A Clean Slate Between Us

“A Clean Slate Between Us”

We come to the Ten with a tired face,

Dragging the week, the doubts, the race.

Each one certain he’s failed again,

Silent despair tucked under his skin.

We sit together yet guard our pain,

Speaking of storms, of loss, of strain.

Not seeing how every careless word

Can drain the life from a friend unheard.

We say we came to give, to unite,

Yet carry the night into the light.

We forget the charge placed in our hand—

To raise the hearts, not help them sink in sand.

Because a friend does not need my truth

If my truth strips him of strength and youth.

He needs my fire, my borrowed breath,

Not my poetry dressed up as death.

The work is simple and cruelly clear:

Bring life into what’s trembling with fear.

Not wisdom, not depth, not clever lines—

But hope that says, “You’re doing just fine.”

To sit in the Ten is not to confess,

It’s to cancel myself for the group’s success.

If I leave him heavier than before,

Then I robbed the society at its core.

I must walk in like dawn after rain,

Even if inside I’m screaming in pain.

Because the slate is wiped—not by time—

But when I lift him, and he lifts mine.

Yesterday I faced a mountain too tall,

Ego roaring, ready to let me fall.

Today the same mountain shrinks to dust—

Not by my strength, but the friends I trust.

They didn’t argue, they didn’t explain,

They didn’t echo my doubts and pain.

They gave me a mood, a pulse, a start—

They believed for me with a borrowed heart.

This is the crime we repeat each day:

We come to receive, then get in the way.

We forget the law written sharp and plain—

The society lives or dies by what we bring.

So I stand accused—and I stand in love,

Because this demand descends from Above.

To be a place where a friend can say:

“Now I begin—today’s a new day.”

Not because the path suddenly cleared,

But because the Ten made courage appear.

And if I fail, then let this be true:

I will fail trying to give life to you.

And when we do this—man to man—

The mountain bows, the work begins.

The Creator smiles, unseen yet near,

Because hope walked in—and He followed here.

Standing for The Creator

Standing for the Creator

We work all day in this corporal life

Pulled between hunger and heavenly strife

Never asking, what’s the game?

’Cause every blow feels just the same

Everything sent us is meant to mend

The shattered will the heart must send

Not to escape, not to defend,

But face the place where cracks must bend

No running off when strength runs thin,

No holy mask to hide the sin

When faith goes dry and hope feels dead,

We stand on what the sages said

No bargain struck, no deal for light,

Just choosing truth in endless night

The work is done where no one sees,

Between the fear and bent knees

Each breath a vow we never said,

Each step a prayer the ego bled

Not crowned below, not marked by fame,

But known Above—by standing in His Name

Not seen by day, not praised by way,

Yet lighting worlds by how we stay

“NOT THE PAYCHECK — THE HANDS”

 

 “NOT THE PAYCHECK — THE HANDS”

 (English)

We don’t move unless there’s rest at the end,

We won’t lift a finger unless something bends.

It’s not laziness, no—this goes deeper than that,

We’re built from a Root that never once had to act.

Creation was born with a hunger inside,

A will just to take, to be filled, satisfied.

So why’s the table set, but the feast locked away?

Why’s the Light knocking softly, but we can’t say “stay”?

Because taking feels rotten when form’s not aligned,

Receiving for self leaves a bad taste behind.

So the Light pulled back—not from lack, not from fear,

But to teach us how to receive without shame in the mirror.

So what’s the reward? Not pleasure, not gold,

Not blessings stacked high or stories retold.

The paycheck is this—say it slow, say it true:

Give me the hands that know how to give You.

Not the feast—give me hunger that’s clean,

Not the wine—give me vessels unseen.

Give me screens, give me reflected flame,

So when I receive, I don’t feel the same.

There’s lines in the road—some you don’t cross,

Some you can walk but you feel the cost.

Some deeds are holy even done half-blind,

And some are empty if self’s on the mind.

