The President Goes to Paterson

The governor and local officials gratefully await
The arrival of the President.
He will greet the area's hard-hit residents
After flooding left them devastated in its wake.
Though he visits only Paterson, with a brief stop in Wayne,
People all along the Jersey shore
Are comforted and reassured
The President is coming himself to see their pain.
"Floodwaters have inundated our soul",
And we too await the arrival of our King.
We yearn for the comfort only He can bring,
The aid and assistance needed to make our lives whole.
It's been a long time coming round -
But we're waiting on the tarmac for His plane to touch down.

The Olive Tree

I'd like to think the olive tree braves the storm,
But that's fond self-projection -
With winter's blows the olive goes along -
Its innate strength the best protection.
Wild winds dash its branches to and fro -
Like silver tresses unloosed by a gale -
You'd think the unleashed forces were its foe -
The small tree emerges hearty and hale.
Take its gnarled diminutive trunk,
Holding firm like mightier trees -
A fictive pen would say it had spunk -
It survives only by Divine decree.
True it is the tree's fruition
Comes with the oil it was created for -
Still I grant the claim of intuition
It was also made to be a metaphor.
So praise the brave olive tree down to its roots -
The embattled olive - yielding its fruits.

Poems on the Seven Species

I never saw a field of wheat -
"Yet know I how it looks" -
Nor had I known a single sheaf -
Except I found it in a book.

Wheat - it said - before it's made
The staff of life -
Must first be broken, crushed and ground -
Like the soul - I thought -
Processed in the mill of life -
Becomes whole and choice and sound.




The barley seed breaks apart
In the dark earth - emerging re-born -
Not unlike the wheat stalk -
Though drab of mien and forlorn.

How can so poor a grain
Count among the seven kinds?
One may well ask the reason why -
But aside from what our wisdom finds,
There may be more to barley than meets the eye.




Gather your clustered grapes
From the autumn vine -
If one falls - but no more than two -
Retrieve them not -
And in the seventh year,
Harvest not your store.

Thus says the Lawgiver in His law Divine -
Praise His compassion for Rich and Poor.




Rejoice in the spreading fig tree -
Its wide leaves fan the sky
And shade the earth below -
Its purple fruit ripens slow.

Anticipate its first-ripe fig -
The one in days gone by
Bound with reed-grass and brought -
With song and flute and drum -
Up to the altar in Jerusalum.




Precious pomegranate -
Red and rotund -
Your seeds run life-giving liquid -
Their numbered hundreds reason defies.

You grow a small apple in size
To that of a globe -
Of all the fruits, you alone
Adorn the hem of the High Priest's robe.




The small olive tree
Holds its own in winter.
Winds toss leafy branches -
Like unloosed tresses to and fro -
Its upturned leaves show silver.

Trees blossom -
The dove sings -
Olives go to presses -
And then the oil comes
That once anointed the heads of kings.




The leaves of the palm tree wave -
Like glistening banners in the sky -
Its fruit grows in a perch windy and sunny.

Praise the beautiful palm
And its sweet fruit on high -
Praise the land of milk and honey.