Her love is what turns the turbines of the cosmic train as the psalms sooths
our aching brain.
Sonar sounds off the pulsating, pounding rails that strain, as
Her contrail clouds
signify something strange.
We wait to be discovered in the depths of Her sea of stars.
We're Her mother, sister, daughter, father, brother
waiting to come home,
to where we haven’t been,
or we've seen again and again,
in the sea of infinity,
through all of eternity.
Her love is seeded in the clouds, let them fall all around, pockets of mists,
Wakens seeds in the ground. Love is in germination that breathes new life
through the veil of troubled strife.
God is in the details.
All good soldiers go to heaven, even the homeless
behind the Seven Eleven.
We’re Humphrey Bogart
in a film noir of a fallen hero who has nothing left to lose, zero.
She says, She’ll take Even Stevens, She’s a femme fatale, and in the finale, the gangster loves Her, no matter what.
“Spin that wheel,
Just let go.
Where she falls,
--Simon and Garfunkel
on an old radio.
Come and go all the people, passing through the border of the sky, migrants hiding in a secret alcove, hidden in Her love,
where salty tears fill the deep. She weeps.
The light reflects off of God’s tears as She watches over Jerusalem,
and all the between lands from there to Salem.
She points the way home,
an ethereal magnet,
no matter whether on a moon orbiting a planet,
or on the mountain of Masada.
We pass the cosmos’s intricacies, cutting through the static electricity with a lightning knife.
guard the holy from the unholy, from the vain and the mundane, to find the sacred within our lives.
We must pass through the twirling blades.
Heaven is what you love,
no matter what’s above.
When you feel Her in your bones,
hear her gently moan,
another nebula is born,
even as a baby Oak rises from an old acorn, She is the womb of everything.
We’re on that cosmic train keeping pace with a dawn that's always near, a tumbling ride into a future that’s just right there, casting out the past, in hope, to be purified.
There is only now, now, and now, amidst the learning how.
There’s no one to blame, chaos in the cosmos was here, before man was given the name of the game.
Only through the four-faced angel does one become unified with God. You have to know every angle, so few cut through the weeds and bramble.
To be whole, Her longing bride, to love Her as She sooths our souls under a canopy of stars,
to be Her one and only, on her cosmic cars,
past all that's past, to be with Her at last.
Constellations will fly on by, and they will live and they will die.
Past the furthest starlit skies, through lightning white, to merge with Her, to become a candle in the encircling night,
to merge with the shining, blinding Shekinah's coat where we’re part of the lightning show on a ferry boat, that shuttles us to the Garden where Eden lies.
Only God will ever know who has won the prize, or
who will be surprised.
To brighten the days of another tomorrow,
the Torah gives us words from souls who have come and gone, pulsing with black words that float like chords through an astral plane.
The train's in the physics of the cosmos, in concentric rings that traverse Universe,
in the swells of cosmic dust, within the speed of light, take us.
We lean to You, our faces,
like sunflowers towards our sun.
Take us home, where the dark is only Your words written into shining white.
Through black holes and exploding stars take us through the magnetic fields,
past the solar shields
of an orbiting flight,
to see Her from above.
She’s in a mist of tiny moons, birthing new galaxies, mother of all and is what to be.
Pass us through the eclipsed moons, and we’re flowing with Her, with the engine pounding, throbbing, and we are Her piston, shoving out rails beneath our tails, plugging homeward.
We're on a rollercoaster,
and She is over and under,
and defies gravity, with Her cars at capacity, we join in the love that’s soon to be.
The dove has found life
in another land, and we’re off again.
We’re in the great awakening, Israel, blessed by an angel, in our struggle, to become free.
She is ours, and we are She,
and this is how it’s meant to be.
The last surviving prosecutor of the Nuremberg trials, Ben Ferencz is a tiny, tenacious American hero.
Join ACE for a special production of Amy Feinberg’s short play, “Ellis Island Stories”