Lo Lishma still walks toward the door,

Slow as hell—but it gets there for sure.

But Lishma? That sticks like bone to bone,

Each step tighter—till you’re never alone.

So don’t ask Heaven to spoil your plate,

Ask for a heart that can carry the weight.

Because when bestowal becomes who you are,

You inherit the table, the Light, and the star.

---

שִׁיר – עברית (Hebrew)

לא זזים בלי מנוחה בקצה הדרך,

לא פועלים בלי שכר שמרגיש בטוח.

זה לא עצלות—זה שורש קדום,

בורא בלי תנועה, בלי שינוי, בלי שום פגם.

הרצון לקבל הוא כל מה שנברא,

אז למה האור מחכה ולא נכנס כבר?

כי קבלה לעצמי צורבת בפנים,

בלי השתוות הצורה—זה נשאר חסר טעם בפנים.

אז הצמצום בא מאהבה מדויקת,

לא להסתיר—רק ללמד איך מקבלים באמת.

אז מה השכר? לא עונג, לא אור,

רק כלים להשפעה—וזה כל הסיפור.

לא האור—תן לי מסך יציב,

לא התענוג—תן לי לב שמקריב.

אור חוזר, כוונה זכה,

שאקבל רק כדי לשמח אותך.

יש אסור, מותר, ויש מצווה,

יש בלי כוונה ויש לשמה.

לא לשמה—זה לא אבוד,

אבל לשמה—שם נדבקים בייחוד.

אז אל תבקש תשלום מהשמיים,

בקש ידיים שיודעות להשפיע באמת.

כי כשיש כלים של נתינה בלב,

Same Boat Same Oar

I thought responsibility meant standing tall,

Doing my part, never ready to fall.

Fixing my steps, correcting my way,

Proving my worth day after day.

But the truth broke through like a merciless wave:

No one here asked me to be brave.

No one asked me to finish the race—

Only to care for the friends in this place.

We’re all in one boat, cracked and worn,

Floating between despair and dawn.

No one steering, no one clean,

Just broken hearts and borrowed dreams.

I have no power to fix a soul,

No strength to make another whole.

I can’t force light, I can’t command sight,

I can’t pull a friend out of night.

So where’s my work if I can’t perform?

Where’s responsibility if I can’t transform?

It hit me hard, simple and clear—

My job is to stay near.

To care when faith runs dry,

To hold the rope when spirits die.

Not to lift them, not to lead—

But to remind them we all need.

Responsibility isn’t doing it right,

It’s refusing to leave the fight.

It’s saying, “Brother, I’m just like you—

Same doubts, same storms, same view.”

And when that care is real and bare,

Something unseen fills the air.

Not from me, not from them—

But a force that flows when we don’t pretend.

That’s where the Light finds room to breathe,

Not in heroes, not in belief.

It moves when we finally see—

Connection is responsibility.

So I stop performing, I drop the mask,

I don’t ask who failed the task.

I take my place, shoulder to oar,

Same broken boat, same sea, same shore.

And somehow—listen, this is true—

The boat holds steady, the sky breaks through.

Because when we care without demand or claim,

Bestowal rows in our name.

Stand Guard

 Stand Guard

One must stand guard when the heart wants sleep,

When the mouth says faith but the tears won’t weep.

When lessons play and the body’s there,

But the soul is missing its daily care.

We say “day” when the light feels near,

We say “night” when the goal’s unclear.

But truth cuts deep when we check inside—

We guard the hours, not the fire we hide.

We wake for lessons, coffee in hand,

But who’s evoking the heart of the man?

Who knocks on the chest when the friend goes quiet,

When absence becomes our silent diet?

We mourn the missing, yet still move on,

Calling it patience, calling it strong.

But love that waits and never calls

Is fear dressed up as spiritual walls.

We say, “He’s busy,” “Life’s too tight,”

While hearts drift off into endless night.

What’s missing isn’t the chairs or names—

It’s the cry that burns without shame.

