Invaders to your land,
they mock the helping hand.
They ‘go’ to Germany,
where homes and food are free,
where Merkel gives dictates
to all the weaker states.
Part guinea pig, part cow,
she could teach Hitler how.
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(New Derry, Westmoreland County, PA)
I wonder what appeasing light, if any,may have eased your pain and strengthened youas blind and bleeding underneath the manywinding caverns of the hellish earth,your starved lungs gasping for a final breath,you prayed for some miraculous rebirthto justify the agony of death.But what your friends could rescue from the groundresembled only contours of a man.And…
I turn the stony corner
Today I am a mourner.Crows circle garbage binsbeyond the iron gate;two magpies poach hairpins;a sparrow comes too late,then flees the treasure chest.I move on, and I wait.It is here she will restbeneath the silt and sand,her headstone facing west.And still, I can’t withstandthe power of my grief.A tree can’t understandthe falling of its leaf.
We set out with our nets,
Where the dark water wetsthe breaking dawn, we etchwith sleepy mortal eyes.Voracious cormorantsscud, dive, and swiftly risefrom murky whirlpool currents,unwary silver breaminside their crooked bills.We sail as in a dreamwhile blood drips from their gills,our calloused dirty fingers,as always, mocked and scornedby clouds, an ache that lingers,the pain of prey unmourned.We watch enskyments, faceslooking heavenwards.Never…
When the mind melts in the cave of the skull,
will some victorious Socrates crawl—out of the depths, like a most secret self—beholding all things as they really are?Then, apostolic, but shunning the smell,will he crawl back down inside—to pole-starand enlighten the blind monkeys in hell?Fettered to our forefathers’ desiresand at odds with the light, no doubt those apeswon’t listen, for madness never tires,storming through…
Rumours may have reached you of
They’re largely true, the eyesof Don Quixote’s every lovelook down and almost see my flaskof wine, beer, whisky, rum,fuel that helped me comethis far, where bells now lift my mask.May cancer not say otherwise,dead too in the coffin,a lump that hurt often.Soon we will sever all our ties;re-enter mother’s wombthere where you see a tomb.
(Serbia 1999)
How to explain?Suddenlyshe lies in painamid debris―orphaned fingers,blood-stained blouse―a scream that lingersin her razed house.A girl who talksto bleeding palms―around her blocksand carpet bombs.2.A pilot shroudsthe truth and smilesamid the cloudsthree hundred milesback home to base.He cannot tellwhich was whose face.High over hell,his stealth’s black wingsstill mock the night,and fallen thingsin morning light.