בס״ד
Metzora/HaGadol
A dove’s somber songs,
echo someone who mourns,
it’s low coo-a-coo,
sounds of sadness.
Both metzoras and zavs,
rely on these doves,
to change their dejection,
to gladness.
Just two little birds,
to repair what occurred,
tahara reborn,
from the ashes.
בס״ד
Tazria
a shroud of tzara’as,
blossoms abundantly,
contaminated sap,
expelled to the coarse, outer husk,
to be shed,
as a serpent’s skin,
or eucalyptus bark,
promising new growth,
within an old stump,
and declared tahor,
yet, if one bloom is missing,
tameh.
בס״ד
Shemini/HaChodesh
This parsha’s well versed in mammalogy,
Ichthyology and herpetology,
All the birds it knows flat,
Like the crowned Duchiphat,
But it’s fuzzy about entomology.
We have flying, swarming things,
And teeming ones, without wings,
Yet they walk on four legs?
This biology begs,
Six or eight has a much truer ring.
Is the Torah so speaking, perchance,
About centipedes, spiders, and ants,
Which have at least four,
Or a hundred or more?
It’s not really clear at first glance.
No, the parsha’s directing our focus,
On that kosher grasshopper or locust,
Which walks with just four,
Then it jumps with two more,
Rashi warns us to take careful notice.
בס״ד
Tzav/Parah
The kohanim, at their inauguration.
Offer flour for their consecration,
Boiled, then baked, then fried into buns,
Thus did Aaron and his sons.
But bun is not the proper label,
It sounds to me more like a bagel,
In scorching oil let it float,
Voila! We have sufganiot!
Is this a hint to Chanukah,
And the minhag of sufganiya,
Or a reference to the chait ha’egel,
A golden crust upon the bagel?
If so, there’s something missing please,
A slice of lox, a shmeer cream cheese,
A bit of onion, a little heatin’,
Now you’ve got some real good eatin’.
I would surely be in awe,
If some Navi ever saw,
In the cakes of Aaron and his sons,
Those Sunday breakfasts yet to come.
בס״ד
Vayikra
Upon the sacrificial lamb,
two hands rest,
with a sense of regret,
for that act, and this.
Sanctifying through touch,
and with bracha,
like waving the Kohain,
or blessing the children.
Warmth, tangible as breath,
a fluttering of life,
each padded finger caressing,
every woolen curl.
Between penitent and korban,
at this poignant, tactile moment,
a shimmer of no substance,
passes.
A tear is shed,
anointed now is the emissary,
the shaliach, bearing away error,
like the shearing off of fleece.
בס״ד
Pekudei
Oholiav, of the tribe of Dan,
Master craftsman of his clan,
Whose skills were honed in slavery,
Embroiderer of captivity.
Turquoise, purple, scarlet wools,
He fashioned with his stitching tools,
With linen too he plied his trade,
He wove, and carved, as he was bade.
With blade and needle, looms and hoops,
He’d served those Mitzri nincompoops,
Now liberated, with love he tackled,
Adornment of the Tabernacle.
In joy, his craft he now applied,
To cloth and hair and wood and hide,
And all the fabric they had spun,
Did Oholiav, Achisamach’s son.
בס״ד
Vayakhel/Shekalim
All the people came together,
When Moshe finished his descent,
In a way that we had never seen,
Since the day that Moshe went.
Just like a master craftsman,
He restored them piece by piece,
And the people’s hearts were opened,
Their donations never ceased.
Each instruction they performed,
Down to every jot and tittle,
No tiny detail altered,
Not even just a little.
Some say the Beit HaMikdash,
Will re-descend when He desires,
But with people, like the Mishkan,
Some assembly is required.
