The first poem, “Light and Soul”, was a eulogy written for my sister Myra Fox. She was a remarkable educator, musician, poet, Holocaust speaker and mother. The second poem, “The Game”, is a reflection on a failed college romance. The third poem, “Geppetto”, tells a story regarding the loneliness of aging.

Light and Soul
For Myra

Our mother, Rachel, lit the candles every Friday.
A shawl on her head, she lit the flames and covered her eyes.
Under her breath she whispered a blessing of words too holy to simply say.
She taught us to love and to make time sacred.

In the light of these flames I learned.
I was taught to see layers and nuances.

At the heart of the fire is a black and dark blue presence.
This is the birth of heat…the cusp where matter becomes energy
Miraculously creating light.

The next layer is red and yellow.
It roils and boils…flickering, fighting, electric,
Creative, destructive, like the heart of lightning.

Finally, there is the purity of light itself.
Light: speeding, shining, illuminating,
Revealing a presence and birthing a shadow.

These layers are like the three Hebrew words for soul:

The dark and roiling is Nefesh.
The very word shares breath.
Nefesh is the visceral soul
The breath of life breathed by God
Whose words when breathed and spoken are the source of creation.

Myra lies upon her bed.
Struggling for breaths and pausing
Then capturing her Nefesh once again.
Her animal sense was always fierce.
Her passions, affections, loyalties
A dark blue salsa rhythm…a flame of creation.

It is Myra’s Nefesh that brings breath
To those who sing and pray for her…
To those who speak to her when she cannot respond.
“Thank you,” they say.
“I love you,” they say.
I sit in awe of this Succah of peace and love.
It is created by those who come like angels and surround my sister
Their heavenly voices in a unison love song.
Quietly, I add, “Amen, I love and thank you. Forgive me.”
Her breathing is labored. Her Nefesh is strong.

The orange and red flame is Ruach,
The spirit of passion…an expression of the Shechinah,
God’s feminine presence and power among us.
Ruach is our second soul during the Sabbath,
It is the soul that intertwines with those with whom we bond…
It is the capacity to love and be loved.

Ruach is emanating Myra’s character in the world.
Like the Emperor by Beethoven
Or a sweet partita by Bach,
My sister’s Ruach expresses her power with beauty…
Ruach expresses her compassion for those she served and
Her powerful protest and stamina in the face of wrong.
Myra loved fiercely. Myra fought to have her own way.
“You’re not the boss of me!” Her Ruach hollered when we were small.

The pure light is Neshama.
This is the soul that bonds with the Divine.
This is the light we celebrate in our prayers,
The sun and moon and stars rotating like angels around the heavenly throne.

Neshama is the ineffable spirit of Myra’s intellect and passion…
Always the teacher enlightening,
Always the poet sharing the metaphor,
Always the critic who used humor,
Affectionately sharing insight or
Shining light on other’s foolishness.

Neshama allowed Myra to be always committed to hope
While still informed by the legacy of the Holocaust…
To have experienced loss and to still make meaning…
To have seen nightmares, but to be willing to dream…
To laugh and rebel with irreverence and still
To build and serve community,
To raise a child into a man.
This is Myra’s pure and beautiful light.

Nachman said, “God loves a broken heart.”
He must love mine right now.
He must love all of ours.

Every life, every soul is a world unto itself.
Myra’s light will shine in every Sabbath candle I light.
It will join in the Ner Tamid, in the eternal light.
Her memory will be a blessing.

D. H. Fuks

The Game

It was a game and they both knew it.
Lying together fully clothed,
She, pretending to be chaste…
He, claiming that their hearts were “betrothed.”
He knew this word was a waste.
She saw right through it.

Through the dark night they petted and battled.
She would never be convinced
To give herself to him.
She laughed while he winced
Claiming that fleeting time was lost like the slim
Sliver of the moon. She really had him rattled

Until the sun sent a faint ray of light through the window above
Revealing the sweet pink blush of her face, while the poor fool fell in love.

D. H. Fuks

Geppetto

He is invisible in the back of the parlor.
The pallid skin and thin grey hair a disguise
Hiding the embers of the fiery child that was
As he pretends to read the paper…
His hand trembling a bit.

The children sit hypnotized.
The narcotic TV entertains
With the story of a wooden boy, prized, but vain…
Seeking to be human…dismayed
By his growing nose.

The children’s father passes by.
He’s off to another night meeting,
Not a word of greeting or smile on his face.
The old man wipes his glasses
Musing at the fleeting pace of time.

Old legs tremble, sensing his reverie.
He recalls running beside the boy,
A child of eight pedaling a bicycle with joy.
Running…holding on…he sets the child free.
The boy becomes a shadow down the street.
“Write if you find work,” he jokes and waves.

“Pinocchio, I used to love that story,” he declares.
The children ignore…their eyes forward.
They are unaware…lost.
 “I read the book,” he says. 
But no one cares.

As a child, he was the wooden boy.
He imagined the desire and foolishness,
The joy of new-found freedom,
The wish to become something human,
Perhaps, because it’s wonderful that
No one knows when you lie.

But he was Geppetto now.
An old man longing for his son
To return from the Isle of Lost Boys.
His back bowed with prayer and the weight of time,
He sits invisible in the parlor…his words
Drowned out by the TV noise.

D. H. Fuks
2/18/06