Poetry, Dialogue, Composition

2010-06-15T13:16:00.004-05:00

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"Loss and Gain" ... after a daughter leaves, her father struggles to live ... a friend lost his daughter to a freakish traffic accident. Dedicated to Noelle, late daughter of my friend Micky Peluso, author of And The Whippoorwill Sang.

He took one life but gave back two.

how flows His divine arithmetic I cannot sum ...

When a daughter’s sudden loss does a father benumb

unfathomable are His mysteries none too few.

Reaped undeservedly he this bitterest shame,

tear drops stream onto lips bespeaking his grief.

A dream became a nightmare’s fallen leaf ...

for him announced an angel twin miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,

enwrap them tightly until you can no more.

though souls depart and will forever soar,

cover them with kindness gently unfurled.

Each night wherein she lies a father comes to weep,

for he no longer hears his ballerina’s tiny laughter, now mute.

preserved long ago on a schoolgirl's recorder flute,

which he plays softly each night until she falls back to sleep.

Alan D. Busch

June 15, 2010

2010-05-30T12:15:00.002-05:00

At Heaven’s Gate

Hear me Ben, to you alone do I whisper,
close your eyes while I silently lullaby sing …
each day reminds me forever of yesterday
when tomorrow’s morn will no smiles bring.

Ben, Ben may I yet find you hiding?
I searched that night as much as I could …
Awaken, Ben, with me from this nightmare,
May G-d crown your life with abundant good.

Oh so longingly have I waited o’er these ten years,
but have now only understood what others see …
That it isn’t I who awaits you so much …
as it is you who’s awaited me.

Just as G-d does not warn man of his final awakening,
and the dawn of next day will not him renew …
Patiently await me Son though I may tarry …
when we’ll walk together barefooted in grassy fields of dew.

Alan D. Busch

Poetry, Dialogue, Composition

2010-04-26T07:52:00.000-05:00

Poetry, Dialogue, Composition

Where authors and readers come together!

2010-04-26T07:48:00.001-05:00

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Dear Readers,

This piece that I hope will serve as the postscript to my second book, tenatively entitled Between Fathers and Sons was published by www.examiner.com under the title "Poetical Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch. Google that title and several direct links will pop up. I would appreciate any written response you may have by posting a brief comment at the end of the examiner piece. See my other two pieces also published by examiner.com: "Losing Ben" and "Kissing Dad's Nose".

Sincerely,
Alan D. Busch

"Reflections In Memory of My Father, Dr. Albert I. Busch"

Sturdy Tree of Life, its trunk of broad girth,

A man of strong body, mind and soul,
my father’s real strength lay in his emotional tenderness.
His nature exposed as fiction the notion that “real” men mustn’t cry.
My father could be a tough guy when he needed to be,
but his true nature was that of a gentle soul.
This is the dad I cherish and miss more.

Profusion of leaves from peaking buds bring …

We were blessed when G-d renewed him each day.
His was a favored soul.
His tomorrows became less certain
as yesterday’s clouds caught up with us.

Resplendency burst forth come season’s spring…

A blossom makes us smile.
Its perfumed scent renews our flagging hope.
My father smiled when others frowned.

Turn back to reflections of innocent mirth.

Just as a boy needs his father,
so I cherish the memories of my youthful dad
and keep them as leaves in a sacred book.
Its pages are tear-stained and tissues serve as bookmarks.

I gazed at his beacon once time ago brightly fierce.

The Creator brings on evenings gradually
Just as He causes the brilliance of a man’s smile to fade
as the sunset of his days approaches.

Steadfastly towers o’er broad horizons seen.

His shoulders slumped, his back bent, his height diminished …
his gaze he could no longer cast as far as he had once done.

Fading verdancy from which I needst myself wean,

I mustn’t forget my father’s passing was not tragic,
but appropriately sad.
I am grateful he merited to become a “zakein,”
a man of advanced years and wisdom.

Dusk dimmed his light when fog it once pierced.

The bright, white light of youth became the colorful panoply
at which older, wiser eyes marvel.

Violently tosses this storm a gale,

He lived a healthy life until the very end.
The experience of his illness left us adrift in unfamiliar waters,
but the winds guided us to the end of his horizon.

Cleave tightly to thine anchor’s chain.

My father’s life was in His hands in Whom I had placed my trust
for no man governs in these matters.

Lest the tumultuous sea's calmness feign,

Entrusting man leads to despair and loss of hope.

Steer ship’s rudder toward windward sail.

Let thy trust reside alone in Him from Whom the wind blows.

Gaze the firmament for His infinity unknown

I acknowledge His Majesty by searching His Creation.
Wellness and illness are His province alone.

Accept thy portion with gladness by night and by day.

I am thankful for his eighty-seven years.
May he merit his portion in the world to come.

May faith’s compass guide thee, reap that thou may,

I remain strong because I know before Whom I stand.

Content thyself with what he hath sown.

He left the world a better place than how he first found it.

Alan D. Busch

alandbusch@aol.com

Martin

2009-10-02T12:25:00.006-05:00

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Martin (dedicated to my friend whose love for his brother, whom he never knew, is quite extraordinary.)

I stretch out my arms for Martin …
If I could, I’d have dug his well deeper,
If for me he was never meant to be,
I remain alas my brother’s keeper.

Why didst Thou my mother’s heart break?
For Martin, until her last day, she grieved
Burdened by guilt she should not have borne
Unto Thee did she steadfastly cleave.

Until this everyday, these years later,
In prayer do I call Thee in dread.
I can’t help but wonder why Martin …
Wouldst Thou had taken me instead.

I writhe in my anguish to fathom,
Thy ways in the wee hours I’ve sought
Why didst Thou decree so severely?
The pain his young death hath wrought.

Alan D. Busch
10/2/09

2009-09-14T16:14:00.003-05:00

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Fingers, A Poem for Kimberly, My Daughter May She Always Be Happy ...

My heart leapt for you long had I waited,
for a gift of divine perfection would you mine be.
In awe was I of your tapered fingers I marveled,
when mine eyes first beheld thee.

Side by side we stood rinsing dishes,
Our moment of you and me always I’ll cherish.
Mom fashioned twin braids for you with blue ribbon
hold on tightly lest our memories perish.

A butterfly like none other fluttered by me
Sparkling pixies dancing on toe shoe,
Tiny ballerinas with balloons and candy
Nary an eye saw through tear drops of dew.

I gasped when she curtsied, my breath nearly stolen.
Such precious moments number so few
My heart did break though mend it did quickly.
I shan’t ever grow weary of loving you.

Your delicate grace will ever me inspire,
ere mine eyes your shadow yet lingers ...
of loving you I shall never tire.
Are there any lovelier than my butterfly's fingers?

Alan D. Busch
9/9/09

2009-07-20T17:47:00.006-05:00

ben bresky poetry submission.rtf

2008-11-13T11:04:00.009-06:00

For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

My memory of you when a boy I did teach,
of a human being I pray I helped you become.
Let your life reflect the divine spark in each
when the banality of others does us benumb.

Teary-eyed sighs on cloudy days recall,
a boy whose freckled face crestfallen became ...
for plucking orange lilies off sun craning stems,
whose countenance shone neither remorse nor shame.

A lesson he'll recall from that day hence …
may many more days be his to see.
Respect life all, from great to small,
guard this lesson's value pristine,
Tend your garden a school it becomes
when tomorrow's children will have lillies seen.

Alan D. Busch
7/3/09

For Zac

2008-08-13T09:58:00.005-05:00

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For Zac, My Younger Son and Youngest Child

“May He Become … ”

A father’s son he prays be (come)

a person …

if, when and where there may be none.

I see him then when he was, but now is,

No longer a boy …

but in process, a man

may he become.

Orange lilies along the way

I scolded him, once long ago.

his freckled face crestfallen.

Boyishly plucked the flowers from their stems.

We laugh now at that memory, but its lesson

he retains …

respect life, son, its beauty.

Now at twenty, his becoming is but another beginning.

Return now and again to the ‘abc(s)’

A good man lives with and accepts responsibility.

Befriend them who have few if any.

Respect a woman for she is another man’s daughter, as your sister is mine.

Learn from every teacher, especially those you may dislike.

2008-07-08T23:49:00.003-05:00

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My father is very ill in a hospital. His son reflects ...

Sturdy Tree of Life, its trunk of broad girth,

Profusion of leaves anew from peaking buds bring ...

Resplendency burst forth come season’s spring ...

Turn back to reflections of innocent mirth.

I gaze at his beacon once time ago brightly fierce.

Strength his tower o’er broad horizons seen.

Fade youthful verdancy from needst thou wean,

dusk dims its light where once the fog did pierce.

