Five Poems by Steven Pelcman

Grandfathers January 1945 

 

Village life surrounded by farms and cows

Cobblestoned streets where Romans had once

Walked marching to battles across the hills

Into valleys ringed in snow and forest,

 

Unwilling grandfathers, victims, one German,

The other Polish caught in the vacuum of war

Walking the Russian tundra feeling their bones freeze,

One mangled by gun bursts leaving his arms dangling

 

The other lost, wandering, his hollow eyes keep safe the dying

Breaths of family engulfed in flames, walking out of the

Emptiness of Russia and over the bodies and burning tanks

Littering the countryside as pools of melting snow bleeding out

 

And gobbling up the memories of every living thing

For thousands of miles. Neither believed in war but what

Does that matter when killing and dying is what you live for.

One Jewish, the other German, one a peddler, the other drafted

 

And a soldier, both leaving young children to remember chimney stacks

And warm knees, Friday night Seders and Church Sundays, both righteous

And afraid, both sharing the hatred, both living out the bone and blood

Of nations turned to rubble.

 

How different and alike they were, walking into the vast emptiness

Their skin thinned, veins bulging, their narrow frames more glass

Than human, shadows made of willows and air as if non-existent

Purged of whatever being human is.

 

Did their brains tighten and freeze. Could they stay alive by eating

The rotten food left in pockets or did they tear away flesh from a body

Forever looking down to smoke and chew to the sounds of hovering vultures.

You wonder if they talked of love or if they could remember what it is. 

 

Large Lizard in Florida 

 

We saw it on the side

Of the road raising its

Ancient head filling the

Grass and turning it brown.

 

Its agile but thick body,

A slithering Halloween mask,

Made me think of horror movies

Where a city is destroyed by some

 

Crawling mythical monster or

Worshiped by an old civilization

As a God, and as it sat there and poked

Its head out, Its ridged hard skin

 

And bulging eye evoked the end

Of the world, overrun by the usual

Suspects, rats and cockroaches,

Lizards that deflower the earth

 

And crawl over the ruins of mankind,

A wild thing that understands the earth

Better than I, that thrives in the Florida

Sun when I shrivel and lose energy.

 

It seemed larger than a kitten and its

Craggy appearance almost royal

And dignified was mysterious

And perhaps dangerous.

 

I felt that way once, as a child

When a stranger approached

And when goosebumps traveled

My body with fear.

 

I stared at that lizard for minutes admiring

It and wondering where it goes in the dark

Nights, if it takes shelter in the rain or if

At the end of the world who would eat whom. 

 

Blueberries For Breakfast 

 

I Eat blueberries for breakfast,

And taste their darkness in my mouth,

The forest rolls through me

Breathing in the early winter air

And lingering sweetness. 

 

As children, we picked blueberries

Carrying straw baskets in the woods

Surrounding South Fallsburg,

And in tree shadows they looked

Like pearls, little fists clutching

 

The night sky at dusk, shining

And withholding secrets

That it shared with the forest,

Just sitting there almost begging

Us to hold them, daring us to taste

 

Their blueness on our fingers and

Mouths, coating our tongues with

Words sweeter than the cool air,

But we dared not, knowing

It would spoil their perfection.

 

They sat still but the scent of pie

Swirled and you could almost taste

The crust and berry juice flowing

Out and see mother’s hands opening

The oven door and feeling the warmth.

 

Some darker than early October nights

Shaking on branches as I picked them,

They dangled in silence ready for plucking,

Some overripe, others bulging and hanging low

As if saying, they had the last laugh.  

 

Sea Journey 

 

Trust in the stars

Has brought him

To stand firm

Against the rolling

Waves that leap

Out of the dark sea

 

And sweep across the deck

With loving hands

Guided by eager dolphins

Leaving a trace of algae

Luminescence and sparkling light

Falling and dripping wet.

 

He steers into emptiness,

Into a black wall of air and wind,

And the muffled sounds of sea life,

And cannot escape fear and memories

Of childhood and a mother sinking,

Tumbling and pulled into the unknown.

 

As he drifts across

Steep cliffs and rocky shores

Of Lastovo where coves

Have buried the voices

Of sailors that have learned

To love the deep waters

 

Their bones have adorned and

Shipwrecks that lie beneath

The Adriatic for centuries,

Nesting among the brittle,

Aged wood and floating

Gems and silver coins.