What’s missing is trembling, raw and loud,

Not polished prayers or spiritual pride.

What’s missing is fear of losing the bond,

Fear of a ten that forgets its one.

We guard our comfort, our roles, our place,

But not the breach in a brother’s face.

We guard the form, the times, the law—

But who guards the love that must never pause?

And here the blade cuts clean and true:

The missing piece… is me and you.

Not them who drifted, not fate, not time—

But our refusal to cross the line.

For to evoke a heart is to bleed first,

To choose their lack above your thirst.

To shout into darkness, “You’re not alone,”

And stake your soul on that single tone.

And now—the rise, the oath, the flame:

We stand as guards in the Creator’s name.

Day or night, joy or collapse,

We wake the heart till the sparks relapse—

Till love ignites without command,

Till the ten stands whole, one heart, one man.

And the night itself begins to sing,

Because we guarded everything.

There Is a Chair Still Warm

 

“There Is a Chair Still Warm”

We didn’t gather by chance, we were pulled by a thread

From a spark in the heart to the words that were said

From Israel nights when the sounds weren’t clear

Still the bond was forming, even through fear

We learned without language, through effort and pain

When Hebrew fell silent, the heart still remained

Not every word landed, not every line fit

But the longing was louder than intellect

Carl held the line when the work felt tight

James burned like a candle, pure love, pure light

Jean ran the race till the world called his name

Oscar carried burdens we never could blame

Time pulled them sideways, work pulled them away

But love doesn’t vanish just ‘cause life gets loud in the day

There’s a seat at the table that still knows their shape

And a space in the circle no one can replace

Now Carl still anchors, steady and true

Terry brings warmth in all that we do

Joe Bash with fire, Joe Donnelly with care

Derick stands firm, shoulders squared in prayer

Louis brings depth where silence speaks

Ilya holds truth when the ego leaks

Aron arrives with a heart wide open

And I stand with them, cracked — but chosen

But hear this clear, and hear it from love

The work doesn’t move without help from above

And above doesn’t move without hearts down here

Showing up tired, confused, sincere

Lessons aren’t lectures, meals aren’t food

They’re stitches that hold the shattered soul glued

When one goes missing, the fabric feels thin

The light hesitates… waiting to enter again

We don’t need perfection, we don’t need strength

We need your presence — that’s the length

Of the bridge that carries us over the fall

One missing heart weakens the call

So if you’re reading this late, worn down, unsure

Thinking your absence won’t change the cure

Know this — the Ten is not whole without you

And the Creator is waiting through what we do

The chair’s still warm, the plate’s still set

The lesson still aches for you to be met

Come sit with us — broken, late, afraid

That’s exactly how this vessel is made

Fear That Gives Birth To Joy

“Fear That Gives Birth to Joy”

I thought fear was shadows, chains, and cold,

A trembling heart afraid to step out bold.

I thought joy was laughter, light, and song,

Never knew the two could walk along.

I feared the pain, the loss, the shame,

I feared being called by Heaven’s name.

But deeper still, a quieter cry—

What if I take… and sever “why”?

Not fear of blows, not fear of fire,

But fear my hands betray desire.

That I receive just for my sake,

And split the bond I ache to make.

The Light stands still, it never flees,

No change above—only in me.

The screen is thin, the heart is small,

Yet still He waits… through every fall.

The earth is full of glory bright,

Yet I walk blind in borrowed sight.

Faith above reason, dry and tight,

Until the fear guards truth at night.

Not fear of lack, not fear of loss,

But fear of stepping off the cross—

Of bestowal, love, restraint,

Where ego screams and faith feels faint.

And there—right there—the miracle starts,

Fear builds vessels out of shards.

From trembling hands, a place is made,

Where shame dissolves, and joy can stay.

No bread of shame, no stolen flame,

Only love returned the same.

And joy arrives, not loud, not fast—

But deep enough… to last.