Violently tosses this storm a gale,

Cleave tightly to thine anchor’s chain.

Lest the tumultuous sea in calmness feign,

steer ship’s rudder toward windward sail.

Gaze the firmament for His infinity unknown,

accept thy portion with gladness by night and by day.

May faith’s compass guide thee, reap that thou may,

content thyself with what thou hast already sewn.

Alan D. Busch

July 2008

"Loss and Gain"

2008-06-27T09:36:00.003-05:00

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My friend mourns the recent sudden death of his 21-year old daughter ...

I dedicate the following verses to Noelle,of blessed memory, beloved daughter of my friend and author Micki Peluso whose book And The Whippoorwill Sang I have recently finished much to my own self-improvement. May she and her family have length of days, and the memory of Noelle be a blessing.

He took one life but gave back two.
How flows the divine arithmetic I cannot sum
when a daughter’s death does him benumb
Yet another of His mysteries none too few.

Reaped he the bitterness of harvest shame,
he comes each night to pray his grief.
At once did dreams shatter, in momentary brief
to his family soon two miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,
for them our love forever but live no more.
Their souls from bodies He doth tore,
cover them gently with love’s blanket unfurled.

He standeth before whom this father dost weep,
struggles to listen to sounds now mute.
Recorded in time ago on memory’s flute,
turn away from this ground into which our tears do seep.

Alan D. Busch

Revised June 2008

"Loss and Gain"

2008-06-26T07:34:00.001-05:00

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My friend mourns the recent sudden death of his 21-year old daughter ...

I dedicate the following verses to Noelle,of blessed memory, beloved daughter of my friend and author Micki Peluso whose book And The Whippoorwill Sang I have recently finished much to my own self-improvement. May she and her family have length of days, and the memory of Noelle be a blessing.

"Loss and Gain"

He took one life but gave back two.
How flows the divine arithmetic I cannot sum
when a daughter’s death does him benumb
Yet another of His mysteries none too few.

Reaped he the bitterness of harvest shame,
he comes each night to pray his grief.
At once did dreams shatter, in momentary brief
to his family soon two miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,
for them our love forever but live no more.
Their souls from bodies He doth tore,
cover them gently with love’s blanket unfurled.

He standeth before whom this father dost weep,
struggles to listen to sounds now mute.
Recorded in time ago on memory’s flute,
turn away from this ground into which our tears do
seep.

Alan D. Busch

Loss and Gain

2008-06-24T02:16:00.002-05:00

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Loss and Gain

(My friend mourns his 21-year old daughter's death ... )

He took one from him but gave back two,

How flows the divine arithmetic I cannot sum.

Suddenly his daughter’s loss leaves him all too numb,

yet another are His mysteries none too few.

Reaped he the bitterness of harvest shame,

he comes each night to pray his grief.

At once did dreams shatter in momentary brief,

so soon after to his son, two miracles came.

He taketh, He giveth in this, His world,

for them our love forever but live no more.

Their souls from bodies he doth tore,

cover them with love’s blanket unfurled.

He standeth before whom this father dost weep,

struggles to listen to sounds now mute.

Recorded in time ago on memory’s flute,

turn away from this ground into which our tears do

seep.

2008-06-03T10:01:00.002-05:00

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Revisions to Poems ...

"The First to Be … "

Gaze across the night's sky to see
the limitlessness of His divine reach.
Illumine mine eyes twinkling stars this night.
May I learn the lessons You teach.

The spheres You created without compass or pen …
galactic orbs You cast far beyond sight.
Soaring to endlessness at heavenly speed,
Pray I to fathom Your mysterious might.

A house for man, from words You did utter
with neither roof nor walls a world You conceive.
Illumine the darkness, the moon but an ember ...
Master of The Universe … in Thee, I believe.

Awaken each morning to avian symphony,
our lips with gratitude but of bitterness none,
by His grace a new day, to us He hath given
The first was He ... though He had never begun.

**This last verse is based on an old translation of a verse from the Jewish hymn “Yigdal”.

Alan D. Busch
May 2008
_____________________________________________________________________

"Up Heaven's Slope"

Dedicated to Those Whose Lives We Might Otherwise Have Known

Why wrenched from hearth and home,
o'er hills and fields whence they came?
Dreaming dreams didst they freely roam,
awakened to morning cold and lame.

Wearily trod up heaven's slope,
their figures stooped, transparently thin,
anguished lives as none others before
why tarry the storms of Heavenly din?

Much like Goliath who in battle fell,
a travail, cold and dark, did numb
that even David who had fought so well
would soon that night succumb.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn.
If only a moment, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

Should there not have been at least the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched him not,
whose spark had begun to wane.
Next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Bowed under Pharoah's lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown the way
a war He could have waged?

Aside bodies on planks they lie,
precious heat what little remain.
Dreaded welcome soon might bring,
next to whom they had just lain.

Still in death's kingdom shone
a light, a way, the day
when dawn’s rise would fewer eyes see
whose faith did them sustain.

The world we choose points us down
paths long sought by peace,
in rose gardens when we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Alan D. Busch

May 2008
______________________________________________________________
"Lonely For You Forever"

Drawn home that night wherein the cries
my mind, in madness, did roam …
agonizing if I should open the door
to Ben's house, no longer my home.

When the blackest tar darkened the light,
my family and I shudderingly wept.
So sad when I would have preferred
with them I might have slept.

In memory’s flight I remember this well
at evening's end he readied to leave.
I felt the burn of his stubbly cheeks
how much in remembrance we grieve.

Ben, Ben ... I wept.
We spoke, but then in silence you died.
It was only just a moment ago
while asleep in my dreams I cried.

Our child in common we loved him so much
for Ben my eyes wept I did tear
this reality unimaginable, especially dark
with whom I could neither be nor near.

So few hours have now elapsed
since that psalm to you I did sing.
I am already lonely for you, forever ...
when morning dew no smiles will bring.
______________________________________________

2008-05-26T16:14:00.003-05:00

“Pleasantness and Praise”

A wedding prayer for a young couple: the groom’s name is Noam which means “pleasantness” and the bride’s name is Tehilla which mean “praise”.

Braid my life to thine I pray …
I seek thy love forever mine.
Our family will be, we vow to Thee,
a home unto His glory divine.

I promise all I am, to thee I give,
stand with me on this, His sacred altar.
Wedded today in our oneness become …
open Thine hand when we falter.

As days become years, many may we merit,
favor our bountiful works, our hands need strengthen.
From the corners of fields, gleanings to harvest,
cherish us in life so our days do lengthen.

Pleasantness and Praise may your life be enriched,
v’shinantam levanecha v’debarta bam … *
every day in your service to Him ...
may Noam love Tehilla and Tehilla … Noam.

Alan D. Busch

*“ … and you shall teach them diligently and speak of them …”

May 11, 2008

2008-05-25T17:41:00.001-05:00

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Sew A Stronger Stitch (poem) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

First To Be (poem) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

Poetry of Pesach (poem) by Alan D Busch on AuthorsDen

2008-05-11T00:10:00.002-05:00

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The First to Be …

Gaze far away into the skies you’ll see,

the vastness of limitless divine reach.

Illumine mine eyes oh twinkling stars this night

May I merit to learn the lessons You teach.

The first of circles You drew without compass or pen,

galactic orbs you cast far beyond sight.

Soaring toward endlessness at heavenly speed,

I pray to fathom the ways of your might.

A house for man from words you did utter,

with neither roof nor from walls a world you conceive.

From darkness each night, the moon but an ember …

Master of The Universe … in Thee, I believe.

Awaken in morning to sounds of the dawn,

our lips with gratitude but of bitterness none.

By His grace a new day to us He hath given,

be as He, the first to be though He had never begun.*

*This last verse is based on an old translation of a verse from the Jewish hymn “Yigdal”.

Alan D. Busch

May 2008

2008-04-23T12:44:00.001-05:00

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All that Remains Is Oftentimes More Than You Think

All that Remains ...

All that remains number but few
a mangled scooter for one ....
hidden from view but for all to see
the havoc one mistake had done.

For years on tree bark did knelt
supporting its maple trunk, broadly hewn.
Fearful was I that if memory felt
would be cast to the wind if strewn.

When he rode it home that first night ...
a "giant" astride a motor ride small.
So incongruous the contrast did seem,
what lay before that us would soon befall.

To part with this relic,
would not I his memory betray?
An anguished decision, but I let it go
lest inadvertantly I myself slay.

Unlike the verdant green grass,
that withers so soon fast.
Stubborn remembrance defiantly stay
the course of time long last.

