God Knows the Price of Tuning Forks

God knows the price of tuning forks,
And alphabets, and astral signs.
Beside the passion of the flame
Reclines a squat and jealous name;
Inside the tyranny of lines
Endures a sweet, soft-scented shame,
Loosing stays, and words, and corks.
Hanumas Is Something Strange Indeed
Hanumas is something strange indeed:
A Hanukkah and Christmas in one night!
Now mixed families must combine the two,
Uniting loved ones just as God would do,
Making separate flames a single light.
All who love by love are thenceforth freed
Simply in all love to find delight.
Happy Hanukkah, Dear Child
Happy Hanukkah, dear child,
A time for fun and play!
Now you get a lot of gifts,
Unwrapping one each day!
Kids love gifts, of course, but then
Kids also ought to know
About the eight-day miracle that
Happened long ago.
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Chanukah Itself's the Miracle

Chanukah itself's the miracle:
How could we remember all those years,
Aliens lost upon a shoreless sea,
Not only scattered--battered, shattered, tattered,
Unwelcome guests of hosts unmerciful,
Knowing well the wellsprings of our tears,
A life devoured by identity
Holding on to legacies that mattered?
Cheerful Lights Dance Within Your Window
Cheerful lights dance within your window,
Happy to dispel a bit of darkness.
As you display your faith, remember when
No light was light enough to light the wind.
Underneath our joy there must be sorrow
Kindled by a willing act of witness,
A turn to share in love again, again,
Horrors that we would not leave behind.
Clearly There Were Jews and There Were Jews
Clearly there were Jews and there were Jews --
Hellenized, not Hellenized, not caring.
Assimilation let one pick and choose,
Not wedded to the faith that one was wearing.
Until a king sought Judaism's end,
Kindling a flame that burned inside,
A miracle that would the faith defend --
Here for us, a faith that else had died.
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By Day Each Soul Must Walk Within Its Shadow

By day each soul must walk within its shadow.
Only night can make us whole again.
Nor joy nor pain can race across the meadow
Night seeds with stars, so vast it were in vain.
In each new day hope rises with the light.
Evening comes: we hunger for the night.
More truth, and vaster, can be seen at night.
All time unveiled gathers in a meadow
Resplendent with the history of light.
Know that in the darkness, free of shadow,
Unto the primal moment, not in vain,
Shines all that ever was, alive again.
So do all vanished moments live again:
Events are past before we see their light.
The star that shines upon the darkened meadow
Has long since moved on to another night.
Give, then, all due attention to the shadow
As thoughts reflect off surfaces in vain.
Bright thoughts shall give us surfaces in vain,
Refracted through the mysteries of night.
In words we see ourselves set forth again,
Each incandescent in the wash of light
Lingering across the golden meadow.
Candles Dance on Their Menorah
Candles dance on their menorah,
Happy to be burning bright!
All the children dance the hora,
Nimbly leaping with delight!
Understand the miracle
Kindled by a match that sings,
A cantor with his canticle,
Here to give the moment wings.
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Blessings Are Not Only of the Light

Blessings are not only of the light:
Open up your heart to gifts of darkness.
None is offered miracles to choose,
Nor knows which gifts of grace one may refuse,
Imposing will upon an unwilled stillness
Eternally within each nub of night.
Miracles are also of the night,
Although we tend to see the good as light.
Reason is an oar that stirs the stillness,
Knowing but the diving range of darkness,
Unaware that what we would refuse
Sustains the miracles that we would choose.
Sing, then, of a gift you did not choose:
Each day the oil supplied for one more night.
To live's a gift few songbirds would refuse,
Holding forth like mad to greet the light,
Each a miracle distilled from darkness,
Little cup to hold a drop of stillness.
If only one could be one's drop of stillness:
Zero will, zero urge to choose,
Avidly serene in light or darkness,
Boat sailing without wind across the night.
Each would then be free to love the light,
There being no consent one would refuse,
Having savored all one would refuse.
Blithe Fingers Know the Psalms of Adoration
Blithe fingers know the psalms of adoration;
Often they play them on the flesh of light.
No hearing necessary, nor is sight
Needed to draw the lineaments of pleasure.
In despair only is there desecration:
Evil in pursuit of pain, not pleasure.
So may we not regret our loss of sight:
Eight days God gave the miracle of light.
Touch remains the road to adoration,
However much we miss the gift of light.
Grace is a slate-flat sea, a tranquil sight
After dense hills and fine-wrought pleasure:
Bleak and pure, too spare for desecration;
Rich as a thin dark line drawn with pleasure;
Intense as death, too immense for sight--
Even now, as love replaces light,
Loss of faith, not loss of adoration . . .
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Blessed Are Those Who Doubt the Word of God

