Moshe New: writing

Mighty Waters

2026-09-03T00:00:00Z

They try their best
To distract
And flood
The world
With thoughts of
Overwhelm

Masking the sweetness
Of the grove
With artifice
And spice

Like Joseph
Of Reina
Who succumbed
And thus
The End of Days
We’re postponed

And seizing the limelight
Those waters
Rushed in
To cover over
Once more

And we drown
Knowing neither
To swim
Or to ask for help

Split

2026-09-03T00:00:00Z

Like a Russian pilot
So eager
To stand out
That he circumcised
His tongue

Each time he licks
His plate
He etches
A line
To say
I was here

Split
Not forked
Because to fork
Is to give over
But to split
Is to make two
Of one

And to reclaim
One’s self
Inside the gaze
Of another

Job

2026-03-09T00:00:00Z

He looked in the mirror
And expected to see
What he had seen
The day before

Gray hair
A slight paunch
Green sparkling eyes
And a smile

But instead
He saw Job staring back
With eyes
That pierced the reflection
And asked of it
“What now will you do?”

Lot's Daughters-in-Law

2026-03-08T00:00:00Z

It is written
That when G-d set his wrath
Upon the plains
That contained
Sodom and Gomorrah
He searched for the righteous
And found none

But Abraham asked mercy
And Lot was spared

Together
With a wife
And two
Daughters
He fled

…

But she
Who is not named
Could not resist

In defiance she looked
And in defiance she was cast
Like molten metal
Into the form
Of a pillar
Of salt

Condemned
To watch forevermore
As her city was ruined
And to be remembered
Not by name
But by deed

…

I don’t live in Sodom
Or even Gomorrah
I don’t call the Dead Sea home
Nor do I know where
She stands

But each winter
When the snow falls
And the salt dusts My city
I think of her
Who has no name

And I see her

I see her in the snow
In the piles
Left behind
That refuse to stop looking
At what was

Refuse to accept
That winter is no more
That spring reigns now

…

Her memory is invoked
In each Little pile
As if of salt
But made of what the salt
Could not conquer

They sit on corners
In alleys
On lawns
And on streets

Pillars
Proud and tall
Like their Biblical mother-in-law
Vestiges of
Inches and inches
Feet even

Stubborn
And heeding not
The warnings
Of those who cavort
With He who sends the firestorm

They stay behind
A reminder
A warning
Of what happens
To those who heed not

So I call them
For what they are
Those stubborn
Daughters-in-law
Of Lot

Condemned
To have no name
Other than their form
And Their relation
To he who looked forward
And sired the future

Pretzels, Bubblegum, and Lollipops

2025-11-25T00:00:00Z

We’d wait eagerly
Like kids
At a candy store
For Aba to take us to Shul

We always entered:
Late.
My father
Never one to
Bow to propriety

He would go
Straight
To his father
Who sat enshrined In his tallis
In the center

My brother and I
Go right
Hugging the walls
Packed with Siddurim, chumashim, and volumes of Tanya

But we’d pass them
On our pilgrimage
To Milan
Who sat on the flanks
Old, slightly bent

A camp survivor
He would smile
And say Gut Shabbos
As he handed us each
A little rectangle
Of bubblegum

His sons sat next to him
His grandsons too
But we had eyes only
For his gift
In its armor of blue, white and red
Launching us
On our ascent
Much like
The little figure
On the front
Of the Bazooka
We now held

We’d open it
Reveal the small comic strip
Wrapped around
A blush of pinkness

Next was Max
Tall and straight
He didn’t say a word
As he extended his tallis bag
To show us
His rainbow of fizzers

But then he’d look and pause
To see we were two
Of his favorites
So he’d take
from his jacket pocket
Two longer fizzers

Only then would he smile
With a crisp
good shabbos
Before turning to the next

We’d then wrap around
In our S
And pass the bimah
To see Bruce
In a kasket and a jacket
His beard trimmed neatly
No tallis adorning
Who,
unlike the others
Hadn’t managed to lock down
An aisle seat

But that didn’t dissuade him
From lobbing his candies
Over the crowd
While the chazzan warbled
His smile
As he motioned readiness for the throw
Matching ours

His were my favorites
Yellow, white, green, orange, pink or red
Wrapped like a bow
In cellophane
Sweeter from
The joy of watching them
Soar through the air

Mr Raitman then would beckon
His offering
Of crisp pretzels
A slight disappointment
After the sugar
High

He’d pull a handful out
Of his velvet tallis bag
A golden pretzel
Embroidered
On its front

But he was most
Enthusiastic
And would shake our hands
And heartily say:
Good shabbos!

