The tiny car twirled once,
Then crumpled against the concrete barrier,
Inside it, light died down,

Invisible raindrops,
Given instant recognition by passing headlights,
Washed the smoking wreckage,
Off its final sin.

Futures, plans,
And a world full of hopes,
Vanished in an instant,
For all of tomorrows.

Slumped in his seat,
Sat the life student,
An elusive lover,
A free bird.

The saturated earth accepted into her,
The body of a son,
His talents, imagination, and promises,
And the life that was.

The world spun on,
Weaving cobwebs of pain and loss,
And a love cut short,
Yearning a lifetime for completion.


November 30, 2016


,הַלַּיְלָה, בְּאַרְבַּע וַרֶבַע לִפְנוֹת בֹּקֶר
,הָלַכְתִּי לְטַיֵּל עִם אַבָּא שֶׁלִּי
,הֶחְנֵיתִי אֶת הָאוֹטוֹ
,בְּצַּד הַכְּבִישׁ, לְיַד הַפַּארְק
.וְנָעַלְתִּי אוֹתוֹ

,אַבָּא כְּבָר חִכָּה שָׁם
.לְיַד הַנַּחַל
,הִתְחַלְנוּ לָלֶכֶת
,דִּבַּרְנוּ עַל דְּבָרִים
.שֶׁעוֹמְדִים לִקְרוֹת
,אֲנִי לֹא זוֹכֵר עַל מָה בְּדִיּוּק
,אֶלָּא רַק שֶׁהֵם הָיוּ דְּבָרִים מוּזָרִים

,אַבָּא לָבַשׁ אֶת הַחֲלִיפָה הַחוּמָה הַמַּצְחִיקָה שֶׁלּוֹ
.אֲנִי לֹא זוֹכֵר לְאָן

.אַבָּא כְּבָר אֵינוֹ פֹּה
,אֵין מַמָּשׁ פַּארְק כָּזֶה
,וְכָל הַדְּבָרִים הַלְּלוּ
,לֹא יִקְרוּ עוֹד
.אַף פַּעַם



Last night, at four-fifteen in the morning,
I went for a walk with my dad.
I parked the car,
By the side of the road, near the park,
And locked it.

Dad already waited there,
By the brook.
We started walking,
And conversing.

We talked about things,
That are about to happen.
I do not remember exactly what about,
Only that they were odd stuff,
And we walked.

Dad wore his funny brown suite,
And we rambled,
I don’t remember where to.

Dad is no longer here.
There isn’t really such a park,
And all these things,
Will not happen,


January 12, 2016

Still Life

Aelbert Jansz. van der Schoor, Vanitas Still Life with Skulls on a Table, 1660

Aelbert Jansz. van der Schoor, Vanitas Still Life (Skulls on a Table), 1660

A silent scream,
From distant time,
Suspended in a darkened room.

An open mouth,
No eyes to see,
Set teeth exposed,
With hollow skulls.

A group of friends,
Or foes till death?
No one to tell,
Of end demise.

Day come, day go,
The scene a freeze,
Old dust specks rest,
In canvas weaves.


January 27, 2016

Stone Horse

Stone horse stands still at hill side,
Valley meadow strings in green and brown,
Wind floats flocks of birds at sky high,
Swirls autumn leaves to final rest below.

Life rise and fades at stone horse giant footstep,
Often taking refuge in its serene shade,
Stone horse makes a step in a millennium,
On his way to meet awaiting mare.


July 18, 2015

American Eulogy

(AP Photo/Phelan M. Ebenhack)

When I am shot,
Please do not feel sorry for me,
Do not pray for me,
Or keep me in your thoughts.

When I am shot,
It will likely be an act of random violence,
A chance encounter with one bullet,
Perhaps a few more.

When I am shot,
I may die instantly,
Or bleed to death,
Lying on the ground.

Instead, I could just be maimed,
Like so many gunshot victims,
Living handicapped life,
Once the news cycle turns.