 

The shoreline littered

With pine trees perfuming

The air mingles with the smells

Of Baklava and the distant voices

Of the Illyrians and Romans

Where the conquering never stopped. 

 

Ancient forests of Oak and Pine

Dotted with nests of hawks and

Falcons stare out at the shadows

Of lobsters and crabs crawling

Across the windy sands drenched

In glaring white light.

 

Sailing the seas is more than

Water and stars, more than

The darkness that holds him,

More than the water in his body

That floats dreams of sails

Flapping in the wind.

 

It is a journey of time

Forever revolving,

It is his soul

Seeking light,

And swallowing the darkness

Full of fear and joy. 

 

Birth

 

Her lips felt like land,

Dry and grisly, her eyes

Watered into tears,

Her body at the root

Longing for air

That held her

 

Firm, knowing

She could rise

On her own, hearing

Voices like blood

Stirring within her,

And that being human,

 

Was its own freedom.

Touch held warmth,

Color was as she

Had dreamed it,

And sound and movement

Were spatial and as she

 

Fell out, the earth

Was reborn.

Once again, miracles

Come to life

In the fleshy reality

Of eyes wandering

 

Fingers Curling and

Grasping for life,

A memory rehearsed

And practiced and

Religion was not prayer,

Or God, it was the light.

Steven Pelcman is a writer of poetry and short stories, a novelist and photographer who has been published in magazines including: The Windsor Review, The Baltimore Review Lit Mag, Fourth River Magazine, and many others. He has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes. Steven spent twenty-seven years residing in Germany where he taught in academia and as a language communications trainer and consultant. “Capturing the voices of humor or pain, making the small moments epic and witnessing the trials and tribulations of the human experience which captures the heart and mind is what drives the work.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

One Poem by Hana S. Elysia

 

Follow These Directions When Lost 

 

Do not hurry, do not rest

Keep flying toward the mountains due west

On easy wings, on blackberry sun

And when you reach the rivers, you’ve only begun

 

Now glide the forests of evergreen bough

The locus bone of home you’ll know

It glows and shimmers the nearer you get

On body’s call, on spirit’s bet

 

Past braided fields of golden-wave wheat

That tickle and sway and encourage your feet

To steady your pace, but keep you going

While galloping winds stride beside your flowing

 

And as the smell of sweet respite drifts close

Like flowery, honey-milk, bluebell verbose

Come hover and choose a perch, my dear

For now you’ve arrived at the place called Here.

Hana S. Elysia Thank you for considering my poem “Follow These Directions When Lost” for publication. It is 16 lines in length and has appeared on my personal site, but has not been published in any journals or magazines. My biographical statement is included below. I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Five Poems by Maria Downs

A GLIMPSE OF ETERNITY

 

This peace fulfilled, as an oasis of rapture

within the solace that thrills,

as a bird free, that glides upon the winds,

warbling its notes that ripple velvet whirls,  

while he sings –

 

so rests the recess of the heart, remaining still,  

as a glass lake,

calm, as the ancient hills, loathed to awake

and alert the mind to a voice that stirs without,

demanding jibes for bread,

plagued by anguish without a love to own,

as near or close about.

 

Paradise in this, as a nirvana where a mentor speaks,

rolling letters, as waves that hurl

or the winds that blow upon the heath.

 

Though time floats, as precious, 

within the mayhem of souls’ lives,

goading to work, earn more gold

to thrive upon each quest, to survive –

 

yet strange it be, to clearly see the span of years

all, as one,

the past present and future,  

as you await each day for the morrow sun,

enveloping all, yet to ascertain for sure

the present moment to esteem, to enfold,  

like nectar’s honey oozing, pure

within the tranquil – laden, sanctuary,  

be it remote or obscure.

 

Heaven calling within this realm,

as hours toll, the church clock affirms,

the onset of eve and the coming sunrise lost, by this spell.

 

Traversing dreams to feel and believe,

in the wonder of beauty’s care,

in the heart alone, in each natural scene.

 

Lest the rains will chase away

those pages of words that remain,

uphold this gift, yielding joy, that rings,

the mind that senses all, in every little thing.

