Lewis Eron

Even if I could light six million lights
I could not rekindle your light
And your’s was only one
Not one in a million
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In Gettysburg I walked
Amongst the multitude of monuments and marble markers
On Cemetery Ridge
Where bronze soldiers stand ready
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What happens when you die?
All your friends will say “Good-Bye”
And your loved ones will cry
And someone will try
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Dear God
Since we cannot abide your light
Give us a good set of sunglasses
Or better, better night vision
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I'd rather write poetry than cure souls
Stringing pearls to tie my thougts in ordered rows
Than to set their fears, their dreams
As glass gems in a plate breast plate
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I know I’m blessed with a low wattage halo.
At prayer, the old folks use it like a night light
Just bright enough to mark their path but not too bright
To disturb their sleep. No doubt they would choose to go
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Havdalah is all about burning ones hands with hot wax
And spilling wine as the Shabbat ends
and we stop practicing perfection
and step out into the confusing confection we call creation
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Some Tuesday, perhaps,
In the late afternoon,
Sitting quietly with a cup of tea
And a cookie;
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Counting our blessings is not arithmetic
Sometimes subtracting is better than addition
Division beats out multiplication
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Lost Keys
(To my cousin, Liz, in memory of Danny)

Do you remember that day
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Dear God,
Heavenly Bookkeeper
You better not err this year.
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Shabbat in Sivan starts too late
And ends too late
The sun never seems to set
Nor stars appear
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A baboon has very pretty tushie
Not like ours that are fat and mushy.
His is colorful, tight and firm
Our’s like to bounce and wiggle and squirm
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Little Prayers for little Jews
Pleas in God’s small claims court
Petty sins and grand nothings
No real felonies for jolly good fellows
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I did not know what to say
Until I had to say it
And what I said I do not know
But never will they forget it
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Don’t forget,
Old men are dangerous!
With little to lose,
And a world to gain,
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Death is no mere farm hand
But an agronomist, an expert,
A planner, a bureaucrat,
God's secretary of Agriculture.
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Welcome to our ICU
Our hands are clean, our scrubs are blue
Our faith is strong, our words are true
We will take good care of you
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from Richard Snell Wood 1951-2010

Dickie’s dead!
Though no one called him “Dickie”
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Is this the day the Lord has made? Monday?
Running back to work with Sunday’s tasks undone —
Housework, yard work and a funeral, no weekend fun
For me, still tired from Saturday’s service. I pray
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