Walls
Dedicated to the family of my grandmother,
Regina Wallenstein, and the millions slaughtered by the Nazis while the
world turned a blind eye.
This poem was previously published in The
Ekphrastic Review.
I’ve walked these halls before,
seen the dimmed faces of those
born to die because they were Juden,
Jews.
Time-tattered images of people
frozen in time, matted on walls
like cheap paper.
Flammable.
Disposable
Eyes of the innocent open.
Eyes of the world shut.
Now I’m left wondering,
in a world once again
infested by
parasites of hate,
if this could ever happen
again.
We cannot forget
those who now live
only on walls.
Butterfly
Angel
This poem was originally published in Whispers.
A radiant mosaic of magentas,
crimsons, azures and aquas,
flickers against the misty glass
that houses the butterfly garden.
A living portrait of nature,
safe here from the wear of winter.
A silent room, except for the
gentle whoosh of painted wings.
Still wearing your wool cap
you enter the room, this haven
from chilly gusts, slushy streets,
melting ice, and smoky puffs of breath.
Here, butterflies float like jewelled confetti,
a pageant weaving looms of colour
a fleeting touch now and then
on a scarf, a shoulder, a mitten,
before streaming away again.
A lone monarch stays behind
with its nature-painted coral wings,
folded like a tiny map and clinging
to your winter cap, as if stuck in nectar.
You and your fragile passenger,
now the magical moment
captured by cameras,
planted in memories
in this microcosm of spring,
a shelter from red noses
and frozen fingers and toes.
Are butterflies angels?
Some say they are.
Is this your grandfather,
the man whom you so adored,
who robbed you of your joy and colours
when he died last spring?
Did he return just for a while
to splash colour on your world
to remind you that
he, too, is at one with you?
For so long you have mourned his loss.
Could it be that he never really left?
Outside the grey winter slush
had yet to melt, trees still dressed in dripping ice,
caterpillars unseen, still too early.
But you cast off your coat and hat,
your spirit warmed by a butterfly angel.
I saw your grandfather in your smile
as we walked back to the car and
you gushed about soccer in spring.
Museum
of Lost Souls
This poem was originally published in
Praxis.
She’s always by the door
hunched in her chair
serenading no one,
braiding and unbraiding
her angel-white hair,
thick as rope,
fingers bent with age,
caressing each frayed
strand, humming,
locked in the prison of
her mind.
Down the hall past the
babel of crying outbursts
of pain that will not heal,
my mother in her own hell.
Her room stinks, her hair
dirty, damp, hanging in her face.
The mother who straightened
my brows with spit, picked fuzz
off my coat, checked to see if
my part was straight and
seams matched was now just
another forgotten artifact
in the museum of lost souls.
Her once white teeth have yellowed
with age like an old photograph,
her value faded by time,
now just waiting among others
once treasured, vaulted
in darkness with food they won’t
eat, people they don’t know, family
who’ve drifted away, and staff too
busy to clean rooms that stink.
This is the museum of lost souls,
those once vibrant, treasured
by loving hands and minds
are stored out of view,
where the paintings of lives
have dried and peeled, revealing
empty caverns where spiders spin
beauty in the dusk of death.
When Vultures Loom
in memory of Philip (1988-2015)
This poem first printed in Open Door Quarterly
Nobody hears words spoken with a smile
and swallowed by despair. No one sees pain
behind eyes that shine. And no one knew
about Philip. He was a tall and lean man
of 27, raised in a loving family and embraced
by friends and teachers as someone who was
smart, friendly, and amusing. Especially amusing.
No one saw the vultures of sadness looming high
over dreams of death from sunup to sundown.
Not a soul sensed his solitude among friends.
They’d been blinded by his kindness, and when
vultures finally descended and he ended his life
with a gunshot to his head, the blast echoed in
an empty room. So many questions linger. So many
wounds that will never heal. Bloodstained walls
and carpet that will never be cleansed from memory.
Tears at his service spilled like red wine. Mourners
reflected on what could have been. Everyone wondered
what drove him to kill himself. Maybe they knew and
didn’t say. Maybe shame mutes truth until it’s too late.
Vultures soar in silence.
No Turning Back
She curled cozy and safe in her new soft, hooded bed,
lined with fleece, sheltered far from the clinks, clatters
and chatter on the street where she was found, trembling
on a cold wet pavement, plastered with leaves, caught
in the eye of a swirling wind two years ago. So tiny
a star against a cosmic canvas. Now a great comfort
to me in a dark and dangerous pandemic world.
Now, it’s the same routine every evening. Scratching
my sheets so I’ll get up, walk her into her room,
keep her company while she eats, walk her back
to my room, put her back on my bed, stroke her
gently until she falls back asleep and nestle her
until she wakes me before sunrise to start the routine
all over again. I tell her she can walk to her room all
by herself. That she can eat by herself, sleep in her own
bed, even walk back to my room and jump on my bed.
See? You have four legs! I say to her, holding her
beautiful calico paws with claws she’ll never let me
trim. She stares at me with her beautiful blue eyes
opening and shutting, pretending to understand.
I continue, pretending she is listening. I have two
legs and don’t tend to land on my feet if I jump.
She purrs. And as I do every night, I smile, pick
her up gently, carry her back to my bed, and stroke
her soft fur gently knowing as I nod off that
she will scratch my sheets when she decides she needs me.
She has trained me well
There is no turning back.
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