The Beautiful Catalina Island...

A Lesson on Growing Up

A human being is born with a pure heart, a beautiful soul. A human being is born with kindness in their minds, with love in their hearts. And yet, over their years, they get so messed up with money and self-importance and their own expensive image of the world. Their soul gets smothered, the flame dies.

And as the child vanishes, the grown-up takes over and begins to organize their minds into files and systems.

A Perspective on Beauty

Beauty is...

Beauty...

Beauty is food to a hungry man.

The groping, clawing pain in his stomach. The nights spent awake, dry tears streaming down his dry cheeks. The thin, emaciated limbs. The huge, bulging eyes.

The compassion through suffering. The understanding glance that one starved man gives to another.

And then...deliverance. Relief. Liberation.

Food.

Comfort, happiness, deliverance.

Beauty is solace to the tortured woman.

No thought but pain. Vision, tinged with red. The hot, uncomfortable sweat, streaming down her burning cheeks into her aching mouth.

The shrieks of pure pain.

An insane doctor’s prognosis.

The screaming limbs. The deafening shrieks.

Pain, death, pain, death. Sick mantras to the sick mind.

And then... and then. Relief.

A deep breath. A swallow of water, rushing down her sore throat.

Solace, relief, comfort.

Beauty is memories to the amnesiac.

Perpetual fog. A veil draped over her hazy eyes. The agony, the ignorance, the pain. The suffocation.

The photographs, the books, the music. The effort to break through the wall, to have some whisper of the past.

The constant rise and fall of the waves. With every crash, more and more hope... gone to the wind, lost to the sea.

And then, finally, a memory. Some clue to the damning past.

Beauty is sight to the blind man.

The agonizing pain through ignorance, of not knowing what another man takes for granted.

The constant, maddening ghosts of sight fleeting through the edge of his vision, of his sanity.

The simple, beautiful joy through music or through the spoken word, but the need to see the player. The soothing comfort of a cool breeze on his skin, but the need to see the tree’s leaves dancing. The ecstasy that the sweet perfume of a spring garden can bring, but the perpetual, maddening hunger to see.

And then, finally, liberation.

A beautiful flower, a serene cloud, the deep crimson of human blood.

Sight, joy, sanity.

Beauty.

A Lesson in Light and Kindness

Once upon a time, possibly a long time ago, possibly a short time, things were different. Things were better. People were kinder, nicer, more moral. Each and every one of us shined with an inner light.

And then, suddenly, something happened. Who knows what it was. Perhaps... perhaps we discovered that money gives us more than good deeds. Perhaps we grew lazy. Perhaps we were all in a bad mood.

But suddenly, everything was different, and we no longer cared about what happened to the other people, our neighbors, our friends.

We lost the shimmer.

We lost the glow.

We lost the kindness.

People, something must change! Somebody must make that first act, that first leap into something better, into something more important than our television sets or our magazines or what happened to whom! We must learn to see past our noses!

We have to start caring about genocide.

We have to start caring about the exploitation of those who can barely put food on the table!

We have to do something!

People, people, please. It doesn't have to be something big, not to start out with. It's allowed to be something small. Smile at a child who may not know that there is kindness in the world. Help somebody up, off of that pavement, who doesn't know that there are people who aren't bullies. I know that financial times are hard. Give a dollar to charity, give some food to someone who's off worse than you.

Help one person, be kind to ONE PERSON! And the world will be a better place.

Soaring High

While I am stuck down here, attached to the polluted ground, my soul is flying high above, breaking the overcast to find the blessed sun. I am an eagle, symbol of truth and freedom, harbinger of safety and comfort.

My heart is filled with words, endless words. Words that swim through my blood and fill my veins and arteries and drift up to my brain and fill my thoughts. Words that swim up to my heart.

The word freedom is ingrained on my heart and mind, written on my forehead for all to see. Freedom is the right to speak out loud. Freedom is the right to write stories that fill the thoughts of millions. Freedom is the right to love whoever you choose. Freedom is the right to pray and hope. Freedom is the right to live.

I love the sound of voices raised in prayer, hoping for a better tomorrow.

I hate the bitter stench of blood and sweat and leather and tears, the reek of slavery and oppression. The reek that comes from the arrogance of one man thinking that he has a right to own another.

I love the dark and cool nighttime. The pure, forbidding black of the sky studded with gorgeous diamonds. I love the cool, clean scent of the night, of people resting. The sound of that quiet that only comes during sleep.

If my fists could speak, they would tell me to stop clenching them together for so long, for that kind of pain only comes from pure rage.

I remember my first epiphany, the first major realization that came flooding through my soul; human beings were all created equal.

And they are.

And they are.

Crowds

I hate crowds. When you are in a crowd you lose your individuality. If somebody sees you and somehow notices you, they think, "Oh, just another person. Just another person who doesn't matter." I hate people thinking that my life is not worth living. Call it vanity, but I need to matter! I need to do something with my life! I need to be somebody!!! I need to matter!!!

True

I am all alone.

Surrounded by people, I am all alone.

I am a human.

I am the only true human.

The robots disgust me.

