Wailing Wall - April 21 2026

 

Wailing Wall

April 21 2026

I noticed the weeds

in the narrow cracks

poking through the the Wall.

Is there a plan

to leave its care to God?

Should I be picturing a bearded man

in black suit and hat

give a fatalistic shrug

then return to his davening?

Could it be politics;

that no one’s willing to touch it

as Arab and Jew

defend their rightful turf?

Or is it theological;

that to lay a hand on this wall

for anything other than offerings

of faith and prayer

and meek supplication

would desecrate its sanctity.

Personally, I welcome the weeds

garnishing its cracks.

Instead of neglect

they help convey the wall’s antiquity;

express the indifference

of an indestructible thing

to our fleeting presence in the world

and belief we’re in control.

So as the wall humbles us

the weeds do as well.

Because this patchwork of sandy blocks 

is nothing like the sleek towers of modernity

glittering with mirrored glass

we so proudly admire,

its dusty weeds

so different from their windswept plazas

sanitized of life; 

yet this eternal wall

will outlast our glossy skylines 

by countless millennia.

I’m wary of religion.

I don’t believe in God

or gods.

And even though by birth

I’m nominally a Jew,

I’m resolutely unobservant.

But still, I can see the power of the wall.

Of the seditious beauty

of the opportunistic weeds

that are also part of creation

 —  whether by God or nature

whichever you believe.

That just as a Buddhist reveres life

no matter how rudimentary

we respect the inherent right

of unsightly weeds,

eking out a living

in the arid cracks

between the massive stones.

I agree, leave them alone.

After all, these are sidewalk weeds

strong enough to crack concrete,

yet it’s been more than 2000 years

and daunting as ever

the wall still stands.

While the prayers

stuffed into its cracks

are sometimes even answered. 

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/2026/04/define-jewish-state-israel/686853/?gift=7KKUTeeJruMo0n11oQFrLjBR0ySUIDixbaXksNbQJ9I

The link will lead you to an Atlantic article that contends with the problematic term “Jewish State”. IE was quite struck by the picture of the Wailing Wall that accompanies it. Especially the weeds: instead of making a statement of neglect, there seemed something deeper and more symbolic in their continued existence here. After all, wouldn’t one expect this singular object of reverence — a sacred site as well as a touristy one — to be scrupulously maintained? 

On seeing it, a poem immediately started coming to me. This is how it turned out.

The contrast I imply between ancient stone and modern concrete is intentional. The ethos of modernity is quick gratification and obsolescence, while our forbears built to last. There are the Roman roads and aqueducts; still here. But even Roman concrete was much better. It was made differently.  It’s significantly more durable than the current stuff. After all, the Coliseum is still standing, while our roads and bridges are crumbling already. 

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_concrete

Time and Space - April 20 2026

 

Time and Space

April 20 2026

You'd think only physicists

could play ball.

Could manage the complexity 

of mass, gravity, trajectory,

account for resistance and wind

to hit a moving target

without breaking stride.

You’d think just getting it from second to first

would take a graduate degree

and several tries.

But we don’t give throwing a thought. 

The eye needs no intervention,

the arm can be safely left

to muscle memory.

Even kids do it;

self-taught

before they’ve even heard of Newton’s laws.

Yet I never tossed a ball with my dad.

Was it because he saw badly?

Because in those thick owlish glasses

he might lose it in the sun?

Or because he was a serious man

who couldn’t be bothered with child’s play?

And anyway, he worked late

and came home exhausted most days.

While I was good at arithmetic

but perhaps too self-conscious

about being awkward at sports.

So it takes more to throwing a ball

than calibrating force, angle, release point.

I wonder if Einstein ever played catch,

at least as a child

in his Munich backyard.

Maybe not;

after all, I’m told he wasn’t good at math,

and who knows about Hermann

his proper German dad.

But at least he understood 

that time goes in one direction

and there’s no going back.

That trains pass in the night,

and just how fast

the space between them grows.

Please don’t take this as strictly autobiographical. My father and I weren’t alienated, antagonistic, or distant. Just not particularly close. He was a typical 50s dad: the breadwinner, who left the home-front to his wife; the symbol of ultimate authority (“wait till your father gets home!”j; and more interested in his own circle of friends than being a good buddy to his kids. Dads back then weren’t trying to be buddies, weren’t seeking the approval of their children. Looking back, I might wish he’d had a more engaged and fun-loving father. But he was a man of his time.