Our last stop
Was our Zaida
who would sit:
His tallis falling
From his shoulders

His eyes glued
To his siddur
As we shimmied
To our seats next to him

We’d say
good shabbos
And he’d give us our prize:
A lollipop
Packed with fizz

In early years he’d pull them
From his pocket
In later
From inside the shtender

We would then open our siddurim
As we ripped off the wrapper
And filled our mouths
As the shul filled with prayers
Ascending on high

But we were already there
High on sugar
And ready
For next week

Because these men
Would give one
And no more

One
And no more

Until next week
For one
And no more

Soup

2025-11-17T00:00:00Z

It’s cold inside
Like a bowl of soup
On a cold day
That your host
Is proud to say:

Is not pumpkin
from the fairy godmother
Or potato leek
perfected by the little rat
Or chicken with noodles
for your soul

Not split pea
for the princess
Or lentil for
your wild brother

But rather she boldly proclaims
Is “gazpacho”
To raucous applause
From a two-toned room
Stuck
In polite affirming

But you
Are cold and dank
And so is
Your soup

When all you wanted
Was a bowl
With mist circling
Its rim
With a caution sign
On its side
Telling you
To handle with care
While it warms you
From within

Brooks

2024-06-14T00:00:00Z

I remember the memories
But I do not remember the time
In and of itself

I recall that which awoken
Within my stricken childhood
Not what awoken it

And when the brook
That lies beside Celeste’s house
Roared after the rain

It was the waters that healed
Not the tears invoked
Nor lies told

When no rain Graced us
The brook was shallow
Like a reflection from a mirror
It still looked back at me

It showed me a sallow face
And a confused expression
And perhaps some cousins beside

Its banks held no sand
Only rocks and crags,
Pebbles and branches

The neighbors whizzed by
On their two-wheeled chariots
Singing to their pagan gods

We looked on
Our side-locks swishing in the air
Jealously? Perhaps.

But do I really remember?
Anything other than the memory
That came afterward?

Do I remember the Glicks
In their house at the back?
The jealous Butmans
Who just wanted cable of their own?

The Brawers, Sun-kissed
Like their brown abode
Or my grandparents
Regal in the summer winds

The Mochkins came later,
The Silbersteins too,
The Denburgs never came
And the Rubins did not exist

But now that time has rendered
My fragile memories
Calcified them in place on the shelf

Abounding them now in lessons
Cataloguing by color
Dewey in his domain of decimels
Dreaming of being demanded of

But in this order
One thing stands out above
Like a totem pole of defiance
A mile-marker in a police report

I do not trust these memories
For they are old
And I no more feel like
The boy who lived them

I do not have faith in my recollection
For it is tainted by iniquity, fear
And I am not defined by this
And not swayed by that

Instead I’m like the man
Looking upon his terrarium
Only knowing its age
By the sharpie scribbled on its cork

In wonder of the life inside
He does not remember placing
In awe of the green
That found a will to live and thrive

Like a Mochkin at his aquarium glass
I remember each fish
Remember when I replaced each
When it’s forebear absconded

But curiously, I have used many names
In this poem of mine
Many but my own

For I feel as if a visitor
Clutching his “Admit One”
Inside my arboretum of memories
Navigating the labyrinth of discovery

I ask myself:
Am I refusing to take ownership?
Not allowed backstage?
Or just fearful of confronting
The truths I hide

What the Sky Taught Me

2024-02-02T00:00:00Z

I am not alone in the sky
He welcomes anyone who holds dear
Forward movement and improvement

In the sky, amongst his clouds,
I met those of the same vocation
Those who dared to say no
Those who dared to say yes

I cannot say I was a prince of the skies
or even a resident
Rather: a guest
and to me, that was enough

In the tailwind of memories
I was taught to paint
To draw from the moments that passed
Colors and inspiration to add
To the canvas of infinity