I will be shot,
Someone will be, for sure,
Later today, tomorrow, you never choose,
It just happens a lot.

Oh America, my beloved,
The land of the free,
Apple pie, baseball,
Sky-high dreams,
And the AR-15

Here, oh great nation,
Life of liberty and happiness,
Is contingent on,
The freedom to possess,
Weapons of war.

So, friends and compatriots,
When I or you are shot,
Do not cry, do not despair,
It will be for a great cause,
The freedom to be murdered.


June 15, 2016



The feral crawled down into the pit,
And spent some untold time there,
When the sun disappeared it emerged,
A gemstone shining its path.

,יַרַָד הַפֶּרֶא אֶל הַבּוֹר
,שַהָה שָׂם אֵי זְמַן
,וּכְשֶׁיַּרָד הַיּוֹם עָלָה הוּא
.וּבְרֹאשׁוֹ אֶבֶן אוֹר

October 7, 2013













The Way to Jerusalem

I am on my way to Jerusalem. I am heading to the Jerusalem Cinematheque on an invitation to attend a screening of a movie produced by a friend. I drive from Tel Aviv, and chose to leave a bit earlier for the trip. Three and a half hours early to be exact. That is a long time. Most days this drive takes about an hour. But this is holiday time, and I chose to play it safe. My early departure proves itself worthy as soon as I leave the neighborhood. Traffic is a nightmare all around. Swarms of cars congest every street, merging in a slow and tense crawl into intersections and struggling to exit them. When I finally make it onto Netivey Ayalon, the highway that crosses Tel Aviv, I find it too overcrowded with traffic. More than an hour of stop and go traffic passes before I get on Highway 1, the road to Jerusalem. The situation there does not fare better. Traffic is mostly a standstill. The logjam gives rise to road stress. Drivers cut in traffic, change lanes, and tailgate for the mere illusion of getting there faster, anywhere they might be heading.

The pilgrimage to the holy city is a ritual thousands of years old. From a time when the Holy Ark stood inside the Temple on Mount Moriah, and a succession of kings ruled Israel and Judah. Taken three times a year, during the holidays of Sukkot, Passover, and Shavuot, the pilgrims went up to offer sacrifices to God, and tend to some stately matters such as paying taxes. In those times pilgrims from the port city of Jaffa area would travel several days to the city gates. Today, the only standing remain from the Holy Temple is a portion of its retaining wall. The Western Wall, the most sacred place for Jewish people, attracts thousands of daily visitors. Many come to visit or pray. Some leave notes of personal wishes between the massive stones. The times are modern, but the tradition of pilgrimage is popular as ever, and it is in full force tonight.

After another hour of a slow crawl I reach Sha’ar HaGai, the first uphill portion of the road. Traffic is at a standstill again. Blue lights appear behind, and a police car zooms by on the right shoulder, rushing to address whatever is blocking traffic ahead, or so I hope. Three lanes of bumper to bumper traffic climb the hill at a walking pace. Quiet music on the radio and red taillights for as long as the eye can see. Tall pine trees lean in from the hills on both sides of the road, hover like dark giants against the silk black sky. I look at them and my thoughts drift away.

During the war for independence in 1948, this path remained dangerous and bloody. Many supply and rescue missions to Jerusalem, the besieged city, were defeated by armed Arab gangs hiding in the hills. When I was a kid I loved this road. Every time I would put my nose to the window and look for the armored vehicles remains that sat here as monuments to the people who risked and gave their lives trying to reach the city. You still need to know where to look in order to catch a glimpse of those vehicles, but it is nearly impossible to see them in the dark.

News flash on the radio. I raise the volume to listen.