I recall the strong impression a particular science fiction story made on me as a kid. Some kind of Tom Swift character was raised in space (on the airless moon?) and when he came to Earth was amazed — considering the complexity of the variables — that people here could so effortlessly and accurately toss a ball. In air and wind, no less! Reading this was one of those singular things that make you suddenly realize there are realities that exist outside your familiar box of assumptions: the hidden dimensions; the different perspectives; the taken for granted that shouldn’t be. Even the limits of consciousness:  all the work one’s brain does below the level of awareness; the mysteries of one’s own mind. Almost every time I watch baseball I think back to this. And since I watch a lot of baseball, it seemed it might make a good start to a poem.

Here’s something I took for granted, but apparently had fallen to a common myth. (I checked only after writing the poem. But left the error in anyway, claiming the get-out-of-jail-free-card of poetic licence!)

From my Perplexity app:

“The idea that Einstein failed math is a persistent myth—he actually excelled early on, mastering algebra, geometry, and calculus by age 12-15, far ahead of peers.Einstein earned top marks (1s and 2s, where 1 is best) in math at Luitpold Gymnasium and Zurich Polytechnic. He received his teaching diploma in 1900 and PhD in 1905, though he skipped classes to self-study advanced topics.

One other thing he was good at was visualizing. It was by imagining  passing trains that he came up with the concept of the relativity of time and space. I mention this to give some context to the final stanza.

Herman Einstein (born 1846)

Here’s a dad who not only doesn’t look very fun-loving, but also very ill-suited to any athletic endeavour! A very Victorian gentleman indeed.

Lightning in Winter- April 18 2026

 

Lightning in Winter

April 18 2026

Lightning in winter,

and I fear that next will be a wild-fire

racing over the snow,

a plague of biting bugs

unfazed by the cold.

Because these days

it feels as if the gods are toying with us,

the earth is out of kilter,

and an unpredictable world

is becoming more dangerous.

I’ve never felt the ground shift under my feet

when a fault line slipped

continents collided.

Never felt the eerie calm

in the eye of a hurricane,

steeling myself

for the fury bearing down.

And never felt the ominous chill

when the sun went dark

in the middle of the day,

heard the birdsong stop

so suddenly

the silence seems loud.

But I once had lightning strike so close

I saw light so white and pure

it could have scorched my retinae

and left me blind,

branded the incandescence

into my brain.

Will never forget that a second before

a static buzz coursed through my skin,

as if I’d strayed too close

to high tension wires

carrying half-a-million volts.

Nor the sizzling sound

of ionized air,
and the thunderclap

so loud
it hit me like the blast wave

of bombs going off.

With a near miss like that

a hard-to-shake fear

is surely understandable.

So now, no season is worry-free

and even winter feels fraught.

And down here

at the bottom of a vast atmospheric sea

roiling overhead,

I’m starting to feel as powerless

as a drowning man

who can’t swim fast enough 

to catch his breath.

It’s technically spring, but you wouldn’t know that here, with below freezing temperatures and literally feet of snow still on the ground. So when I saw in the forecast that tell-tale graphic of a lightning bolt piercing a grey cloud, I did a double-take. Lightning in winter? 

It’s happened before, but it still feels off. And with climate change already making the seasons feel out of kilter and life not only more unpredictable, but more perilous, it’s another unwelcome shock. Especially since after that near miss (it missed me — and anyway, I was protected inside the car — but fried the electrical in the house), when my cautious respect for lightning turned closer to fearful anxiety. 

Lightning can range from 100 million to 1 billion(!) volts. So high tension wires (at most 800,00j — as dangerous as they can be — actually represent a very modest analogy, despite how hyperbolic the comparison might sound.

Lying Low - April 16 2026

 

Lying Low

April 16 2026

There is no community of homebodies.

No bowling league or book club,

no fraternity or fellowship,

no faction, clan, or party.

Actually, no parties at all

if we had our way.

We stay within our 4 familiar walls.

We are either shy, introverts, or oddballs;

jealous of our privacy,

perhaps a little fearful,

uncomfortable with change.

Or is “our” too presumptive?

Since I’m on my own in here 

perhaps I should speak for myself.

But either way, the word doesn’t sit well with me.

It seems to reduce us to bodies

as if we were just inanimate flesh,

passive slugs

warming couches and recliners.

Because what you’d never guess

is what goes on inside our heads

  — a rich interior life

that hermetic or not

lets us travel where and when.

We are poets, putterers, and penpals

   . . . bookish, fantasists, astral travellers

        . . . unhinged philosophers

               who are often impractical. 

4 walls can’t contain me

despite how it looks.

Some day, perhaps, we’ll all arrange to meet

and learn we’re not alone.

Who knows, maybe the world is mostly homebodies

  . . . it’s just we never noticed each other

lying low at home.