Alan D. Busch
April 2008

I Am Lonely For You, Forever

2008-04-21T18:57:00.003-05:00

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I Am Lonely For You, Forever

(Reflections that evening of Ben's death ...)

Drawn back to my house,
wherein her plaintive cries I did hear.
Wept my heart for Ben's mom
with whom I could be neither nor near.

In desperate near madness, oh ... the blackest of nights,
joylessly my family did weep.
So sad when I would have prefered
together with whom I might sleep.

Our child we loved him so much in common,
my mind unrestrained in darkness did roam …
this reality unimaginable, especially stark,
my house … no longer my home.

In memory’s flight I remember this well
when ended Passover they readied to leave.
I felt the burn of his stubbly cheeks
funny how much in remembrance we grieve.

Ben, Ben ... I wept.
We spoke, but then in silence you died.
It was only just a moment before
While slept in my dreams I cried.

So few hours have since elapsed
in the hospital that psalm I did sing.
I am already lonely for you, forever,
when morrow’s morn would no new smiles bring.

Alan D. Busch

April 2008

2008-03-22T21:59:00.004-05:00

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She and You

I’ve explained so much it seems,
enough for us both.
I regret, apologize, admit, confess …
a myriad of failings.
Why haven’t you?

You know what they are ….
I won’t repeat them here.
The burden of guilt I have assumed …
Why won’t you share?

I wonder if each morning …
do you see the person looking at you
who hurt me … do you?
Or do you deny any recognition and …
just go on with your life?

What hurts most of all …
is that you were never here
even after you returned.
The illusion of someone I had known,
but it was not you, as it happened,
though the outer resemblance was striking.

She didn’t love me as you had …
Her distance was farther away
than ever you had been near ….
when I could touch you.

She never smiled …
as you had so often, sheepishly.
When I opened the door Friday night,
I saw you there awaiting me on that couch
that you so disliked.
The table set, candles aglow,
your long braid and flowing skirts …
how much I do miss them … and
you.

2008-03-18T10:18:00.003-05:00

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"Looking at You ..."

I look at you quietly thinking,
words so many dare I speak.
Return my stare, hear you wondering
hints of solitude do I seek?

None I say but truth be told,
through too few years of feelings forlorn
Fears are mine I’ve become too old,
soon I fear see your stareful scorn.

Beseeching you in words unspoken
through moments of closeness when none more
leave me lonely yet desirous
whether we'll be again as time before …

It’s not my fault when life changes,
hard to say and for you to hear.
My body shakes, my speech stumbles.
What hope is there for us this year?

I think back in hours abandon,
gaity, laughter together we spent
Our posture now is so different,
my new life has become as I resent.

How we were is no longer
passionate kisses, our bodies aflutter,
holding you then as mine alone,
leaves many questions slow to utter.

Alan D. Busch
March 2008

2008-03-14T16:32:00.000-05:00

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Dear Readers,

If I may, please click on ...

http://www.emunahradio.blogspot.com/

Thank you Josh!

Torah Thoughts in Flight

2008-03-14T09:49:00.003-05:00

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Torah Thoughts in Flight

But for Thee we devotedly wait,
our work unfinished remain.
Put aside all, let worriment be,
No more left this week to gain.

Hasten thy effort lest sunset precede,
our labors have now to cease.
Welcome the Shekinah, Her presence arrive …
Immerse thyself in Sabbath peace.

A day of respite, tending the soul,
set upon tablecloth both bread and wine.
Sanctify this moment He creation made …
closer to Thee my soul doth pine.

Soar high o’er clouds ever above
as if on wings of eagle’s flight.
His people beloved, a nation of priests
Illumines the world with its light.

We are bidden to be as if a dove
to the ark it did return.
For mankind a rainbow He painted
a promise made He would not spurn.

Alan D. Busch
March 2008

Interview with Ha Rav, Ha Chazzan Dr. Phineas Schmeisenbach

2008-03-10T07:47:00.003-05:00

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Conversations with Noteworthy Individuals ... A Series.

Conversation with Ha Rav, Ha Chazzan Dr. Phineas Schmeisenbach ... whom I have known for more than ten years and yes, he really does says such things as you will read in the italics!

(An important aside from the interviewer: Reb Phineas is such a “mazik” that I feared the idea of sitting down and having a civil conversation together would be quite simply beyond the pale. I was not wrong.)

*Reb Phineas's remarks are italicized.

Rabbi, I wish to thank you for finding time, given your demanding schedule, to sit down and meet with me for a few minutes.

Busch, what do I know? I’m from the “kleiner mentchen”. Tell me, … how does it feel to be a descendant of the burning bush?

Huh? Oh yea, well … aglow I suppose. (Why does he insist upon saying I’m a descendant of that fiery shrub, hmmmm?)

Rabbi, seriously speaking, I have never had the opportunity to really thank you for chanting Kel Mole Rachomim at the funeral of my son Ben, olav ha shalom, and on a much happier note serving as chazzan at my recent wedding.

No problem Busch. Don’t thank me. I’m from the kleiner mentchen. What do I know?

(Indeed Reb Phineas derives much enjoyment from his oft-repeated claim that his “lineage” is from the kleiner mentshen, the "little people", a self-deprecating characterization. In this way, it allows him to exploit his remarkably mischievous sense of humor as a way to avoid being taken too seriously. Should you not know this clever little truth about him, you might entertain the exceedingly wrong-headed notion that he hails from the much maligned chachomim of Chelm, hmmm?)

Rabbi, you are actually a scion of a much heralded rabbinic dynasty in Yerushalayim, are you not?

A what? Busch, what do I know? I’m from the kleiner mentchen. Mein Henglish is not so good!

And that you have a doctoral degree in pastoral studies from Chicago State University, isn't that correct?

That makes you a Rabbi Doctor. I thought to appeal to his considerable but well concealed ego.

Technically yes it does though I owe much of the credit to Reb Louie. He did most of the work.

What do you mean?

You do not want to know.

I guess you’re right.

So tell me Busch, how is your father?

Considering his age, he’s doing well. Hey, I’m asking the questions here.

Reb Phineas, you are known for the rapidity with which you stand Shmoney Esrei. How can one daven with kavanah at that pace?

Busch, He and I are busy men.

(Reb Phineas points straight up with his index finger. As a matter of fact, he recites the prayers so fast that he is already taking his three steps backward on “Yehi ratson” before you have finished your responses to his Kidusha.)

Rabbi, I have always loved your chazanus, especially Kol Ni …

(He arose from his chair running to the kitchen.)

Betcha he’s going for that leftover tuna fish!

Alan Busch

2008-03-09T05:03:00.002-05:00

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Dear Readers , click on http://www.authorsden.com/alandbusch1 to read a smattering of the writings of Alan D. Busch: poetry, prose, articles, stories, announcements.

Forthcoming in about two weeks is the second printing with minor revisions and a new epilogue of Snapshots In Memory of Ben. A rough draft of the epilogue is posted at authorden.com under the category of "My Stories." Go ahead! Take a peak!

Please visit http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ to reserve your copy of the second printing or surf any of the on-line book stores ... http://www.amazon.com/

I dedicate all my work to Ben, Z'L.

Alan D. Busch

"Doing Fine. org"

2008-03-07T10:37:00.000-06:00

Where authors and readers come together!

Dear Readers,

Please remember to viisiit www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com

Free Form Thoughts

2008-03-06T17:12:00.000-06:00

http://doingfine.org/redir/50bc6fe5.php

Where authors and readers come together!

Free Form Thoughts ...

When reflection looks back upon memory,
I see you quietly thinking.
Gone now you have been for ...
well, I've lost count.

You know how it is ... important thoughts occur to us
when we least expect them,
such as happened last night ...

"I'm learning to live without you ..."

and I realize I've been here before.

It shouldn't be so difficult, right?
And on some days, it's not, but
there are moments when it is and
I regret my many mistakes.

I don't know why I stopped singing Eliyahu Ha Navi to you ...
I only know I wish I hadn't.

Words of regret ... there are just so many of them.

Dare I say any more?

In the way of things, complacency precedes regret,
and it is precisely when that has occurred
that one realizes how irreversible is the irreparable.

Alan D. Busch
March 6, 2008

"Simply Musings Pondering Prayer"

2008-03-05T16:16:00.000-06:00

Where authors and readers come together!

"Simply Musings Pondering Prayer"

Subtle although not hidden,
our strength reside in Thee.
Weighty affliction we shoulder,
enable us your servants to be.

Take hold of His hand in crisis
like Mordechai before no man bow.
Walk humbly with thy Maker,
know how very blessed art Thou.

