Survivors

Survivors
Cornell University,
Ithaca, NY

First day of spring
break and the grounds
crew is out in
throngs scraping death
into little piles
from under
campus shrubs
and into plastic bags

two students jumped
from suspension bridge
last week,
Engineers,
and now
they're installing
fences on
the bridges
that span gorges,

tall, metal-mesh barriers,
like those hastily constructed
for prisoner of war camps,
to keep nature from seducing
stressed students
to its waterfall pools,
and black rocks,
administrator-approved
containment of all learning
in the brick and mortar,

sad reminders
of World Trade
Center jumpers,
the women locked
in Triangle Shirt Factory
fire, fashionably black
Victorian boots
on high narrow ledges, toe-ing the emptiness,
the place
we all reach
when pushed.

A Survivor's Memory

Twelve years under a survivor’s
skin, gnawed bones of a forgotten name;
crumpled skeletal figure and wrinkles of age,
Now and then the tongue sits
nestled in the cot where the
tooth bridge with gold filling used to lay.

Burning blauschein, an old parchment of livelihood
marked by a dissolving blue stamp,
what bittersweet paradox of
love and hate,
life and death.
Bony fingers along the ashes, trailing like
strands of hair
singed, falling along bones
charred, of
the rise and fall of limbs thrown into a mountain.
Dust of human ash -
No, by law blood is not to be consumed with flesh.

Yellow star of David, once loved star
now despicable cuff band like one tattooed
blemish on white sheep.
Forcing the old sweet
memories of
tefilin laid on the arm and
on the head Tallit and Kippah, but
one may not forget the Shabbat is rest.

Human nakedness embracing Purim
casting lots:
Mist that falls from the head,
Is this rain today?
Of the empty metal tins discarded everyday,
Z-y-k-l-o-n-B
disposing persons,
shameful unspeakable unaccountable numbers
enumerating 1.2 million, maybe more.
Inside the darkness –
Chai, life,
savagely you were earned.

Oskar.

Little Goshen churning out enamel
blueprints of 1200 lifetimes,
of gratitude, and the much needed
essential workers.
The final product: one golden filling, a golden ring,
and an old adage,
He who saves a single life saves the entire world.

And now, Yad Vashem. Pebbles. Rocks. Tombs of the righteous.

Mensch.

Scranton (Survivor Poem)

The paradise I never been to and have no desire to visit.

It always seems to lie just in the middle
Of wherever I’ve going
And wherever I’ve been.

It’s a bottomless pit, a dead end street
Of second guessing; which way should I go?

Should I even bother leaving?

It takes a mountain of courage
To drive down into the valley
Only to have to climb back up again,

A paradoxical pleasure of sweet sugar and tangy lime lemonade
In knowing the glass is half full
And yet half shattered
Against the smoke-ridden sky
And the deep gray exterior that dulls all light to come across it.

But I am the survivor.
I will hearken to the journey’s cry
And leave the pit of my despair,

For I am here. Now.

New Theme: SURVIVORS

Hi All,

Let's try this theme out for next Friday, March 19th.

Eric

Why I Married (Motive Theme)

I've always been good
at removing the tags
from Salvation Army purchases

I can slowly peel the old, blue
sticky prices from Syracuse
china without leaving a trace

My specialty is removing
the stubborn bent steel
staples from well
worn chenille shawls
using the heavy
iron letter opener
adopted after
Roger's suicide

it's my job, my offering, my sacrifice

to dig through our used
plastic purchases:
to carefully unfurl
the balled up sport coats,
Christmas tree skirts,
flowered table cloths
and hippie knick-knacks

to meticulously remove
the prices set on
memories, marriages gone bad,
birthday gifts that missed
their mark

we make things old, new again,
to us, and our home

each day we treasure
our memories, make
worth in that which
others throw away

"Motive"- Robert Bruce

White Christmas baby
Lies asleep in the manger
Of his mother’s arms
Eyes still as the night
You brought him home
Seven years ago.

I’m reminded of the nights
Marching sluggishly through the mountains
Of misfit toys and crayon-crusted drawings
To where the prince and his pea
Lie royally aware
Of some unfathomable disturbance in the universe.
I could hold him for days
Before the searing cries and the crashing sound waves
Would revert back to the serene washings of the shore
That always seemed to come right around daybreak.

But I also remember
The whitewashed, cookie and cocoa mornings
Spent defying gravity by making wings in the snow.
The mauve and maroon stillness of 5 am
Sitting on the beach with grimy bait and dew-covered tackle.
The undeniable, unrelenting urge
To blow bubbles in the dinnertime milk
And to race to the top of the glass
Just to see mom’s face turn bright red
With envy
As she poured her own glass and joined
In the everlasting fountain of wisdom and youth.

Now, it all makes sense.

"five vignettes of motive" by christine

if, there is a pulsation
stronger than this
red force throbbing, pooling,
meeting at that intertwined bridge
this nexus of life and death
they call umbilical.     if, there

is a fiercer suckling
drawing survival
white milk trickles down rosy cheeks
from sore dark nipples
what then, oh
toothless babe?

if, there is one place
loftier than everest
yet forbidden like eden's apple
broken teeth and bones cannot dissuade
this persistent scaling of wooden closets
for the cookie jar on high.     if, there

is a braver river than
the one called desire
this raging passion unrequited,
till it travels to a secret delta
ah, youth:
stolen apple is sweet.

if, there is a wound rawer
than holocaust
sickly sweet burning flesh
that never forgets,
may there always be the healing
balms of unconditional humanity.

if, there is a better good
that transpires color, languages, names, places
to bring shoes of gospel and peace
oh candle,
let it be bright
and let it burn on.