The time is a quarter to seven. Less than an hour to T-time, and I am still in Sha’ar HaGai. I begin to doubt I will ever get the Cinematheque on time. There are no exits off the highway anytime soon, no alternate routes to take. I am certain that even if there were any, they too would be crowded with traffic. I do not remember highway traffic this heavy ever, and wonder if this snarl could reach all the way to the Jerusalem. Cars on the opposite side are flying by downhill, perhaps looking at my side with pity and dismay. I could have taken the bus instead, resting in my seat the whole way. I rode busses all the time when I lived here, never realizing what owning a car meant. I gaze at the glare of tail lights in front of me, and wonder how many drivers here are nervous about their diminishing gas gages, hoping to make it to a gas station before their engines sputter to a halt. The Motza exit, the high point in the area is near. I hope the downhill drive from there will run faster.

In the autumn of third grade, my dad took me on an Israel Nature Society guided trek to this area. A passenger truck picked our group early Saturday morning from the central train station of Tel Aviv, and dropped us at a location I cannot pinpoint. We walked through dirt roads, wild fields and wooded areas for a few hours. Then, as we made our way through a quiet pine forest, a roar of speeding cars became gradually noticeable. In a few minutes, the road to Jerusalem appeared through the trees at the bottom of the hill. Our truck waited by the side of the road, right about where I am now. Following the setting sun on the way back to Tel Aviv, members of the group praised me for keeping up with the pace. I was the only kid on the trek that day. I woke up when we reached the train station. It was dark outside.

I pass the Bait Meir and Shoresh exit. The road is leveled, and traffic flows faster. I see no accidents or other issues that could explain the traffic back up. Must be the overwhelming number of pilgrims today. Heavy tractor trailers, busses, and countless passenger cars. The narrow lanes are tight with drivers competing to enter the city. It is the third night of Hanukkah. Hanukkiyot lights twinkle in the windows of homes in Neve Eliezer to the left. On the right, a dark canyon rests, like a giant pool of dark ink. I have passed the midpoint of my trip. I succumb to the probability that I may not reach my destination on time.

It is a few minutes past seven, and I enter the city. The traffic snake passes under the Chords Bridge, and by Binyanei Hauma – Jerusalem’s International Convention Center. I continue downhill through the festively lit neighborhoods. The Cinematheque is located a walking distance from the Old City walls and the Tower of David, across the city from where I am. I will need to find a parking spot in an area that sees tourist activity almost twenty-four hours a day. More red lights ahead and I decide to bypass the busy city center. I navigate by general direction and soon find myself in an unfamiliar area. I pull over and roll down my window. The first pedestrian apologizes for not being familiar with the area, but the next one is more helpful. He quickly suggests a route. I thank him and follow his advice, but after a few minutes a sinking feeling is growing inside me. I pull over again to ask for directions. A couple rolls their eyes politely at me and sends me back in the direction I came from. Their directions are solid, and in minutes I am near my destination. The Old City walls glow in the yellow night lights. A clear and cool December evening rests upon the beautiful city. People dressed in warm coats walk the scenic boardwalk. I find a parking spot almost immediately, and quickly descend the wide stairs toward the Cinematheque entrance. The theater is packed, and I sink myself into a seat in the middle of the auditorium just, as the director of the movie takes to the stage and taps the microphone. The movie is a documentary of a struggling dairy farm in the Negev, and can be interpreted as an analogy to life in the Israeli microcosms. I think of my afternoon, my three plus hour commute, and write down a few notes. I may write a story about it sometime.


December 22, 2011

Blind Spot

I’m underwater,
In the pavement,
Hear my voice.

Gagged and blind,
By great a burden,
My mind is certain,
Feel my thought.

Here beside you,
Finger distant,
Thick as iron,
Clear as air.

Shame not, bar pity,
Tears like rain are.
Save awareness,
Peace behold.