Waterlogged Earth - April 15 2026

 

Waterlogged Earth

April 15 2026

The snow melts unevenly

from sunlit to shaded

and day to day.

It dwindles layer by layer,

like an archeological dig

revealing the kept secrets

of a stygian winter

beneath its grimy crust.

I think of confession

introspection

and exposé;

the public self,

the secrets within.

I step around the puddles on the long gravel drive

the waterlogged earth

has yet to soak up.

They shrink slowly

as new ones form

and the old are replenished

from a seemingly bottomless well.

They look shallow

but who can really tell

beneath the calm façades that mirror the sky;

cotton-puff clouds

on a canvas of azure blue.

The dogs happily drink from them,

flash-frozen water

preserved all winter

and freshly thawed.

While I tight-rope between

and would never think

to let it pass my lips;

who knows what dirty secrets it contains.

I have no idea whether or not an attentive reader would twig to the central metaphor of this poem. So the 2nd stanza effectively says it. Which contravenes the cardinal rule of good poetry:  show, don’t tell.  The problem I keep repeating is not trusting the reader enough:  too much hand-holding, you might say. Have I done it again here? Without that stanza, is the poem too subtle or in fact not subtle enough?

Play Therapy - April 13 2026

 

Play Therapy

April 13 2026

Is there play therapy for grown-ups?

I’m tired of talk.

The pills bung me up.

And introspection is like a tub of tepid bath water

with grey scum on top,

spiralling down the same narrow drain

but never emptying out.

How about blocks

a waterslide

musical chairs?

Or, for adults, board games and playing cards

with low stake bets?

Potato sack races

with menacing strangers,

hide and seek with therapists,

British bulldog with your ex?

Could that be it, I’ve forgotten how to play?

When I could just as well

make paper airplanes with the mortgage,

arm wrestle the taxman

best two out of three,

or visit my parents’ graves

and do calisthenics on the grass,

instead of rehashing the past

and casting blame.

Simple play

like every kid just naturally does.

No winners or losers,

just a field day

when school’s out

and all that counts is fun.

I was idly flipping pages, and “play therapy” caught my eye. No context, just the words. My immediate thought: why just for kids? So I couldn’t help but start noodling around with the idea.

I’m of a generation that doesn’t go to therapists, or for that matter, easily open up. But I introspect constantly, and even worse, tend toward dark rumination.

But what if psychology isn’t the answer? Maybe the problem isn’t a failure to go deep, it’s living too much in your head:  too self-aware and self-absorbed; too much navel gazing. What’s wrong with a little distraction and denial, with the cleansing power of exercise and friendly competition?

The Shameful Admission of a Change Averse Man - April 12 2026

 

The Shameful Admission of a Change Averse Man

April 12 2026

I feel apologetic

admitting to my dislike of spring.

Am I that dour, sour, and curmudgeonly

that the return of the sun,

the greening of the earth,

and the season of rebirth

all leave me cold?

But what about the mud, I say,

the bugs,

and even the sun?

So unaccustomed 

it blinds my winter-weak eyes,

and angled so diabolically 

every dust ball stands out

like an accusation of sloth.

I run hot

so the colder the better.

While the long nights are a refuge

of star-filled skies

and quiet walks.

And who doesn’t delight in thick wool socks

and a cozy fire?

Even snow days are prized,

the white stuff

softening the world and muting its noise,

while I’m happily confined

by impassable roads.

A paean to winter

from a change averse man.

Who sits, listening to the dripping eaves

and shading his eyes.

Who hopes for another sub zero night,

snuggled under his comforter

in a cold dark room,

dreaming pleasant dreams

in restorative sleep.

But not reveries of potholes

soiled snow

and illicit dog poop

thawing in the heat,

but snow angels

northern lights

and wild winter storms,

when the world mercifully stops

and time magically slows.

Nothing odd about me being different. More than eccentric, I’m almost diametrically at odds with the norm. So is it really unexpected that the older I get the more I love winter? That unlike my peers, the last thing I’d consider would be fleeing it, another snowbird over-wintering in Arizona or Florida. I like the cold. I like the long nights. I like the stark beauty of a real winter. And not just the peacefulness, but the adversity. Never mind not having to constantly clean and dry the dogs. Who themselves are exhilarated by winter and are bad in the heat.  

(Although I must also concede that spring has its compensation:  not only baseball’s opening day, but the day when every fan has a first place team!)

 

Man Plans, God Laughs - April 10 2026

 

Man Plans, God Laughs

April 10 2026

The word “tragicomic” came to mind.

Perhaps this is life’s version of physics’ holy grail

the theory of everything;

after all, what doesn’t it describe?