Acknowledge His majesty each morning,
Your obligation to Him let be,
Dutifully recall before alighting
Ana Ha Shem, I thank thee …

Speak from your heart with devotion
though He utter not a word.
Listen quietly lest His message
reverberate in echoes unheard.

Say these words at your bedside
Your neshuma hath He returned
Offer His gift to others
Fear of heaven hast thou learned.

When at last resistance surrender,
selfless thou art become.
Give back more than you’ve taken
whilst clinging to devotion profund.

Alan D. Busch

March 5, 2008

2008-03-04T17:09:00.000-06:00

Where authors and readers come together! Dear Readers, please visit me at the above website. Below I present one of my favorite poems. Wouldst I had penned it ...

I do not know who first penned this wonderfully poignant, prayerful poem which I have typed in italics, followed by a short personal commentary; its verses are few but powerful in their wisdom. This is one of those good things you've heard about; you know ... the ones that come in small packages or, if you like, a virtual blueprint of parenting-especially for younger parents just starting out. I've always loved it and have carried it in my head and heart for nearly thirty years though I often wonder how well or badly I measured up during my own early parenting years ...

"Oh give me patience when tiny hands

Take a really close look at your young children's hands ...are they not amazingly tiny and beautiful? Everyone I hope has either experienced or seen a baby grasp with its whole hand but one grownup finger! My favorite fingers belong to my daughter Kimmy; they are beautifully long and slender, and I've loved them ever since I first beheld them upon her coming into this world! I kid you not ... that her fingers were what first caught my eye.

tug at me with their small demands,

I recall Ben trying to redirect that forkful of dinner away from mine and into his own mouth, seated as he was upon my knee and apparently under the erroneous impression that I was to feed him only!

and give me gentle and smiling eyes,

May your eyes mirror the heartfelt joy of your child's achievement; in other words, let your eyes always see and be seen as they were when you witnessed that first baby step! May they always "remember" that moment!

keep my lips from sharp replies.

Teach by example of speech ... moderation, patience of tone and content. Guard thy tongue for once having spoken ... well, the efficacy of "retraction" is entirely fictitious.

and let not confusion, fatigue or noise

Child rearing can be and is often raucous, enervating and frustrating at times ... step back!

obscure my vision of life's fleeting joys ...

Don't ever pass up an opportunity to smell a flower with a child or watch a butterfly flutter about!

so when years later my house is still,

You know they'll fly from the nest one day! While there, keep it cozy, warm and welcoming!

no bitter memories its room may fill."

May our parenting mistakes be few and minor in nature so that our children will return to the nest with their fledglings in tow! If you make it this far, commence*KVELLING!

*Kvelling ... when your heart pounds with pride and joy upon witnessing your child's accomplishments.

Alan D. Busch

"Shacharis Musings"

2008-03-03T20:12:00.000-06:00

Dear Readers,

I am pleased to announce that my original piece of poetry "Shacharis Musings" will be published in the coming weeks by Poetica Magazine, Poetica Magazine, Reflections of Jewish Thought "A fierce light beats upon the Jew." C. G. Montefiore

“Shacharis Musings"

As morning light little shines
in still wee hours before dawn’s rise
speak to Him before day begins
through visions of angels’ eyes.

Praises of kindness and words proclaim
majestically soar o’er ocean sand
the majesty of Creator’s fame
know whom before dost thou stand.

Close thine eyes to worrisome day...
With shroud enwrapped o'er thee
bound both arm and head adorned
closer to Him a moloch be.

Ancient hopes on pages worn
in prayers long seen through tears,
awaken molochim early morn
to pray for length of years.

Examine each day ere too late,
In prayerful haste lest thou proceed
Secure a place at Heaven’s gate
Prey not upon man dost heed.

Alan D. Busch
March 3, 2008

Eight Years Ago

2008-02-27T07:16:00.000-06:00

"Eight Years Ago" ... on going reflections of a bereaved father in memory of Ben, now in the eighth year of his permanent absence.

Since we bid thee farewell
Eight years ago,
many tears that morning did shed.
Into cavernous depths we lowered thee
united to souls art thou wed.

I want you to know
I have lived as well,
as best I could I did try.
Nary a morn, noon or night did pass,
couldn’t ever help I but cry.

I felt so bad all those years
When your days of youth deprived
while sickness stole so much our strength
from wells that might have thrived.

Much like you, what did we do
when alone there left to lie.
Living our lives lest we stray
from faith otherwise worn and tried.

It is hard to explain
these feelings I have
without you, my life to live
day by day, I can’t but think
my life for yours I wouldst give.

Alan D. Busch
February 26, 2008

To purchase a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben, please visit www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com or reach me at alandbusch@aol.com

Please visit http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/ to purchase a copy of Snapshots In Memory of Ben

"The Wall"

2008-02-09T21:30:00.000-06:00

“The Wall”

In days long since, from ages ago
ingather to His Makom flock
among whom dost Thou dwell
Ha Shem likvod Yisborach.

L’ Adon Ha Kol l’sha-be-ach
To Him we devotedly send,
Prayerful shards, writ kvitelach
To whom our knees do bend.

Open thy hearts kedoshim
to His avodah, tahor and pure,
gather at His feet molochim
beware lest thy doubts doth stir

Whence this devotion unfailing?
ere stones stand thou demure
open thine lips heaven upward
thy portion in shamayim secure.

Hear please our supplications,
of which uttered none profane …
wherefore our faith sustaineth
memories of pious refrain.

Alan D. Busch
http://www.snapshotsinmemoryofben.com/
Alan D Busch (author) on AuthorsDen

Sharcharis Musings

2008-01-19T19:27:00.000-06:00

“Shacharis Musings"

As morning light little shines

in still wee hours before dawn’s rise

speak to Him before day begins

through visions of angels' eyes.

Praises of kindness and words proclaim

majestically soar o’er ocean sand

the majesty of Creator’s fame

know whom before doth thou stand.

Close thine eyes to worrisome day...

With shroud enwrapped o'er thee

bound both arm and head adorned

closer to Him a moloch be.

Ancient hopes on pages worn

in prayers long seen through tears,

awaken molochim early morn

to pray for length of years.

Examine each day ere too late,

In prayerful haste lest thou proceed

Secure a place at Heaven’s gate

Prey not upon man doth heed.

Alan Busch

2007-11-11T05:00:00.000-06:00

These are the people ...

Everlasting Stuff I learned from my Father, who, at 86 years of age, is a practicing dentist and grandpa in Chicago, IL.

1. Whichever teeth you do not wish to retain in your latter years, do not floss them.

2. If and when your kids have tossed your hat out of the window on the interstate, do not become angry.

3. No matter how old and grown up your children are, kiss them.

4. What you wish for your grandchildren do so for their parents.

5. Encourage your high schoolers to read lots of books over summer break.

6. The police officer is your friend unless he's thrashing you with his schtekl.

7. Do not walk down Michigan Ave. dressed like a "zhlub".

8. Call your kids even if and especially if they don't call you.

9. Talk to your mother regularly.

10. It's okay for a man to be sentimental, even weepy when appropriate.

11. Inquire after the well-being of an "ex" for (s)he is a parent of your grandchildren.

12. Look illness in the eye and tell it to "piss off"!

13. Smile a lot and not just because your father is a dentist.

Alan D. Busch

Reflections on the People Who Have Touched My Life

2007-11-08T09:39:00.000-06:00

These are the People ...

Harold Grossman: My Stepfather

He relished telling the story of how his mother would hang kosher salamis

to dry them out on the back porch, but that he and his brother Jack would

invariably eat them before they ever finished aging.

Harold Grossman was a gutte neshuma, a good soul. He was my mother’s

second husband and a good provider under whose roof I lived for a longer

period of time than I had with my dad.

Of his many attributes, there was one in particular that left me

with an abiding affection. Harold never sought to usurp my father's

role. Even though I lived in Harold’s house together with my brother Ron and

my mom for more than ten years, he respected the fact my dad was

just a short drive away in Chicago and with whom my brother and I maintained

a close relationship. Though I do not know what child support arrangements my

dad and mom had worked out, I do know that Harold supported me in countless

ways over the years.

He was a generous man by nature, soft-spoken and very dignified.

What Yiddish I know I owe to Harold. Of greater importance

than the words I have retained is the appreciation for the colorful

expressiveness of the mamaloschen Harold imparted to

me. What he remembered from his boyhood he recalled with genuine

glee and gladly shared with me.

Harold, his brother Jack, sisters Dorothy and Jane were blessed with

beautiful and wonderful parents: Morris and Eva Grossman, truly lovely and

gracious people, whom I was privileged to know as a boy. A tiny twosome,

Mr. and Mrs. Grossman were a handsome couple-one might even

describe them as “quaint”- each crowned with snow white hair. Their language

was a dialect of “Yinglish,” neither Galician nor Litvish. They sounded like

Myron Cohen. (Do you remember him from the Ed Sullivan Show?) It was exceedingly

difficult not to love them.