They step on my feet. They don't apologize.

Disgust.

They scream and yell and whimper like children.

Disgust.

They drink and drink and drink till they burst and vomit all over my human skin.

Disgust.

I am not here.

Hate.

Surrounded by robots, I am the only human.

The only true human.

I am unique.

I am alone.

Invisible.

Alone.

Invisible.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

Alone.

The Flame

The darkness is rising

The evil ascending

The hated creatures fighting,

Forever fighting.

Fighting the good.

The light,

The good,

Is fighting too.

The one flame in the dark,

Shining, forever shining.

My knight in shining armor,

My better half,

My soulmate

My one flame,

Fighting the overwhelming darkness.

I love him.

It is a school day.

We are sitting at a lunch table.

He fights off the overwhelming crowds.

There is Love in Me

There is love in me... The gentle kindness of two lovers kissing or the primal passion of a mother bear protecting her cubs. The gentle peace of a quiet brook with green leaves crowning the tops of trees or the loud and violent bloodlust of a wolf in the dead of night.

There is a silent love in me... The warmth of a gentle kiss under a full moon or the smell of the sun cascading in rays down my back. The silent trust that two lovers share or the awe inspiring silence of stars in the inky black of night as they watch over the rest of humanity in mute vigil. This silent love is in me because it was ingrained since the beginning of time, since the first chapter of Genesis, to try to understand and contemplate and love. 

There is an age old passion in me...  The love of an unseen God who lives over the hill, as old as the land itself. The obsessive need to live on my land and fight for it and protect it so that I can again feel the sun set on my back and on my shoulders, and see my fruits blossom one more time. This is in me because I need to protect and create what is mine and my kin’s.

There is a gentle peace and understanding in me... A quiet stream as it bubbles down the smooth rocks and stones of the brook to which it belongs. The sun shining through the green leaves of the towering trees to dance as light upon my face. A warm embrace with a loved one or a violin playing in the dark of night.  

There is a loud and savage bloodlust in me... A wolf in the dead of night howling at the huge moon, preparing to feed well. The constant rhythm of many feet thudding against the forest floor during a hunt. This is in me because this, too, is part of love and this, too, is a part of living. 

I’ve an abundance of love, under my ribs, where my heart lies, or in my head, where I think about all I am to do. On my lips, which speak the truth, or over the skin of my arms, which embrace.  I am made of love. This is what I have, and this is where I am going.

Survivor

This is sort of long, but I hope it will be interesting. the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising from a survivor's point of view.

I am in Warsaw, Poland in 1939. There is war brewing. Its angry voice moves swiftly through the wind and is fed into the minds and hearts of angry people all over the globe. Germany has invaded Poland, signaling the beginning of World War Two. One by one the Jews see their rights and privileges being taken away. The Nazi cancer begins to spread.

I move briskly through the streets of Jerusalem Boulevard, trying to make it to my friend’s house before curfew at seven o’ clock. I pause as I see a Polish soldier thrown out of one of the many taverns of the city, roaring loudly. He swears at me, for I look Jewish. I hurry on. As I rush I reflect on what has just happened. My family has lived through five major pogroms and countless minor ones. I have no attachment to the land. I stay only to educate the next generation of Jews in this land, that they might know contentment as well. I am a Zionist. I teach at a Zionist farm at day and go to Zionist meetings at night.

I arrive at my friend Tosia Alternam’s house out of breath. She smiles at me as I flop down on a couch. I take off my black coat, which has a recent edition of a six cornered black star with the German word Jude on it. I look around the room to see if anyone else has arrived yet. I smile at Mordechai Anteleiwitz, and he nods in acknowledgement. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Emmanuel Ringelblum comes in. As he nods to each of us, I notice something unusual in his usually calm expression. Is it anxiety, or is it fear? 

As he starts talking, we all stop what we were doing a moment ago and listen intently.

He covers what has happened in the invasion of Poland, what can be expected of the Nazis, and what has happened to Jews before. “In conclusion,” he says, “We might have a heritage right here. People thousands of years from now might speak our names. We might all die, but if we record these atrocities committed to us by the Nazis, our souls will live on. We must keep chronicles of these events”. We all agree.

The next week we move into the ghetto. My God, there are so many people there.  People have to sleep in the streets, as there is no room in the houses. The rations are below starvation level. It is not uncommon to see the corpse of an emaciated man or woman on the street corner. In these days we think that nothing can get worse. How wrong we are.

A year passes, and then two, and then another one. Life is a day to day struggle to survive. Wild children roam the streets, hungry for the smallest morsel of food. People are dying by the thousands every month. 

We hear of Babi Yar, “Grandmother’s Pits”. Men, women, and children alike are forced to dig their own graves, and then shot in the back of the head by the Nazis. In three days 33,000 people die. 

The Germans begin deporting people to Treblinka. Is death really so bad? The only alternative is starvation. Palestine is a dream, a destination which can only be arrived at through death. Through all of this we keep our journals. Many days I force my hand to write just one more sentence, just one more.