 

Turn away no more, to read

the romance verse, where the imagination leads

to a place, as those azure skies,

to eternal live, to never die.

 

A GLIMPSE OF LIBERTY

 

Alone, as the soul floats blind,  

like the wild, river to the sea,

so stays the bliss, to indulge, amidst this sweet cradle of

peace,

as the gentle dove rests to dream of this,  

that frees the heart and mind,

when the world seems to dissipate, crumble,  

like a shattered mosaic,

content at last, to remain lost and bewildered,

by all observed and seen.

 

To long no more for life, save amidst this lost mind,

where the senses remain intact, amidst this euphoria,

though asleep to the furore, beyond, in the city streets,

where all will cry, will need.

 

Bliss to be thus, where ecstasy swells and sings,

ambling wild and alone, amidst myriad imaginings,

with the heartbeat’s thrill,

treading light – foot, through golden fields,

sensing paradise, so near, espying, the magnet sun,

hear the blackbird calling, upon the winds.

 

Can love swell elsewhere, when it rests and remains, thus

within this glorious midst,  

where life eternal, pulsates its beats,

brushing sweeps of the wild green,

the willowy leaf,  the ribbon – like, weaving grasses,

that bend and sway, upon the breeze?

 

Trailing loose, as a soul that wanders alone,  

upon this winding road,

elated to embrace the dawn at morn,

the song thrush chirping, its velvet tones,

that resound, amidst the sunny blue.

 

Joy thus, blazes its colours and hues,

like the heart’s healing inner, voice of light,

to endless stay, as a tiny wren -  

frail and captive -

to this distant call, to this final grasp

of what one knows,

yet loathe, too

this recurring, pounding sound, this wave of might,

descending instead, at last, into a welcome peace,

at the bliss of night,

where at last, the mind stills, gazing at rest,

at the reflection, of the world

amidst this calm, still mirror pool of the soul.

 

Hungry no more, for nought,  

but the place of death, of woe,

where the heart is released, from all that ensnares,

chasing butterflies free, upon the air

carefree, as the winds that blow.

A LONELY WOMAN

 

The scars hurt: walking steadily into the night,

would to be a night of delight.

Alas, the wandering snake within

writhes, hedging upon deaf ears, in the din.

 

To feel a beat, a whisper of hope

when the tired body seems barely afloat.

Crisis crumbling, like old buildings in the blitz

recall to memory a mother’s pain

dimly hearing, sweet birds again.

 

To die in a dream of bravery

though anchored in a body of slavery -

leave well alone, silence invites,

a kingdom of peace still, in the light.

 

Live, as senses will be dumb

though clamour of the city

thrives on feelings won.

 

Drift – bliss, like the wave:

sleeping baby, brave –

as the tides will wash away

the longing for light, at the end of day,

yet your iron will only remits, as the falling rain

to hear the lonely voice or some savage wit, once again.

 

Wanting someone to forgive,

as you taste the fruits in richness to live

yet knowing all will fail, as the ashes turn to dust,

each man of truth or beauty thrust -

 

while sensing those scars upon your heart

outcast, from a world that starts

with power thronging, like booms of noise

crushing, the flower of your voice.

 

So alone, yet still at peace

within the idyll of your dreams,

as you hear each wave, the call of sea

to know of home, by those lonely trees.

ABIDING CLOSE TO THE HEALTHY GREEN

 

So hushed and still rests, the cool evening of night,

that seems to lullaby the soul, thrilling,  

with such an acute, perceptive sense, of natural life -

bringing this tranquility, into a soothing balm,

while the tawny, owls hoot, from afar,

as if in adulation, of this hushed, silent dream

under the stars.

 

Can the heart need no more?

 

Only, suffice to be, to hear, see, no more,

the mundane coarseness, gabbling,

in the city’s dirty streets

but only, for what, in the end,  

does not satiate, the lost, wild spirit,

nor fulfil, each searching heart,  

for love, for a little, peace.

 

Deceptive therefore, remains the life,

to but, only esteem, with each holler, each cry,

but the aspirations, of wealth or luxury,

while though you be entranced,  

only, to seek out, each song of the blackbird, 

the mellifluous sound of those clear waters, that flow

filling up, the sense

replenishing the spirit, as to remain, lost and bewildered,

by such merry elation, of folks’ steady, cash flow.

