Jane Hulstrunk and Channie Greenberg

Response piece


All of the Personal Fringes of Prayer

© KJ Hannah Greenberg


All of the personal fringes of prayer, those whispers, murmurs, rustlings, remain

For affixing appreciation to dandelions, nettle, the tubers of Orchis mascula,

Also Orchis militaris, in fighting bronchitis, maybe tuberculosis, and asthma.

Twilight’s stars, at alarming moments, seem distinctly removed from heaven.


Bogged down by candies, drink, hookah pipes, street drugs, fashionistas’ advice,

Many souls look away from others’ faces, suck television’s teats when sitting shiva,

Forget the wedding of man and G-d, the exquisiteness of the universe, the wonders

Typified by alley cats, kangal fish, capybaras, moreover, the musical insects of creation.


Emunah, rather than some spewed patterning of memorized, lame components,

Continues on as more precious than any soothsayer’s insights, sparkly fantasies,

Shiny things that bypass dissonance-causing events (setting off no personal glory

At the highest echelons of distrait worship). We’re dumb to stuff; truth hurts.


Added compassion, new tolerance, further dollops of imperfect courage, even small hope,

Allow individuals to disregard many hegemonic patterns, embrace dew, lick raindrops,

Herald the blooming of roses, violets, wild oats, escape beyond remote social strictures,

While tangoing in terebinth, lemon, and olive groves, watered by formerly dry wadis.


Trenchant bells, golden light, the whisper of brief zephyrs, a donkey’s bray, bleating

Sheep, too, bring tomorrow’s solidarity with yesterday, into focus, front and center,

Fan stilled bodies with aspirations, do introduce home cures to complex dilemmas.

From Jericho to the Dead Sea, humanity witnesses linnets overwintering in deserts.


Near my doorway, white agaves thrust blossoms. No aloe vera, those plants

Could feed hungry mouflon and arkars, whose pelage’s yet esteemed by future

Fair City kids, youth whose vulnerabilities get deemed, hourly, safe or no from terrorists’

Poniards (Ya can employ ordinary language to merit Shemyim’s commissionaires).


Temporarily, residents, tourists, voyeurs, we rediscover the cost, in individual lives,

To witnessing the intense dark blues and blacks, of our celestially special sector.

Until silver shofars cry, awaiting when the satori of believers will bring susurrus,

We’ll linger in anticipation of taking delivery, of receiving the lone, holy amplification.


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One Comment

  1. Posted June 5, 2012 at 6:34 am | #

    Such a gorgeous complement of words and image! Brava!