Mordechai Anteleiwitz rises as a leader. We know that a fight is coming with the Nazis, and we know that he will lead. He is a great builder of morale. He is the one that urges us to live one more day. We form underground headquarters in Mila 18. There is always music and dancing there.

On January 18, 1943, a great shot for freedom is fired. We run the Germans out of the Ghetto! We slaughter them in their footsteps! It marks a turning point in the history of the Jewish people. We fly the Star of David over the ghetto. It is truly living Zionism. 

Each day we run the Germans out of the Ghetto. Ammunition is getting low. We begin to hide our journals, in order to preserve them for future generations. We have a Passover seder. This night truly is different from all others. We remember Masada and Betar and Jerusalem! We remember Shimshon bar Kochba and Giora and Eliezer! We know that tonight we are truly free. 

We know that to worship God is to drive the Nazis out! On this night, we are really and truly free!

Through all of this we continue to drive the Germans out. More than three hundred have died of a Jewish bullet so far. We have held out for more than a month, where the whole of Poland only held out for fifteen days. We know true freedom. We defeat tanks, yet the Nazis can’t even get a foothold in the ghetto. 

The Germans capture Mila 18. I am away on a mission, and they capture it.  They pump poison gas in the openings. Tosia and I escape, but they take Emmanuel and Mordechai. As we go under the wall to the Aryan side, we know that we must preserve a legacy.

Now I am here in Palestine. I live in the Ghetto Fighters Kibbutz in Acre. I work hard trying to preserve Emmanuel Ringelblum’s dream of preserving the history of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. It is strange, isn’t it, how the height of man’s inhumanity to man also results in one of man’s greatest moments?

Shira ben-Dror

We Will Not Die

Holocaust poetry

I am a Jew and will be a Jew forever.

I am proud of my people.

Through all the hunger and pain,

Sadness and death,

They will not die

Why is this happening to us?

How are we different?

What have we done wrong?

Is being Jewish a crime?

The Nazis certainly think so.

I am proud of my people, for they will never submit.

We will not die.

All I see around me is blackness.

Starved corpses litter the streets.

There is no food to eat,

Nor water to drink.

Yet somehow, 

Our souls live on,

A brilliant white light in an otherwise black world.

We will never die.

Every time I see a child die, 

I die too.

Every time an old man cries for water,

I starve too.

Every time an emaciated woman falls,

I hurt too.

Through all this pain and suffering, we live on.

We will not die.

They are proud.

They are stubborn.

They are loving.

They are my people.

And they will never die.

The Eternal Struggle

Evil can never be completely silenced. It always rises back up again. As long as we exist, evil will be there alongside us, fighting us. It is a scourge which can never be defeated. It is ingrained in our minds and hearts for all of eternity. Yet, alongside evil, love is also there, fighting it. It is up to us to decide which one to fight with.

Kauai Pictures

The guava plantations and a terrific sunset

Some pictures from Kauai

Goodbye

A short paragraph about a woman dieing.

I felt my strength decreasing. My hand trembled as I reached up to my daughter. She was so beautiful, so young. "Goodbye." I said, consigning myself to my fate.
"Oh, mama, you won't die, you'll get better, just like all the other times."
I began to cough violently. I had lung cancer, the result from my years and years of smoking. I would be glad to die. I was tired ... so tired. My time had come. I felt it in my bones. "I love you." I told my daughter one last time. And I was gone, never again to return to the shores of the living.

Goodbye...I love you.

Fog

A short paragraph about someone dealing with memory loss.

There is a fog over me. I cannot remember anything. I cannot see anything past this thick haze. This is maddening! Why can't I remember anything! I try, day and night, to reach out of this haze, to break free. I surround myself with photographs, books, anything to help me break free. 

I hear people's whispers. I know they know me. Yet their faces are blank. I could no less know them than I could know a total stranger. 

Everytime that I think I remember something, it slips away like a tissue to the wind. The wind of time, of love, of loss. 

It is like an ocean. With every fall of the waves I loose more and more hope. 

It is like a cage. I know only the present, not the past, not the future. 

I am trapped. 

I..Must..Break...FREE!

Scarlet River, Ocean of Fire

Scarlet River,

Ocean of Fire

I flow

I drift

I dance through the endless rivers and streams

I have a beat

I have a rhythm as I pump through the wide river

I am warm

I soothe

I heal

I restore life and heat

I drift through the stream

In time to my rhythm

I race through the ocean as fire, the

Ocean of Blood

Journey

I wrote this one day in science. It is a journey from a water droplet's point of view.

Journey

Water

I am a water droplet.

I float in an ocean.

Back and forth, back and forth.

I am lifted.

I drift upwards.

Higher and higher.

I become part of a cloud.

Gas

I am free now.

I have no form.

I wander in a cloud.

To and fro, to and fro.

One day, the cloud becomes too heavy.

I fall as rain.

As I fall, I feel myself slowing down.

I become heavier.

I revert to water again.

Then I hit the ground.

Solid

I hit the ground and freeze instantly.

I am packed tightly together.

I am frozen.

I feel trapped.

Then, one day, the sun breaks through the clouds.

I melt.

I am water.

I am free again.