I believe it was Erev Shabbos when Harold, my mom and I stopped by to visit

the Grossmans in their apartment on Briscoe Court. The hour was after sundown when

we arrived. Harold’s parents would not have answered the phone had we called

them or, I suspect, invited us over that night because-much to our dismay-

their apartment was enveloped in pitch darkness.

Naturally curious why all their lights were out, we noticed them sitting quite

comfortably on their plastic cover-fitted sofa as if nothing were amiss. Not one

ray of light could be had. To this day some forty years later, I do not know if

the Grossmans had their lights on timers but had neglected to set them in time

before sundown or forgotten to turn on their Sabbath lights, but a fond albeit

befuddled memory it remains to this day!

"Pa," said Harold, always the dutiful son but who had forsworn observance

when he enlisted in the Navy after Pearl Harbor, "you're ‘gonna’ sit here in the

dark?! Just lemme tu ..."

"Zol zein shtil, Herschele! 'Don' touch!” barked Zayde who did not

pronounce the 't' in ‘don't’.

"But, but ... " Harold blurted out.

"But, but 'nuting'! Shah!" Zayde let forth.

"Ma!?" pled the son.

"It'll be fine tatele. Listen to your father," she counseled.

"Mom, why are we sitting in the dark?" I asked.

"Shah! Listen to Bubbe."

If only Mel Brooks had seen this.

We did not stay much longer. Leaving behind the magical, albeit dark

wonderment of Erev Shabbos in the apartment of Morris and Eve Grossman, we

returned home to a Friday night, however well-lighted.

Harold and his brother Jack were fine men, founders and owners of Jarold

Manufacturing in St. Louis, Missouri, who provided steady employment to many

men over thirty years in business. I worked there too during summer vacation

and came to know many of the employees whom I knew to be sincere in their

devotion to Harold as a man and employer.

It was my privilege to memorialize Harold. We are diminished now that he’s

gone, but the world is a far better place for his having been here!

"Zichron l'vrocha" ... May his memory be for a blessing!

Alan D. Busch
11/2/07

"The White Rose"

2007-11-05T19:47:00.000-06:00

“The White Rose”

Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...

descended a darkness o'er the land,

a blackening,

not of locusts sent by God ...

but of a more stubborn Pharoah

whose heart was even harder ...

whose command over masses numbing,

but which failed to blot out the light of day.

Had there been no foreshadowing of the darkness?

When the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,

and bore Adolph Eichmann?

Had not Heine known wherein books are burned,

so will humans eventually be?

Where the din of the mob drowned out

the admonitions of the few prophetic voices

and cynical lawlessness foreshadowed transcendent evil.

When the fearful apathy of a once upright citizenry

began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained.

Where Jewish blood-letting became a national pastime, an opiate to

drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the spirituality of free thought.

Not all debauched themselves on the altar of this golden calf.

Hans and Sophie Scholl refused to forsake the ageless distinction between right and wrong,

the primal lesson from the innocence of mankind.

The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl

whose parents had taught them diligently and ...

spoken to them of good and evil at home.

Nurtured these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,

enough so that when almost all had become bad,

Hans and Sophie believed in the courage of adherence to good.

When the many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,

this brother and sister had the presence of mind

to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence.

while the deluded majority clung to falsehoods tenaciously.

Hans and Sophie held that living a lie was a betrayal of life.

Our sages knew few are the righteous who defy evil

across death's yard to the guillotine.

Blossoms push out the rot of weeds and beauty overtakes ugliness.

For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...

would burst forth naturally in a land where the ashes of

auschwitz,

dachau,

buchenwald,

treblinka

fertilized

Berchtesgaden.

Where the presumption of guilt

became the obscene standard of perverse justice.

Good people ... tried and condemned perfunctorily

who had managed to remain human in a country

where despotism reigned not because

there were no good people left,

but that there remained so few.

Alan D. Busch
11/5/07

Up Heaven's Slope/Revised

2007-10-29T14:59:00.000-05:00

"Up Heaven's Slope"
Dedicated to Our Kedoshim

Up heaven's slope wearily trod
stooped figures transparently grey,
memories of long before had been …
For them we clamor that this day
shall happen Never Again!

Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken morn cold and lame

Unlike Goliath in days of old,
A dark travail numbed,
that even David who fought so well
soon that night succumbed.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

Should there not have been the one
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had begun to wane
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage
Why had He not shown His way
a war He would have waged?

Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn’s rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.

Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.

The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Revised 10/29/07

Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007

2007-10-23T21:39:00.000-05:00

Dedicated to the Kedoshim ...
"Up Heaven's Slope"

Wearily they trod up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

A moment’s dark travail numbed
Goliathan was the fight,
even David who had fought so well
soon that night succumbed.

Why wrenched from hearth and home
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did thus freely roam
Awaken dreaded morning cold and lame

Marched back and forth thin and wane
stooped figures transparently grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!

Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way,
A war He would have waged.

Still in death's kingdom reigned
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.

Aside bodies on planks they lie
whose heat what little remain,
dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.

The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007

I Look at You ...

2007-10-14T19:44:00.000-05:00

I look at you

Quietly thinking,

Words so many dare I speak.

Return my stare,

Hear you wondering …

Worrisome concerns, burdens linger

Many the questions still unuttered

Hints of solitude do I seek?

None I say but truth be told,

Fears are mine I’ve become too old,

Though age, its distance not yet torn

plagues me, hopelessly forlorn.

Those moments when closeness none more

Beseeching you in words unspoken

Whether you, I, we will be as time before …

It’s not my fault life’s changes did befall

My body shakes, my speech stumbles,

Hard to say and for you to hear,

What hope is there to come this year?

I think back to touches when

In hours abandon,

Gaity, laughter,

Together we spent

Now our posture is so different

My life as is I resent.

Passionate kisses, bodies aflutter,

holding you then as mine alone,

When we were is no longer,

So many questions yet to utter.

Alan D. Busch

10/14/07

Lamentations

2007-10-12T15:44:00.000-05:00

“Lamentations”

The pain of a broken heart is reminiscent of

bereavement. My marriage to Kallah ended after a brief fifteen

months, a mournful experience not unlike the personal grief from which

I have suffered since November of 2000 when my first-born child

Benjamin died.

The three weeks prior to the Tisha b' Av is a period of time when we

purposely deny ourselves many enjoyments and comforts culminating

in this solemn fast day characterized by the reading of the

Book of Lamentations, communal mourning for the destruction of the

Beis Ha Mikdash and a heightened awareness of our Jewish

national identity. Our tradition holds that many other historical

tragedies befell the Jewish people on this joyless day.

It happened toward the end of the “Nine Days.” Minyan was scheduled

for 8:00 that evening. Arriving about fifteen minutes early, I saw

an elderly man sitting in the social hall. He appeared to be preoccupied though

patiently awaiting Mincha. He looked sad, so I approached him with a smile.

"Good evening, Sir,"

"Good evening," he responded, seemingly happy someone had come

by to chat with him.

“I was worried we would not have a minyan. It's nearly 8:00 o’clock

now, and I've yahrzeit for Maariv.”

"Oh," I sought to quickly reassure him. "We'll have a minyan.

Guaranteed. Please do not worry about that. Your name is, Sir?” I

asked.

"Talisman, Irving Talisman," he said.

I saw he had almost said "Yitzhak," his Hebrew name, but chose not

to do so. I looked at him intently. He was dressed in casual slacks, a pale yellow

golf shirt and a perspiration stained cap, his focus on

my words suggested that he was a bit hard of hearing.

"Reb Talisman," I addressed him. "For your wife, your parents,

you have yahrzeit?” Twisting his left forearm over with the

assistance of his right hand, he revealed the six green

numbers. I was speechless. I had seen such tattoos before, but the manner in which

he exposed it staggered me. His quiet dignity left me unsure if he bore the tattoo

as a badge of honor or shame. He looked up at me with glistening eyes

and whispered "my parents.” His eyes, sunken and sallow, were

underscored by dark rings-an image almost as indelible as his

horrific tattoo. I just wanted to take care of this man.

"This way, Reb Talisman," inviting him toward the Rabbi Aron &

Rebbitzen Ella Soloveitchik Beis Ha Medrash. I accompanied him

down the hallway. Together we opened the door. Reb Talisman

paused. "Should we enter? There seems to be a bar mitzvah lesson

going on." Indeed there was.

