Shevi'i shel Pesach

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

Ki Sisa

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Ki Sisa

Desperate for a god, they created one,

A theme that repeats through time,

The fear that you’ve been abandoned,

"So I’ll invent one that is mine."

Could Moshe not have arranged to send,

Some signal from the mount,

A flash of light, a shofar blown,

On which the multitude could count?

A calendar, not just word of mouth,

To check, to accurately display,

For this people freed from slavery,

For not much more than 90 days?

We were expected to hold on to faith,

When there was nothing left to grasp,

Bereft, alone, our Moshe gone?

Was that not too much to ask?