בס״ד
Tetzaveh/Zachor
Before ever moistening a menorah’s blossoms,
Viridescent, a drop of pure pressed olive oil,
Casts a golden glow, glimmering,
Like vernal dew upon almond flowers.
Peering through an olive’s first tear,
We glimpse the adornment of the Kohen,
And only through a sprinkle of oil,
Is his anointment complete.
Etched forever,
Within each drop,
As upon his brow -
Kodesh L’HaShem.
בס״ד
Terumah/Shekalim
HaShem is all about giving
but for us that’s no simple maneuver
we’re enmeshed in a world of receiving
the antidote: “Take for Me terumah”
accept from His hands what he gives us
from his goodness a dwelling erect
be mekabel al m’nat l’hashpiah
in your eyes, just the “other” detect
בס״ד
Mishpatim
Who are these appointed judges,
Who have never been to law school?
How long to assimilate these mishpatim,
Delicate scales of justice calibrated.
These Mishpatim, not merely statutes,
But guidelines by which to emulate our Creator,
An impossible task, to reveal His singularity,
Where Ze’ir, din, and Anpin, chesed, are one. *
* שבת מלכתא, ג״:טז״ (ענייני סעודתא דזעיר אנפין)
בס״ד
Yisro
No yardstick was Pharaoh for Moshe,
Amram didn’t raise him at all,
no childhood shared with his brother,
no mentor with whom to play ball.
Nursed by Yocheved, by Basya raised,
safeguarded by Miriam, by Zipporah saved,
these righteous women supported him then,
but he had no good model of caring from men.
Husband and father, not showcased for him,
until Yisro the Kenite, of the Midianim,
so is explained the warmth of his greeting,
and why to him Moshe is listening and heeding.
But for his family, no welcome recorded,
no reunion, no family glow,
uninformed are we how they were greeted,
or perhaps he was not shown to know.
בס״ד
Beshalach
HaShem told Moshe “take this tree”,
And The Maker knows his botany,
Not the reddish-brown Mahogany,
But perhaps the Wild Drum-Stick Tree.
The waters of Marah, bitter as sea,
Could be sweetened using Drum-Stick seeds,
Moringa peregrina taxonomically,
It grows in the deserts of Arabee.
Moshe told them “this you gotta see”,
And you shall tell your progeny,
That this species (now found sparingly),
Is more miraculous than it appears to be.
It grows in parched aridity,
In the ecological vicinity,
Of thorn, orache, acacia tree,
And it’s secret was revealed to me.
It piqued this poet’s curiosity,
That such a barren desert oddity,
Might be what turned the bitter sweet,
As continued we our fate to meet.
בס״ד
Bo
at the 49th level of tumah, nothing rises
all that is left - coarseness and sweat
a scorched crust
you will carry this burden - this matzah
a dead weight on your shoulders
beaten down, deflated
you will wend your way in woeful weariness
from west to east - then east to west
yet miraculously, in only 49 days,
not this blistered bark, but -
leavened loaves will be lifted up
the dough, freshly kneaded
given time to rise
בס״ד
Va’era
what has changed, really.
now we are the ones plagued by wild beasts,
blood, and an icy-hot hail of thundering steel.
still suffering from
the same affliction.
believing that the pandemic of hate
has been contained,
going back to sleep.
and then, at midnight,
it is our firstborn who are now stricken,
and we are surprised;
appalled at such barbarity
as if our values are theirs.
and then stubbornly placing our trust
once again
in nations, and generals,
rather than the God of Moses.