Looking quite grumpy after a typically long day of meetings,

Rabbi Louis was finishing up with the bar mitzvah bocher after

discovering that a ceiling ballast had blown out. It was an especially

busy night at shul. The sisterhood was holding a program and the

junior minyan was learning with Rabbi’s son. Seeing that I was

escorting an elderly gentleman to minyan, Rabbi saved his upset for

the next two hapless fellows who followed us in after we had shut

the door.

"Close it!" Rabbi barked.

"Abba, it’s 8:05, time for Mincha. We have a minyan," announced

Rabbi’s older son who, as it happened, was one of the two who came

in after us.

I directed Reb Talisman slowly toward the one chair unlike any

other in the beis medrash, a comfortable seat though not of the

stackable variety, well-cushioned and distinctively but peculiarly

pink in color. It had been the favorite of Reb Helman, the late father

of Rabbi Louis's wife Saretta. When I turned to check on him

however, he had chosen to sit by the “omed” opposite the Ark.

“As long as he’s comfortable,” I thought.

Rabbi Louis gave a klop on his shtender. "Ashrei yoshvei

v'secha,” we davened Mincha after which Rabbi lectured about

the laws of Tisha B’ Av. Several minutes later, we prayed the Maariv

service, but, by which time, I had lost all my concentration. Now I

know one should look to the heavens should he feel his devotion

waning, but I simply could not. I was thinking of Kallah. She filled my

head, and I knew she'd not be there when I arrived back home. I closed my

siddur and stared out the window.

"Maybe she'll pass by," I mused, "or drop in to see me." I turned to

the doorway thinking I had heard a feminine voice.

“Oh … just one of the younger guys,” I muttered to myself.

"Amen. Yehey shmey rabba ..."

The beis medrash emptied. I escorted Reb Talisman to his car.

"Good night, Sir," I smiled.

"Good night," he said. I touched his arm comfortingly.

I watched as he got in his car and drove away. I fumbled for my keys.

"There surely has to be a lesson here," I reflected, turning on the

ignition. During the minute that it took me to drive home, I

fantasized about seeing her car in the driveway, but realized

The One Above had sent Reb Talisman to remind me others are

grieving too. An act of chesed brought a smile to an elderly Jew.

How I would have liked to share this story with her … perhaps tomorrow.

Alan D. Busch

Revised 10/12/07

2007-09-25T13:00:00.000-05:00

The Essence of Sukkot

Writer's note:

Dear Readers,

Many years ago, I read a story line not unlike the one that follows: that of a poor Jew who learns the lesson of Sukkot through his travails and devotion. Therefore, while I do not claim the story line as mine, the body of the tale, its characters and content, I did author.

Alan D. Busch
The day of Erev Sukkot, 2007

Long ago-when our grandparents' grandparents lived in tiny villages-was there one called "Bissele." Therein lived a certain simple Jew, a "shlepper" by trade, a pious but unlearned man who did as best he could with what little he had.

For the better part of the preceding winter, spring and summer, he had worked doggedly, scrimped and saved enough money with which to purchase a fine lulav and esrog.

His efforts were blessed.

A day or two before the Eve of Sukkot, he, his one and only horse and cart set out for the provincial marketplace in which- among the myriads of general merchandise available-beautiful lulavim and esrogim could be had.

It was while traveling on a treacherously pitted and hazardous dirt road that the simple Jew's horse lost its footing by the edge of a precipice, fell and broke two of its four legs.

Reb Schmeryl, whom bad luck seemed to pursue, was simply beside himself. Overwrought
by the accident that had befallen his faithful, hard-working companion, Reb Schmeryl-having no other choice- acceded to the offer of a passing peasant fellow to put his horse out of its misery.

Once one horse dispatched, another's necessity arose. Reb Schmeryl needed another horse in any event and, as it happened, said peasant, one Stavich, was more than willing and able to supply.

And the price, what of that?

Well, when the painful transaction was concluded, Reb Schmeryl retained but one-quarter of what he had so industriously squirreled away.

Down but not out, he, his newly acquired four-legged companion and cart proceeded forthwith to the provincial seat but-now with so little money left, how would he be able to purchase a beautiful set of the "arba minim," the four species?

Only hours before the eve of the chag, as merchants were closing their shutters, in schlepped Reb Schmeryl looking as worn and shriveled as the esrog he'd soon purchase.

Alas, one such storekeeper, a dealer of religious ritual objects, took pity on Reb Schmeryl and let him in though he had already closed.

"Sholem aleichem, Reb ... Reb ...?" his voice trailing off inquiringly.

"Schmeryl. Aleichem shalom, Reb ... ?"

"Geltmacher," responded the merchant, his chest slightly but certainly immodestly

puffed out.

"Reb Geltmacher, I have but these few coins with which to buy the four species," he

said, hoping perhaps that Reb Geltmacher might be a tzaddik-first impressions

aside.

"Over here Reb Schmeryl,look here," he motioned to his weary customer.

Inside the "discarded" bin Reb Geltmacher had placed some of the sorriest excuses for lulavim and esrogim anyone had ever seen. Reb Schmeryl examined a set carefully with an eye as discriminating as that of a jeweler. The lulav was bent and splintered, its willow leaves-many having already fallen off. Never mind that Hoshana Rabba was a good week away! And the esrog wasn't much prettier either. A snapped off stem was all that remained of its pittum.

"This," thought Reb Schmeryl, "is a pri etz hadar?" overtaken momentarily by his own sarcasm.

Reb Geltmacher, impassive and becoming visibly anxious, began fidgeting lest he be
late for erev yontif.

"This will have to do," intoned Reb Schmeryl choosing the "best" of the
worst.

Too late to head home by horse and cart, Schmeryl looked tired, forlorn and quite
hungry.

"Have you a place for yontif?" asked Reb Geltmacher.

"No ... regrettably not," responded a very beaten down Schmeryl.

"Well, the public inn is around the corner. With what you have left, you can afford

two nights," Geltmacher informed Schmeryl. "Oh, and the shul is just opposite the

inn."

Paying Reb Geltmacher and wishing him a "gut Yontif," off he trod to the inn.

Once signed in, Reb Schmeryl fell asleep, missing erev yontif.

Next morning, he arose and with arba minim in hand, hastened off to shul. Taking a seat as far to the back of the shul as he could, Reb Schmeryl, feeling ashamed, wondered what he would do come time for hakafos.

Then a hush! Every last soul arose when the Rav entered, carrying ... well-you can imagine-the finest arba minim Reb Geltmacher had had to offer. Something though was amiss. The Rav did not know what it was at first. Stepping back from his shtender, his prayerful focus interrupted, he began to search, winding his way through the aisles until finally ... there was but one seat left, the very last one.

"Reb ... Reb ...?

"Schmeryl, Schmeryl, Rebbe," rose Reb Schmeryl, managing to respond, albeit

nervously.

"Reb Schmeryl, may I have the honor of using your arba minim with which to bentch

lulav and carry during hakafos, please?. Here you take mine."

Stunned but agreeable, Reb Schmeryl's lips turned up into a faint smile; the Rav's
wisdom, for which he was particularly renowned, demonstrated itself once again incomparable, and Reb Geltmacher, well ... Reb Geltmacher was nonplussed, his chest deflated, his eyebrows knitted in consternation.

Link to Aish.com

2007-09-23T09:25:00.000-05:00

http://www.aish.com/spirituality/odysseys/Stepping_into_the_Sukkah.asp

Dear Readers,

Please copy and paste this link to read my newly published article in Aish.com.

Thank you,

Alan

2007-09-12T15:25:00.000-05:00

"What are you doing?" Kallah grogily asked me at 4:35 a.m..

"Getting dressed for minyan at 5:00. Erev Rosh Ha Shanah Slichos begin in a few minutes and are rather lengthy."

She turned over in a moment of sleepy indifference as if to say:

"Given your year, you do have much to be penitential about!"

So ... I gathered my trusty bicycle, tucked my right pants cuff in my sock and raced off to shul just a few minutes before 5:00. My efficiency paid off because I was able to get in a few laps around the shul parking lot before joining the Slichos minyan. Nothing like a little sweat before standing before the Holy One, Blessed be He!

Came back from shul around 7:30 and began pulling all the last minute strings together for tonight, the evening that heralds the beginning of 5768. I've always`liked that term "heralds" but I never have heard those "much heralded" trumpets blow as they're supposed to when one says "heralds". Guess I have to be content with the blowing of the Shofar, 100 "kolos" (blasts) on each of the two days of yontiff.

It's just me and Kallah for dinner tonight though I will enjoy the company of my Dad
and younger son Zac tonight together with me at shul although Zac will drive his Grandpa home afterward and return himself to his new digs but not first without a take-home yontiff meal prepared by yours truly. Sorry but given my family's observance predelictions, it's the best I can do, but I make no apologies as we are who we are.

