judged on this day?

Come, let us eat figs and pears with our wine,

and feast on the flesh of plums and almonds!

From the fire of your mouth, Elokim,

light the blessings for each tree

that they may bear fruit in the year to come.

We plant key saplings and pray, Baruch HaShem,

that no one take note against them.

May their bounty be known unto our children's

children’s generation, when our dust

brings forth the wild grape to bloom  

and the orchard burns red with apples.

Spring rains will feed the earth, so too may we

be nourished to bring forth honey like the sweet date palm.

Praise You, Giver-of-All-Things, who calls the soil

from labor and gives us the Tree of Life.  Omayn.

                                                                                              —Ellen Powers

 * 

THE CHRONICLES OF SPRING

When the roots of spring want to speak, when under
the turf a great many old tales and ancient sagas
have amassed; when too many whispers crowd
the dark foundations—then the bark of trees
blackens and disintegrates into thick scales—
and the roots beckon, inviting us to go deeper.

Oh, we wouldn’t have believed it had we not seen
this world with our own eyes: the great breeding
grounds of history, factories of plots, hazy smoking
rooms of fables and dark texts written for the drama
of evening clouds; the bottomless infernos,
the hopeless Ossianic spaces, all those lamentable
Nibelungs! Here are labyrinths of depth,
warehouses and silos of things, lachrymatories,
graves that are still warm; the litter and the rot.

Now at last we can understand the great and sad
machinery of spring. Why she must be beautiful
to embody all that has been lost. Why she
must make up for all that heavy knowledge

with lilac blooms and flowering cherry.
New greenery grows overnight and the sap rises
as trees wake up with slender shoots, unburdened
by memories (although their roots are steeped
in ancient chronicles)…Behold your fields,
your own estate—the meadows bright with clover.

Fill yourself with the early morning light

that grows from nearly nothing to an immensity.

                                                                                        —Constance Rowell Mastores