Blessed are those who doubt the word of God,
Opening their minds to what might be.
No literal truth is literally true,
Nor can one see unless one sees anew,
In lieu of faith observing faithfully
Each metaphor writ deep within each word.
Murderers would worship every word,
A band of cutthroats in the name of God,
Reasoning unreason faithfully,
Knights of night, whose end cannot but be
Unholy, though the righteous reign anew,
Sure as angels of what words are true.
Let wit and wisdom wonder what is true.
Inside, we face the being of the word,
Light lost within its depths, condemned anew,
Immensities as infinite as God
Trapped within the confines of "to be,"
However we pursue them faithfully.
Blessed Are Those Who Dwell in Utter Darkness
Blessed are those who dwell in utter darkness,
On whom depend the paladins of light.
Noon is not the time for exploration,
Nor can one sense but sheltered from sensation,
Intensely saturated with delight,
Embracing the black verge of nothingness.
Most abhor the thought of nothingness,
Abhor the grace of death, abhor the darkness,
Resisting the regalia of light.
Know that darkness is the fount of light
Underneath the fabric of sensation,
Source of salience, goal of exploration.
Longing is the cause of exploration,
Inherent at the heart of nothingness,
Luring one to look beyond sensation
Into the enduring truth of darkness,
The chaos at the coming of the light
Holding in its arms a doomed delight.
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Because One Hundred and Thirteen Generations

Because one hundred and thirteen generations
Of Jews lit candles for eight days and prayed
(No doubt a miracle--flames in empty jars),
Nor could they, spangled abroad like lonely stars,
Inter their music, or cull their recitations,
Each cantillated word is death delayed.
Some memories are miracles: the jars
Empty yet dancing with light, the generations
Touched also by fire, burning like distant stars,
History twinkling with their recitations
Lest words be forgotten and the future die. They prayed
On their way naked to the ovens; they prayed
Resting by Babylon's stagnant waters; they delayed
Reeling into memory's end, the empty jars
Aflame with words, afire with recitations,
In words their mountains, their rivers, deserts, stars;
Nations flowing towards silence, the generations
Ebbing into darkness, with candles they delayed ...
Granted they seem strange. Their recitations
Are as alien as Aztec chants. The empty jars
Burning in the temple, the scattered stars
Returning eagerly each night. Whose prayers delayed
Interment in darkness? Which sunless soul prayed
Earnestly enough to light the stars?
Long has this love been borne by their generations.
Blessed Are Those both in and out of Time
Blessed are those both in and out of time.
Only in the moment is forever.
Nothing is an artifact of motion,
Nor can one live without that pseudo-notion
In which death is the end of all endeavor,
Each being being mortal and sublime.
Sing, then, of things both mortal and sublime,
Eternity within each tick of time,
The moment that gives grace to each endeavor,
Here within a now that lasts forever,
Even as we cannot grasp the notion,
Living as we do in constant motion.
In art one feels the shock that stops the motion,
Zealous to embody the sublime
And be oneself beyond all thought or notion,
Blessed by being in and out of time.
Each thing of beauty mirrors the forever
That lies within the moment, an endeavor
Harsh and holy, all one can endeavor.
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Being Is Itself the Fuel-less Flame

Being is itself the fuel-less flame,
Open to no other explanation,
Needing but the notion of The Name,
Not for reason, just for conversation.
In everything there is a holy light,
Explained as inexplicable delight.
Maybe all that is, is for delight,
A superfluity of ardent flame
Resulting in a burst of brazen light.
Know that there can be no explanation
Underneath the endless conversation:
Simply love within the nameless Name.
Love is the quintessence of The Name.
If It is perfect, why need It delight?
Listen to the lyric conversation
In which one finds the answer: that the flame
Transcends attempts at reasoned explanation,
Here for nothing but the love of light.
Bereft of Light, One Stumbles in the Darkness
Bereft of light, one stumbles in the darkness,
Open to the fantasy of death.
None can grasp his being but by faith,
Nor can one see but by its candlelight.
In faith there is both fantasy and will.
Each must choose: to know or not to know.
More perhaps than not will choose to know
After gazing long into the darkness.
Reason cannot see what spirit will:
Kingdoms past the doorway we call death,
Undulating dreamscapes drenched in light,
So lovely none could render them but faith.
Light for eight days testified for faith,
Implicating love in all we know.
Love is a constituent of light,
Invading with the light our inner darkness.
To be in time is to be bound for death;
However, one may flourish where one will.
Gravity is greater than the will,
A fact that forms the boundary line of faith,
Breaking off where being ends in death,
Reason blind where one most wants to know.
In place of knowledge, all it sees is darkness,
Entering a doorway filled with light,
Lost just at the entranceway to light.
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Being Is a Point, Without Dimension