In these few thoughtful moments before I have to check the progress of the turkey breast yet again, I am reminded of a little speech I gave the morning of Zac's bar mitzvah ocncerning the legendary Rabbi of Nemirov who absented himself from Slichos because he was out performing acts of chesed in the wee hours of the morning, such as preparing some kindling for a widow's fireplace as there was no one else to do it.

Yes, of course, he disguised himself as a peasant woodchopper. In this way, he not only accomplished some much needed work but prepared the way for his own tshuva as well. The common folks of his town speculated as to his whereabouts but one thing was for certain he was not at his shtender in the beis medrash, but off in the heavens, folks eagerly said, chatting as it were with The One Above.

There was a skeptical fellow in town as it happened, a "pisher" one might say, who was determined to expose the Rabbi of Nemirov for the fraud that he, the young fellow, was certain that he was ... so he slipped into his house late one night, crawled under the saint's bed and awaited his awakening. And as you might imagine, the saintly Rav awoke, dressed himself as a woodcutter and off went he to prepare the kindling for the aged widow's fire.

The young skeptic followed him on tippy toes and was flabberghasted that indeed the Rav was performing such seemingly menial tasks but understand he did for the next day in the town square he overheard local shul folks blathering on endlessly, as was their custom, about the absence of the much loved Rav.

"He's in shamayim at the right hand of the Aibishter!" said the most convinced and articulate of the small assembly gathered.

The others nodded in collective accord, but the one-time cynic who had witnessed the good deeds of the Saint, having overheard the accolades of the crowd,
whispered to himself: "And even higher!"

May we ascend to ever greater heights in our journey of life but without forgetting to first smell the coffee and the roses, appreciate a butterfly or, if need be, chop kindling for the widow's fire.

Alan Busch

4:14 pm

erev RH.

Kallah Has Come Home

2007-09-04T18:51:00.000-05:00

Kallah Has Come Home ...

I needed some time

while she was gone before

I understood.

Suffering tortuous days, enduring sleepless nights.

That a woman loves her husband

by reconciling her higher sense with ...

a man's baser nature.

I had to discover ...

the key to her love

was to search out her soul.

That when she loves you,

it is first with her mind and ...

only after with her body.

If and when a man

understands this ...

has he finally grown up.

Alan D. Busch

The Miracle of Kimberly

2007-09-04T07:37:00.000-05:00

Dear Readers,

This section is excerpted from In Memory of Ben.

Why was Kimberly saved? I don’t have an answer anymore

now than I did before when I asked why Ben was not

saved. It was unanswerable then as it remains now.

The following Friday, I invited Kimmy along with her boyfriend

for dinner Erev Shabbat. Zac was there too as was my

fiancé. The table, beautifully set, awaited us: its candles

aglow. It is my custom to light a ner nechuma for my son Ben

every Friday night before Shabbos begins … sort of bridging

the distance between us. We sat down.

“Kimuschkele,” my voice cracking as I try to get the words out

of a short speech.

“Yes BBDO,” she responded half grinningly, half tearfully.
(BBDO=Big Bad Daddyo)

“This Shabbat is extra special,” I said, addressing everyone but looking at my daughter.

“We say ‘Hodu la Adoshem ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo’ because

of all nights, I am especially thankful tonight to have you by

my side.” Lifting the kiddush cup, a slight tremor animated

my right hand. I let a moment pass, not a peep was uttered.

Ben’s lamp seemed to flicker more brightly, illuminating the

serpentine path of a single drop of wine running down my

hand.

“Vayahe erev, vayahe voker,” I sanctified the wine.

Alan D. Busch

2007-08-29T21:51:00.001-05:00

2007-08-29T15:13:00.000-05:00

Questions

Remember this tale about which you'll hear

of fighting Jews who fell without fear,

who chose to die as men and not as cattle,

but fate had determined that they first do battle

with the Hun at whom they did courageously fling

all of the might of young David's sling.

Their foe, a Goliath, of thousands' times size

from whom they refused to submit to the lies:

that they were weak and unworthy, unable to rise,

though blinded by hate, they aimed straight for his eyes.

Never before had there been seen such daring

from young women and men all of whom caring

for the dignity of those for whom they fought,

such were the lessons that history had taught ...

that the Jew stood alone, friendless, against foe,

counting his days, tormented by woe.

His task ... to prove that though troubled by pain,

the courage of Masada had not been in vain.

For three months, the struggle did not cease,

neither of its sides desiring peace.

For that meant 'surrender', an unthinkable word,

from the sewers of Warsaw could there still be heard:

the cries, the anguish, the torture within

ferreting out their captives the Nazis whose grin

was evidence they had been acting with glee

when stifling the attempt of people to be free.

Cords of 'log-bodies', stacked just the same,

secular and religious none to blame.

For there was NO difference before the Hun,

the Jews for him were decidedly ONE!

Whether armed or with prayer, they met their end,

futile struggle, Kiddush HaShem.

Our duty to those whose fate we survived

is in working to keep their memory alive.

I ask ... why a people whose destiny has been

to enlighten a world through darkness and din,

whose lives are as many as they have been few,

why so despised has been the Jew?

For what 'good' reason is he chosen to die?

Why gone unnoticed the tear in his eye?

Has he not suffered so while the world stands by,

Why have we not ever heeded his cry?

Is there really a difference that makes him seem strange,

as if the same blood did not course through his veins?

Does he not laugh, cry, and feel just as you?

How threatens he when he numbers so few?

Threatened with death should he adhere to his ways,

terrorized by chimneys above which rose haze,

searchingly hopeful ... in whose starry gaze

are reflected the faggots whose fires roar ablaze.

Why did none act to stop it once knowrn?

Enough indifference haven't we sown?

Praying to the heavens as they did every day,

that soon they'd see planes flying their way,

so bombardment, please god, should take us

ere the chambers would

but, the Allies denied they could destroy the rails

leading straight into Hell,

from which precious few reemerged to tell

of the horrors awaiting them, so hard to believe,

that neither kindness nor life did the arrivals receive.

The children, too, thrust into the pit,

enraged blood lust, into its infernal fit

that even the babes whose potential so great

should have felt the steel of this magnificent hate,

whose cries were heard, but listened to none,

whose heads fell limp with the snap of a gun,

whose parents, god forbid! they saw as naked as they,

for it was like this ...that they suffered that day.

There are those who challenge what we have to say,

"Does such a retelling remains relevent today?"

"That, somehow, It's past, gone. Let it be!"

"Why do you make us suffer to see:

the killings, the children, the mountains of bone,

the chambers transformed so many to stone!

who dropped like logs when the doors were thrown wide,

there simply had been ... no place to hide,

mothers whose skirts offered refuge at least

little ones uncovered ...thrown into the fiery feast.

"Of what use" it was queried,

"could they possibly be"

in a stench wherein no one was happy or free?"

Ne'er a glimmer of hope would the murderers give

to those whose sole wish ... was only to live.

Mothers from children, families asunder,

might others have withstood this fury and thunder?

Slave labor was needed to further the 'cause',

to build V-2 rockets, to sharpen the claws.

For such, 'noble' men, doctors by fame

were employed to brutalize, murder, and maim

so that 'Science' could learn when life was so cheap,

discarded mankind onto the heap.

'Great' governments had met in order to be

as pious as possible, but deaf to the plea ...

of the wandering Jew whose torment to see

how unwelcome he waS in the 'Land of the Free'.

The ship onto which so many had stormed

could not find refuge for opinion had formed

that the Jew was expendable, a nuisance, a thorn

upon whom fate had abandoned its contemptuous scorn.

They made it to America these "tired and poor"

to discover Liberty's spark shone little more

that, for them, there was not room enough to remain,

what hopes they had cherished were all now in vain!

Dejectedly they limped back to the place

which had expelled them at first for the same lack of space.

Stripped naked and paraded for the world to see

what sickness had afflicted modern Germany?

Once active and vigorous this citizenry now wandering about quite aimlessly.

It didn't take long for the nazis to see

that the world cared less for these Jews to be free.

A 'final solution' would quicken the pace

that guarenteed mastery to the 'Aryan' race.

No longer at issue either sufferance or claim,

onto Jewry was placed the burden and blame.

To repair the world, there first must needs be

a point at which we accept responsibility

for right against wrong, fiction from fact,

a basis upon which we can responsibly act,

but why even bother...

so distant from then,

what more do we gain, what message we send?

For the sake of' the children,

if not for our own ...

and for them whose lives ...

we

might

otherwise

have

known.