To paint with what was
A masterpiece of what is
To reflect what will be
I spent my time in the skies learning this art

In the headwind of ambition
I was taught to write
To draw from within
And compel myself to heighten
The limits of infinity

To write with the ink of discretion
and piece together a work
Worthy of the shelf I wish to put it on

A work: not destined
to spend its days unread;
Whose binding does more
than tell the uninitiated what they’re looking at

And in the crosswinds of responsibility
I learned of what it means to dance
To shuffle between people
places and propensities

To bear the wind on my back
But know when the load is too much
To know when I need to relieve myself
Upon the back of another

As my tenure drew to a close
I had with me a pallet of memories
sorted, cataloged and appreciated

Not just there as a memento
Of a time long passed,
A time never to be again.
But rather they were accompanied
by my canvas of me

Where I stood resplendent
In the cloak of my virtues
And vanquished the vagabonds of Vice

In this visage I held aloft a book
Tightly bound and filled to the brim
With the words I found hard
To find the first time around.

Rather than stooped in a cavern of sadness
The letters huddled together
In throngs of joyful being
Forming odes and ballads, songs and smiles

And above all else, I danced
In sync with the rhythm
Of the world around me
And in tune with the band
Of relationships I hold dear

Nothing forlorn in the posture of my limbs
All done in tandem
With the beating of my metronomic heart

With the canvas, book and dance
I jigged forward into the infinity
The infinity of what has yet to come

I stood facing forward to the future
To where my past met my present
And when the gift of now
turned his sights, ahead

King in the Field

2023-11-01T00:00:00Z

When I came to the Kruger
Some told me
That the lion was king
The lionesses, the dowager queens

When I entered the Kruger
A friend told me
He thought the Leopard
With his rosettes and canines
Reigned supreme

When I travelled to the East
A guide told me
That the Cheetah,
With his graceful bound
Was king of the speedometer

Down south
The trees whispered
That the rhinoceros
Wears his crown on his nose
But was a king nonetheless

In the thickets of fallen trees
And scattered dung
The size and power of the elephant
Tried to tell me that he
Rules the others

And the impala
With his harem of lovers
Once he has beaten off his brothers
Is a king
In his herd

A tower of giraffe
Or when they’re a journey
Are taller than the rest
The kudu and waterbuck
Docile and calm
To their subjects

Hyenas in their clang
Their Babies asleep
In the coveted culvert
Look to their king
To mark their territory

And us humans
In our armored metal conservatories
Feel like kings in our own right
As we check off, spot and capture

But the King of the kings
Is the one who created
Them all
He gives life
And taketh away
He appoints leaders
And deposes them

And
He gives crowns
To all His creations
For each of them
The world is his gift
And for each of them
He is Their G-d as much as the rest

And I thank Him
For allowing me
To wear my crown
And not feel
Like an imposter

And I thanks Him
For allowing me
To see His other kings
In a conference
Of infinity

Fly II

2022-09-05T00:00:00Z

I knew of one
Who knew to fly
He knew well
What it entailed

To turn
His tail
To the ground
And soar

The headwind
Whipping

The crosswind
Trying it’s best
To sway off course

The tailwind
Knowing nought
But to follow
Entranced

But

The headwind
Whipped
Until the hull
Was a carcass

The crosswind
Brought with it
The maggots
That turned
The carcass
Into bones

And the tailwind
Scattered
The bones
Into dust

Discarnate

2022-02-11T00:00:00Z

In the vast expanses
of wanderlust

human fallibility
comes second
only to its own
frailty

It seeks
In each
Expression
An eternal
Sense of sonder

But does not
Seem to grasp
It
When it comes.

Why only
Do we wish to
Accept
Forms of love
Not of our kind?

And why oh why
Do we try to
Accept
Only things
Strange
And alien?

When told
Of a bind
More intricate
Than our own
Our minds
Don’t w a/o nder

Rather
Intent on understanding
They
Understand

And in that
Understanding
The one thing
That fails
To become
Accepted

Is that they
So unhappy
With their own
Reflection
Seek a mirror
To become
Itself
A source
Or warmth

But trickling
In a fire
Wrought by silver
Oxide
There is only:

A Cold

As apathetic
As it is
Discarnate.