Being is a point, without dimension.
Our consciousness of now is never now.
No sight or sound is simultaneous,
Needing its own time to get to us,
Instants that no instant will allow.
Each moment is the scene of our invention.
Mind is the machine for our invention,
A chip for giving beings their dimension,
Restricted by what circuits will allow.
Know, then, that the one, eternal now,
Unlike the fact-based fiction writ by us,
Sustains a candle simultaneous.
So is all being simultaneous,
Each tick of time a fabulous invention,
The mark of motion relative to us,
Here now, now gone, unchanged in its dimension.
Being Is an Unrequited Passion
Being is an unrequited passion
Of which the object is eternity.
No answer is more salient than the question,
Not of why, but what it is to be.
In each of us there burns a fuel-less fire
Eternal in amazement and desire.
Meaning is the means by which desire
Alleviates the pain of pointless passion,
Revealing in the miracle of fire
Knowledge of a just eternity,
Unending love and paradise to be,
Sufficient to semanticize the question.
Let us de-semanticize the question,
Intent on separation from desire,
Letting be the wish to ever be.
In time alone we touch the ancient passion.
The moment is its own eternity,
Holding us forever in its fire.
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Behind the Act Is Always the Perception

Behind the act is always the perception.
Often we are led astray by light.
No chaos is more damaging than order
Neatly taped across a mystery.
In love and awe we worship only darkness,
Embracing what we know we cannot know.
Silence is a sea, while what we know
Etches the green hills of our perception.
Truth, unspeakable, resides in darkness,
However much we need the gift of light.
God is just a word. Each mystery
Awakens to the first pale gray of order.
Bright glory bathes the sculpted hills in order,
Rolling towards the edge of what we know.
Inside its veil of blue, the mystery
Eludes the clarity of our perception.
Longing is a quality of light
As in each word we sense an inner darkness.
No word but is a stairway down to darkness,
Down to chaos seething within order.
Live, then, within the pale of what you know,
In touch with terrors gilded by the light.
So may you part the curtain of perception,
Alive to all the grace of mystery.

Being and Becoming Are Creations
Being and becoming are creations
Of indispensable imaginations.
No being is, but as it is perceived,
Needing to be seen to be retrieved,
Infinite as nothing, fixed as numbers,
Eternal insofar as one remembers.
Mind is both what is and what remembers,
A creator that is one of its creations,
Reducible, as all must be, to numbers,
Knowable but to imaginations,
Unformed until by its own act retrieved,
Sustained so long as by itself perceived.
So must we all be by ourselves perceived:
Eternal insofar as one remembers.
To be is by some mind to be retrieved,
Held among the host of its creations.
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Before Earth, Water, and Air Is Fire

efore earth, water, and air is fire,
On which all subsists,
Not as flame on oil,
Nor candle on wax, but with-
In, as in us, each
Element in love.
So we are:
Each organ mad with lust, tingling,
The blood eager to cleanse the spleen, nerves
Hungering for connection.
Gifts are tongues of flame.
A blood cell delivers its gift of oxygen. Why?
Brain cells surrender memories.
Reasons are beside the point.
In love we do only what we cannot help,
Each pinpoint moved by frenzy,
Longing to give, to be accepted, consumed.
Most of us have ideological toes,
Or live brightly, with understandings
More reasonable than real.
Around us, within us, is fire,
Non-consuming,
Delivered from flame.
Do we see it?
Absolute, messageless.
Do we see this dark, unradiant fire?
Beginning Thursday, There Will Be No More Reasons
Beginning Thursday, there will be no more reasons.
Over the sun I'll cast a white shroud.
No further laws, no more revelations,
No sources of knowledge beyond one's sensations;
In the absence of oil, flames not allowed.
Each joy without awe, without hope in its seasons . . .
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