Shemini

 בס״ד

Shemini

What could be the difference, I wondered,

Nadav and Abihu’s alien flame,

From HaShem’s commands, they wandered,

To innovate, beyond the frame.

Yet Chazal, of lower generations,

Overrule Rabbi Eliezer’s signals,*

Our Creator, it seems, had other intentions,

But with Beis Din’s rulings, never mingles.

Where did they find it written down,

That Rabbis’ logic rules below,

Are Shamayim’s hands so closely bound?

In Moshe’s time, this was not so.

Anointment oil no protection,

For the Kohen who strayed from the path,

Yet later wise men chose rejection,

And did not incur their Master’s wrath.

Would that God would be explicit,

In these days of shades of grey,

What is true, and what illicit,

Who in our time can truly say?

* Baba Metzia 59a-59b

Shevi'i shel Pesach

 בס״ד

Shevi’i shel Pesach

Says Rav Doron Perez, it’s truly the case,

That goals are achieved through a process,

One step at a time to be nurtured with care,

To be savored, like loving caresses.

Every rung in the ladder, a moment of thanks,

As we count, and see if we've progressed,

Learnt who we are, and what we could become,

With each nightfall, the next day is blessed.

Whether forty long years, or forty short days,

Or forty-nine treks to the dream,

To each day there’s a dawn, as well as a dusk,

Every moment, much more than it seems.

Vast splitting seas, or great mountains concealed,

In smoke, and in lightning, and fire,

Though the goal be far off, or painfully near,

Each dayenu we sing, brings us nigher.

Shabbos Chol Hamoed Pesach

 בס״ד

Shabbos Chol HaMoed Pesach

Thirteen is not just a number,

It’s א.ח.ד, if these letters are added,

The identical count for HaShem’s rachamim,

To drash Torah - Reb Yishmael expanded.

A boy can finally count as one,

In a minyan of his peers,

Once he attains, in the fullness of time,

The age of thirteen years.

The Rambam lists thirteen ikarim,

Required for our faith,

Add a thirteenth month for a leap year,

To put Pesach in its place.

In the mystical realm of Kabbalah,

Divine compassion, and olam, entwine,

Chesed and gevurah revealed as one,

(It was that way all the time).

Pesach

בס״ד

Pesach

Amidst missiles and sirens

Am Yisroel focuses upon

moving forward.

As darts of destruction fly overhead,

I wonder, as they pass over me,

What would be if some Angel

Contemplated crossing my bloodless doorway?

What sign shall I make to indicate,

It is me and mine within,

We and others, sheltered,

Behind a portal of steel and concrete.

Perhaps I will,

Yes, brush in hand,

Perhaps I will mark our inner lintel,

With, a shimmering streak, of scarlet.

Tzav/Shabbos HaGadol

 בס״ד

Tzav/Shabbos HaGadol

One fire isn’t good enough,

Three blazes must be tended,

These flames shall burn perpetually,

Not to ever be suspended.

Olah, chatas, and asham,

All or part must feed the pyres,

Shlomim, neder, or nedava,

To the songs of the Levite choir.

Aharon and his sons must learn,

From Moshe, as he describes,

How to offer up korbanos,

Blood, and breast, and thigh.

Watch carefully now, our Prophet bids,

I’ll show you how it’s done,

But after this, it’s not my task,

From now on, you’re the one.

Vayikra

 בס״ד

Vayikra

How many today could, with holy purpose,

shecht and eviscerate, trim fat from entrails,

or squeeze the blood from a young dove,

against the side of the mizbeach?

If we had never been exiled, 

if the Beis Hamikdash were still standing,

would we have long since lost the reverence 

befitting the lifeblood of korbanos?

In my darkest hours I’ve wondered,

perhaps galus was a gift:

if we had remained here these last 2000 years,

would we have become like our enemies are today?

Who treat, even their own humanity,

like a sacrificial offering, 

a nightmare from a cruel god,

dreamed up by a false prophet.

Vayakhel/Pekudei/HaChodesh

 בס״ד

Vayakhel/Pekudei/HaChodesh

The angel is in the details,

if with heart and desire, we place her there,

within the dwelling that we build,

and the cloth which we weave,

to house the Holy, and enrobe those who serve.

Repetition out of love, like a poem or a song,

lifts us still, even after many renderings,

each time reviving, though the tune be old,

our wonder and anticipation.

Chodesh Nisan blossoms with each spring,

sometimes earlier, sometimes later,

a vernal new moon comes to free us,

from the Persias and Egypts,

which darken our souls.