There is dark humour

black comedy

and laughing it off.

You can be is wryly cynical

or make light

of seeing life’s absurdity.

And there are best laid plans

laughed at by God,

Man’s tragicomic dilemma. 

We grin and bear and carry on

suspecting that in the end

it comes to nothingness;

I suspect it’s not just me

who’s a nihilist

making the best of things.

I like the internal tension of the word,

the conflicted feelings it represents. 

That no emotion is pure.

That life is complicated.

And that we somehow muddle through

at war with ourselves,

laughing and crying,

loving and hating,

and shrugging with resignation

at the existential foolishness

of this improbable life.

It amuses me

how two things can be true

all at once.

So I wait for the next bad news,

then shake my head and smile through it

knowing that this too shall pass.

That comedy

is tragedy plus time,

and I can always console yourself

that when the worst happens

I’ll have a great story to tell.

Not Worth the Trip - April 9 2026 (REVISED April 14)

 

Not Worth the Trip

April 9 2026

The far side of the moon isn’t dark,

there is no “dark side”.

Is this a misunderstanding

or could it be metaphor?

After all, might as well be dark

since it’s kept from our eyes.

But knowing my fellow man

I suspect hubris;

that the universe

must be how it’s seen through human eyes,

and what we can’t see

no one can.

Perhaps doesn’t even exist;

as if we were infants

who have yet to learn object permanence,

baffled

when someone vanishes 

behind the couch.

But now, we have photographic evidence

and it’s what you’d expect,

a bleak lunar landscape

resembling pumice stone;

fine regolith

bombarded by meteors,

and a horizon line

that sharply divides light from dark.

Where a single  step

would take your blood

from vaporized to ice.

Not worth the trip, I’d say.

But then, your eyes fix

on the crescent of earth peeking over its edge,

suspended

in the vacuum of space

like a blue and green jewel on its black velvet bed;

the rarest gem

in a forbidding universe. 

How we never see ourselves, but should.

A living planet

smaller and more fragile

than we ever imagined from here;

spaceship earth

on its journey through the cosmos.

Where we breath the same air

and depend on its life support.

Where we are all astronauts,

taking for granted

our only home.

This photo was taken from Artemis II as it looped around the far side of the moon; our first return to deep space in half a century (excluding unmanned probes), and far enough away to see the entire earth as a sphere.

Scientists always knew the far side wasn’t dark, but the misnomer persists. Inaccurate, but a decent metaphor for something we can’t see anyway. Or hubris:  if it’s dark to us, then it must be objectively dark, dark to anyone anywhere. 

In finally opening our eyes to the far side, we ended up opening our eyes to ourselves. 

A Simple 3-Letter Word - April 6 2026

 

A Simple 3-Letter Word

April 6 2026

I forgot all about joy.

In my search for happiness

was I cheating myself

by aiming too low?

But it’s impossible 

to engineer such ineffable moments,

a high

that brings to mind 

words like wonder, ecstatic, transcendence.

To be joyful.

When you’re outside of yourself

and your petty concerns,

in the moment

and fully immersed.

When you’re feeling at the same time

dwarfed by the world

while filled with an awe

that leaves you everywhere all at once.

It’s been so long

I start to wonder

if I ever even was.

It seems easy for a child

when everything’s new

and you aren’t afraid to lose yourself.

Their faces give it away;

they haven’t learned to hide

how they feel.

The very old 

who have their health and are wise enough 

seem to find joy as well.

It’s in the small things, they’d probably say;

too bad the old

are easy to ignore.

An author on parenthood

called it no fun, all joy

and maybe she was on to something.

Maybe it’s not in the moment.

Maybe it’s the wholeness, not the parts.

And maybe you don’t even know it at the time.

I think back hard

and I do remember joy.

As I’m sure you must:

first kiss

first love

the birth of a child.

Or was it the unexpected thank-you note,

that tiny hand in yours,

the tenacious early blooms

poking through an April snow?

That like happiness, if you make a plan

it never works.

That like happiness

the more determined you search

the more elusive it becomes.

And that like happiness

you don’t achieve joy, then lock it away

like the prize you spent your lifetime seeking;

it’s not a place

or steady state

that’s an end in itself.

When the question was asked “when did you last experience joy in your life” it came as a shock. Joy? Wow, that’s a big ask; not something I actually walk around expecting. Is it already there, but I’m just not receptive — too dour, too closed, too set in my ways? Is it something you can make happen, an act of will? Or am I past it, too late in life for joy?

Really, it’s a word that never comes up:  when was the last time I even said “joy”?  So I thought that I might as well say it in a poem. After all, it’s easier to write a loaded word than say it out loud.