Alan D. Busch

revised 2007

2007-08-28T19:52:00.000-05:00

The White Rose

Wherein the Enlightenment had so radiantly shone ...

descended a darkness o'er the land, a blackening,

not of locusts sent by God ...

but that of an even more stubborn Pharoah

whose heart was even harder ...

whose command over masses numbing,

yet ultimately insufficient to blot out the light of day.

Ashkenaz- a land in which so many B'nai Jacov,

had come to make their homes.

Though in galus, already centuries old, why next year in Jerusalem ...?

This Pesach yearning ... hadn't they already arrived?

fought well in defense of the Fatherland?

who bore the Iron Cross proudly? '

Yet was there no foreshadowing of the darkness?

or had it not been when the land forgot Moses Mendelssohn,

and... bore Alfred rosenberg?

Had not Heine known that a land wherein books are burned,

so will humans ultimately be?

where the admonitions of the few prophetic voices

drowned out by the din of the incredulous

whose skepticism and cynical mockery provided advance notice

of evil's transcendence?

Or might it have been when men's apathy and fear

began to terrorize living space and individuality's resistance little remained?

when Jew hatred and blood letting were becoming national pasttimes-an opiate with which to

drug the masses and passive stupidity replaced the excitement of free thought's spirituality.

It was this same land in which not all debauched themselves

on the alter of the golden calf:

Hans and Sophie scholl were two such people

on whom had not been lost the distinction between right and wrong.

That same ageless lesson from the origins of mamkind's innocence.

The Gestapo executed Hans and Sophie Scholl

whose parents had taught them diligently and ...

spoken to them at home of right and wrong..

Nurtured had been these young people on individuality's inquisitiveness,

enough so that when almost all had become bad,

Hans and Sophie still believed one should have the courage to believe only in what is good.

When so many hysterically applauded tyranny's hypnosis,

this brother and sister had the presence of mind

to stand up and proclaim freedom's stubborn persistence

while the majority clung to falsehoods, deludely and tenaciously.

Hans and Sophie held that living a lie ...

was unworthyof the sacrifice they had prepared themselves to make

should their sojourn lead them too close to the truth.

Our sages knew that few are the righteous whose defiance of evil

leads them across death's yard to the gullitine,

but not before which blossoms pushed out the rot of weeds and beauty overtook ugliness.

For who could have foreseen that a WHITE ROSE ...

could burst forth in a land whose gardenswere fertilized

by the ashes of auschwitz, dachau, buchenwald, treblinka ...

a land wherein only the presumpton of guilt became the standard

of an obscene perversion of justice

and good people were perfunctorily tried and condemned ...

whose only "crime" was they had managed to remain human

in a country where depotism reigned not because ...

there were no good prople left,

but that there were so few.

Alan D. Busch

Revised 2007

2007-08-28T15:15:00.000-05:00

Up Heaven's Slope

Wearily trod they up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.

Why was there no way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did they roam.

Marched back and forth, thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!

Under lash by day,
nocturnal storms did rage
Why did He not show them
a war He could have waged.

Yet reigned in death's kingdom
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would those eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.

They lie on planks aside bodies
whose heat so little remain,
dreaded morning's welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.

The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007

2007-08-28T07:07:00.000-05:00

Time to Say ...

You say you needed to hear me say it before I could ...

but I wasn't ready.

I felt it though.

You and I had just begun ...

to be an "us."

It seemed so simple then,

before us nary a challenge,

except one: what to say, how to react

when folks mistook us for father and daughter.

Did we ever figure that out?

You know what?

As upsetting at times as it may have seemed ...

I think we revelled in it.

Bold but not unprecedented ...

an older man loves a much younger woman,

but perplexing was how a much younger woman

could love me?

That confounded me, even troubled me at times.

So when you said "I love you" it made me feel special.

It really did!

But I knew something then you may not have known yet.

No fault of your own.

Just a matter of time.

to show you "I love you."

I held those words back ...

because I feared they'd

be cheapened if I could not back them up with deeds.

And I wanted to give you only the very best I could ...

because it was

for you,

and that meant everything to me and ...

still does.

Because you were ready, but

I was not.

My words I wanted to utter,

only when it was right,

but like all things for which there comes a time ....

now it is ...

I

love

you.

Alan

Revised 8/29/07

2007-08-28T06:34:00.000-05:00

A Poetic Dialogue: Son

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Sonny Boy,” I said.

“How come the birds don’t fall out of the sky?” he asked
brilliantly, but not without a partly suppressed yawn.

“D’ya feel the wind on your face when you’re outside, son? I
asked.

“It feels good Dad.” he answered, cheerfully following along.

“The wind, Son, is God’s breath that he blows, but we call it
the ‘wind.’

“Ooookay,” he responded, appearing somewhat quizzical, “but
Daddy remember the birds?” he dutifully reminded me.

“Yes, Son, when God wants to, He blows his breath,” I said.

“Like this, Dad?” he queried, inflating his cheeks and blowing.

“Yes, Ben, just like that, but when God blows his breath, it
catches under the wings of the birds and lifts them up.” I
explained.

“Ooooh,” he replied, scratching his head but clearly intrigued
by the answer.

(excerpted from In Memory of Ben)

Alan D. Busch

2007

2007-08-27T20:43:00.000-05:00

"Dignity Restored"

Holy martyrs … kedoshim

For whom monument tall

Shouts defiantly: “NEVER AGAIN!”

at last, for once and all.

Thus hatred's reminder,

its insatiable, implacable aim,

weighing heavily upon humanity’s unforgivable shame.

Atop the bronze mount does stand there remain

Remnants of countless savagely slain:

a mother whose babe has cried its last,

an elderly Jew to whom a boy clings fast.

A partisan fighter whose gestures ignite …

one spark of the hope that flickered by night.

Amidst the rubble of days …that which had been

through the ages a beacon for men ...

the Torah commanding “Thou Shalt Not Kill ...”

albeit in ruins though applicable still!

to our lives which came after relatively free

of terror's ability to blind us who see.

Now tearful, silently stoic first gaze

while vigilance slept, its fires not ablaze ...

why desecrate this monument, a tribute to those

in whose memory we recall

so few of their woes?

Nary a night did pass ere an evil befell,

and reminded, were we all, of heaven and hell.

Now gone were the tears that had welcomed its sight,

but ready were the many to stand and fight ...

an ugly reminder whose obscenities told …

of times long since and graves since cold.

Aroused and awakened this community alert,

whose monument remained defiled as such,

to remember one and all, incredulous and carefree,

that history was not over …

as they had hoped it might be.

A garden became this memorial soon

and erased were the lies that had blackened the truth.

Dignity restored its shiny glossto words read anew …

of six million lost.

Toward heaven it points

in neither doubt nor shame,

history reminding our memories lame.

That even those departed …

must struggle to hone the spade

that will dig out

this spot

as

their

own.

Alan D. Busch copyright@2007

2007-08-27T20:24:00.000-05:00

"Around My House"

Dedicated to Hadar ...

Around my house

ere dusk fell.

my kallah I await

these words would tell.

Then memories awoke

of moments recall

the evergreen stands

and Ben so small.

I stand and look.

How it has grown!

Twenty years hence

many seeds have sewn!

The old basketball hoop ...

there once a time ...

when I could beat Ben,

a moment sublime.

In memory's flight,

I see only me ...

in this house once lived my children three.

Under Ben's window

wouldst I not know,

that wherein I now sit,

a few tears did flow.

I stepped back ...

to now and saw I did come

my kallah for whose love

my heartbeat

did

drum.

Alan D. Busch

2007

2007-08-27T20:07:00.000-05:00

From Your Room

From your room Ben
on this sixth year’s eve
I write these words
alone I grieve.
From your room Ben
lived herein our woes
in wee morning’s darkness
wrestled us our foes.
Where by your bedside
I sat many a night
afraid to leave you ...
lest return it might.
So Ben,
please remember…
never in doubt or need,
our love for you
was always agreed.
Accept these few words
your blue eyes to see ...
o’er these six years
mournful ...
without
thee.

Alan D. Busch
2007

2007-08-27T19:46:00.000-05:00

Mourning's Reflections

Illusory strength ...

quivering knees.

Witnessing ...

Irreversible finality.

Near the edge ... swaying,

clutching a moment's time more until words enough,

this end a beginning,

reality obscene.

Linger intimate friends,

voices hushed.

Sobbing disbelief ... soon resignation,

what choice ...really?

Faith, Thou art with me,

though alone I remain

but a shadow of time before;

a mound of earth returns to its void,

last glance, turn to depart

from this ground.

Fading memory searching ...

mind moments

yet

recalled.

Alan D. Busch

200

published Passing