July 6, 2013

יום הזיכרון

,שָׁלוֹם חֲבֵרִים
,מִזְּמַן לֹא הִתְרַאֵינוּ
,קָשֶׁה כָּכָה
.אֲנִי לֹא בְּעִנְיָן שֶׁל מַצֵּבוֹת
,מִדֵּי פַּעַם יוֹצֵא לִי לְדַבֶּר אִתְּךָ
,אוֹ אִתְּךָ
.אוֹ אִתְּךָ
,אַף פַּעַם לֹא בַּיַּחַד
.וְתָמִיד בְּזְּמַנִּים לֹא מְתֻכְנָנִים

,שָׁלוֹם חֲבֵרִים
,עָבַר הָמוֹן זְמַן מֵאָז שֶׁהִתְרַאֵינוּ
.שָׁנִים, יוֹבְלוֹת, חַיִּים שְׁלֵּמִּים
,קָרוּ מִלְיוֹן דְּבָרִים מֵאָז
,לִמּוּדִים, מִשְׁפָּחָה, קַרְיֵירָה
.דְּבָרִים שֶׁל מְבֻגָּרִים
,אַתֶּם נִשְׁאַרְתֶּם אָז
,בְּנֵי עֶשְׂרִים וּמַשֶּׁהוּ
.אוֹ אֲפִלּוּ לֹא כִּמְעַט

,שָׁלוֹם חֲבֵרִים
.חַיִּים שְׁלֵּמִּים חָלְפוּ מֵאָז הַתִּיכוֹן וְהַצָּבָא
.הַיּוֹם הוּא יוֹם שֶׁבּוֹ זוֹכְרִים אֶת כֻּלָּם בְּבַת אַחַת
,קָשֶׁה, כִּי אָז כֻּלָּם שָׁם
,וְרוֹעֵשׁ וְעָמוּס וּמֵעִיק
.וְאֵין אֶת הָאִינְטִימִיוּת שֶׁבְּשִׂיחָה שְׁקֵטָה וְאַקְרָאִית
.בִּכְלָל, בָּתֵּי קְּבָרוֹת הֵם לֹא מָקוֹם בִּשְׁבִיל זֶה
,עָדִיף אוּלַי לְהַמְתִּין כַּמָּה יָמִים
.לְשׁוֹךְ הַטְּקָסִים וְכַתָּבוֹת הַזִיכָּרוֹן
,נַמְשִׁיךְ לְשׂוֹחֵחַ אָז


Memorial Day

Hello friends,
We haven’t seen each other for some time,
It’s tough this way,
I am not really into gravestones.
From time to time I get to talk with you,
Or with you,
Or with you,
Never at the same time,
And always at unplanned times.

Hello friends,
We haven’t seen each other for a long time,
Years, jubilees, a whole life time,
A million things had happened since,
Studies, family, career
Adult things.
You remained then,
Twenty-something old,
Or not even that.

Hello friends,
A lifetime had passed since high school and the army service,
Today is a day we remember everyone at once.
It’s difficult because everyone is there,
And it’s loud and busy and onerous,
And there isn’t the intimacy of a quiet random conversation.
Anyway, cemeteries are not a place for that.
Perhaps it’s better to wait a few days,
For the cessation of the ceremonies and memorial editorials,
We shall continue to talk then,


May 10, 2016

Two Hundred Grounded Sheep

Two Hundred Grounded SheepNight had draped its gloomy cast,
Over hill and meadow,
Two hundred sheep stand still,
Their shadows murky pools in the dark grass.

Shepherd dogs lay to the side,
Their ears perked for the night clatters,
Eyes closed,
The soft wind swirls over distant scents,
To their wet snouts

Bleats are produced and returned,
As the herd graze in laud silence,
Bats take sharp turns over head,
Chasing elusive mosquito clouds,
Swarming in the rising warm breath.

First call for help is heard beyond the distance,
Heads turn in the direction of the farm fence,
Jaws move in constant ruminant,
No hoof is lifted for a run.

More calls arrive, repeated,
People in their beds, lay waiting for a count,
Eyes closed, or staring at the ceiling,
The fence remains unchallenged,
The world remains awake.


January 21, 2015