Poems as Prayers
February 24, 2023
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"The Power of Healing Prayer"
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As a part of The Women of Temple Sinai's ​Annual Shabbat Service. Poem begins at time 52:14 - (52 minutes and 14 seconds in)
https://1847-temple-sinai-oakland.livecontrol.tv/53414900
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Two of Karen Marker's Poems have been incorporated by Cantor Linda Hirschhorn into the weekly Shabbat service at Temple Beth Shalom in San Leandro, California
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In the Month of Blossoming
At that well of bitter waters,
after all our wandering,
the unbearable thirst,
drought, fear of drowning,
after all the disease,
it happens, just like it had
when Moses cast in the trunk
of a tree, there comes a glorious day
of miraculous sweetness.
Our escape from captivity
is a blossoming
of wings heading upwards,
a quenching and glowing,
the crossing of paths
with a billion birds
in flight on an exodus journey
heading north and east,
going towards light
and landing here
by the river.
This is the healing:
our counting off each day
of travel that makes us
braver, purified by gratitude,
by smiles that fall upon us
like manna.
How little it takes
to settle in somewhere
other than where we began,
again in the company of others
who dared to start over,
to come closer.
Aleinu Prayer
Sun rays shine through us.
Star galaxies touch our heads.
Like redwood trees, tall and straight
We rise towards light.
We bow. Our branches
Linked together.
We bend in wind.
Humbled by what makes us great.
We stand for love.
Higher we grow.
From many roots
We become as one.
Stronger, we stand.
We bow.
Giants who bear the mark of fire.
With trunks that burned
It is miraculous
We were never consumed.
We drink the mists of oceans.
Bend for creatures who live in our bark.
Store the glory of the universe.
Rise for the journey
We will take together.
Rise for love
The healing fight.
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The Power of Healing Prayers
Long ago I outgrew superstitions,
stopped believing something bad
would happen on Friday the 13 th .
I found I could step right down
on the middle of sidewalk cracks
without fear I’d break my mother’s back.
I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever worried
because nothing like that ever happened.
My parents didn’t believe in magic numbers,
the power of curses. They didn’t knock
on wood, mumble sayings in Yiddish.
They talked about Einstein, the size of universe,
only science was followed in my house.
And even though I’d carried my worn-out blanket
to my first day of kindergarten just in case
it would ward off monsters, later
I couldn’t imagine why I’d thought this.
Until I found out there were bigger cracks
to fall into, hidden on streets, in heads
and hearts. Bad things happened
and I had nothing for protection
but the power of prayers.
So now even if injured family members
and hurting friends don’t believe it
still they let me say their names just in case.
These days my list keeps growing longer.
Maybe the odds of their dying
from pancreatic cancer is shrinking,
a tumor is almost gone, a broken
leg has mended, depression lifted.
Maybe someone will come back to life
just like Damar Hamlin did,
after he was hit in the chest
in that millisecond between beats,
when his heart stopped on the field,
and all his teammates, the people in the stadium,
even the doctors, stood together praying.
Maybe it’s names, not certain numbers,
that hold the magic that matters.
I’m not giving up on believing that.