A child’s hand dangled from a scorched tree
and the twisted wreckage of a bus
mocked the stillness of the sky.
Gunner gagged, Ski scratched his head,
neither understanding why
he had to liberate the dead.
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What German family must have once lived here?
was freshly made, the face of every godand angel brand new. Nowadays they sneer,looking out sooty niches, ears and nosesriddled by history and acid rain.Wort and stinkweed prosper where once rosesbrushed against each crystal window pane.The name is ul. Konarskiego now,although the unkempt building still speaks German.Inside the tenants’ children do not ask howas late…
(October 2014)
while others who are new,wait stacked up on the floor.For you see: there’s a queueinside the Donetsk morgue.Death masks and private partshere are processed and tagged,cadavers on display,mere torsos, arms and legs,mouths open, nothing to say.They can no longer hearthe whistle of big guns,nor feel guilt in the nude.Outside, their blood still runsnear where they…
When cathedral bells toll through the morning
and arrows on the town hall clock stop turning,you will find him on the market square,sweeping leaves in shadows of despair.And in that instant you will cease your yearning.Hunchbacked, with a chuckle he will sharethe secrets of his heart, and give a warningto city doves assembling at his feet,to sparrows quarrelling on Neptune’s head.He’ll lower…
Something’s at it again
blackas the crowof sorrow.And once again:the stillnessof the Lordmid His holyimpending shadow,festers in the woundof a captured word.Abba,humble my ache,if you can,before my hungersteals another hymnfrom Eden’s tree,or Jesu’s bleeding hand.With half a wing,I am but breath and sincaged in this boonthe joyful savantscall life.Trembling,I place it before youlike a rune—wrought from strife.
After the tears, heartfelt tears and crocodile tears,
The plastic clock above the fridge strikes the hourto the sound of the same old quarrelling in the street,echoes resound in the gutters like bits of truthand madness still propels our globe like the first ache.We’ve buried you the way you asked: with no stoneor wooden cross above your decaying forehead,only the simple sky, the…
~Prisoner~
The frail cobwebThe peeling paintThe patient spiderThe good bookThe hard cockThe naked bulb-All I know of GodAs I enter and re-enterThis prayer.~Down in the Village~Too-the rats snortTheir own kindOf nirvanaIn the tunnelTo the sad placesBehind my eyes,Yon GolgothasFresh with new crossesEager to redeemFallen humanity.The discarded bagsOf chips,And the busted roachesOf the perpetuallyHighKnow the tedium,The noble…