 

Call me a fool, to indulge, in escapist fantasy,

aware, all the while, of such, that thwarts each life,

be it, through loss of love,  

the greed and hoard of monies, more

though you be ousted out,

as the nerve jars, over such resounding, paraphernalia

upon by what, or whom, such,  is gained.

 

Let me linger, for many hours and years, to come,

treading light – foot, in the silvery snow

amidst the cold and still, so joyous,

to dance in the sun, that, at the dawn of spring,

will heat much, that parades and boasts its colours,

when Apollo’s gift, comes.

 

In love, eternal, with the eye and ear,

rejoicing always, with this old, reminiscence,

of the first music, that intoxicates, the sense,

from the very beginning, of the vibrant green,

coating the lands and spruce,  

of each living, home of trees.

 

Aware endless, of this, so old and ancient,

that ripples waves, of velvet tones,

steeped in each valour, to join in, the hunt

to praise these feathered ones,

the greatest ones, who orchestrate, the very skies

the true reminders, of one’s own mortality,

when death strikes, its fatal blow –

 

mourners, side by side, at each grave, shed tears,

as the little, winter robin, upon the cold headstone,  

sings with each refrain -

its plaintive notes, to those far distant, skies,

as if carrying, with each song,

each whim, fret or strife

towards the sun and moon, to the stars, at night

perennially, upon this eternal wheel,

this eulogy, to comfort and bless, alone,

amidst this wilderness, of the ancient green,

the unfathomable seas, the sun and moonbeams,

of our one and only, home.

AGELESS SANCTUARY OF A SOUL

 

Furore raving waves of sound,  

of voice and music beats,

that sweeps its pulse and blare, harps and snaps,

with all souls engaged, within the bane of work trades,

to plod with grit, as slaves.

 

But what of this?

To leave only, but monies load,

this irksome harangue, to dwell, twixt one another?

So remains the populace, in need for love, or surface gain,

Perhaps, to feed the flesh, on fire, each night

and fulfil each lustful, appetite?

 

Yet soulless, does each sense receive this, to be,  

as the notorious, epitome of class -

observing, alone -

this frail demise of one, gazing lost, to all

seeming, but fruitless, filling not, this inner well, within

where the clear waters flow -

finding no rapport, with minds that dwell, not

where this harmony of peace,  

as the blackbird that swells with song,

at the early hours, of each summer’s morn.

 

Regarding little, with such enterprise,

that tarries not, with such, as these

within an abode, where a heart of bliss resides,

amidst the hushed realm, in awe of each word,

that inspires, that expounds from the head,

like the boom and rush, of those cascading falls.

 

This endears light and serene, amidst the imaginings,

like the floating, feather that softly, falls

silent and wisp – like,

as the cool, brush of fragrant winds,

that carouse the heart, once more, to live

amidst this solace, where erupts, each prosaic dream.

 

No man, nor life, could bind with this closeness,

to much, that lingers and wavers, as upon the very brink,

yet recalls still, this overspill, of much that is wondrous,

with each faint, distant nuance of sound,

that receives such, that is fair, so much of beauty

only, to merge and flow,  

into an endless call of timeless verse,  

held silent, with one, who thirsts,

for what only belongs, with the ethereal realms,

where solitude plays out, this parade and dance,

of what exists, in its essence,  

but pure love of the heart and mind,

amidst this solace resting, within.

 

Hearing not, this brawl and swagger, to labour hard,

but submitting only,  

to this fertile landscape of the inner world,  

where butterflies will flit, upon each rose briar

and larks herald each morning’s dawn.

 

So, drifts the nomad soul, that skips and whirls,

alighting upon every beauty word,  

at last, threading ribbons of light,

by what is thrilled to ignite, but each sense,  

through what one writes -

the eye to espy, the listening ear

in awe, of this streaming flow,

the eternal song, that carries all, that resounds,

with but joy and peace,

to the very frontiers, of the fathomless, sea.

 

So, in this way, the mind will release,

these sweet songs, of silent words,

ageless, as the stars born, yet only, to die,

gazing alone, to sense far, beyond

and so, to feel each joy, each woe,

upon this ever spinning, cosmic wheel.

Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul,  for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.

Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language  and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.

She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”.