Cafe Oleh invites readers to submit their poetry for publication. Please send a maximum of two poems at a time.
DIVISION
Mel Waldman, New York, USA
"I am a Jew!" I shout into the Void. A vast silence
caresses me, comforts my wandering soul.
Quiet waves of revelation rise from the Void and
rush slowly toward me, whispering:
"We are one."
Yet I recall the Sabbath warning of the Rabbi only a
week ago: "There must be no division among our
people!"
How can we survive when we are divided by labels,
rituals, and sects that separate us-lacerating our
Jewish souls?
Furious waves of anti-Semitism flood the earth today
from without and within.
In this age of terrorism, when no one is safe, especially
the Jew, I weep when I witness Jew against Jew.
I weep at the Wailing Wall of my soul.
I weep for our Holy Temple.
Shouting silently into the Void, I howl:
"I am a Jew!"
* * *
A PLACE CALLED TRANQUILITY
Mel Waldman, New York, USA
When I was a young man of questionable faith, as fragile as my
mother's heart that kept breaking down, especially in the dead
of night (the raw, rending scent of foul death and the fierce,
frozen sound of the ambulance shrieking-intruding upon sacred
silences),
I launched an invisible message into the suffocating air (sometimes
I couldn't breathe when Mother had an attack), praying for her, and
asking G-d to guide me to A PLACE CALLED TRANQUILITY. Yet
the power of prayer-my prayers-couldn't save Mother nor take me to
this holy temple.
After her death, when she lay in her coffin, Father forced me to kiss her
cold forehead and say goodbye. I did. Although I was lost and lacerated
(my soul ripped apart), numb, and almost paralyzed (my body barely moving
in an invisible vertical coffin), terrified and sad beyond comprehension (dead,
of course, for many years), I knew that Mother was already far away, in a place
unknown to me.
Over the years, I've grasped shards of faith, only to let these fragmentary pieces of
soul slip away. And although raised an Orthodox Jew, I am a self-proclaimed
"spiritual Jew," visiting the Tree of Life synagogue from time to time,
where I was bar mitzvahed and married, no longer adhering
to strict rules and rituals.
Now, each day I search for Mother and G-d in a private place-in a
secret landscape within.
I have beautiful dialogues with Mother and I beseech G-d
to reveal Himself to me.
Sometimes I recite the Shema:
"Hear Oh Israel, the Lord our G-d, the Lord is one."
And I keep searching for
A PLACE CALLED TRANQUILITY.
I've never found it. Yet I've been
swept away in transient waves
of tranquil revelation-sweet
moments of peace.
When I speak silently,
launching my soul
into theVoid, I
do not know if
my voice is heard.
Am I engaged in
transcendent
dialogue or my
saddest,
emptiest
monologue?
Still, I speak
with my
soul.
I must.
* * *
winter soulscape
J.B. Mulligan
Is the god of snow
in the sky
or on the ground?
Does it rise to itself
as a mountain?
Our ignorance and love
cling frozen to rocks
awaiting transformation,
transubstantiation,
as a lung desires to be
the breath it takes,
aching, and exhales.
Gulls keen under clouds
for the nothingness they've lost,
for the crack in the egg
and the falling apart.
The echo sounds
like a blunted joy
that hangs from the wind.
* * *
a skin of small content
J.B. Mulligan
His body sets
and settles in the shape
of what he's done. The hope
to grow has shrunk
to fit him now,
a skin of small content,
a failure to invent
a larger skin.
Perhaps he's done
what he can. He's done enough
to feel, or fool himself
into feeling, mildly
fulfilled - and he's not
done yet. The solar pull,
the strong, occasional
tug toward light:
he moves in that
direction when he moves,
the shadow of younger selves
under his feet
a gravity
that holds him straight, and back -
Siamese twins: the dark
arctic chill
in sedentary
blood, as sudden starts
a winter of the heart,
season of stone
medusan gaze
within; and the wanton gush
of alcoholic rush
as the inhaled world
expands in him
toward itself, vast
and local, a breathy gust
encompassing
the sky. With each
contraction and swell, he seems
to shrivel, like fruit consumed
by ripening -
a tree which bears
and spills and bears til, sap
receding, the branches drop
diminished sweet.
The tongue will taste
whatever it can; this meat
is what he has to eat.
The stomach grabs,
the body settles
for sustenance - and finds
what it is: a home to winds
of contrary clime.
He stands beside
the uninvented night,
fingering what he's got
and what he's lost.
* * *
This I know of you now
Joseph Balasa, Vancouver, Canada
I know you sit there beside your window
And I see you cry
But not for the souls that are gone,
And not for the one of them that is mine
No, not that - you say to me across time,
The rivers that you made with your tears now gone dry
Not the time that stands still
And not the thoughts that come
And sit with me
No, not your soul that you hid from all of us frequently,
That is not what you want me to know of you
As you cry silently into my soul now…
I know all this to be in you
As it is in me for now...
* * *
Negev
Joseph Balasa, Vancouver, Canada
I cupped your face in my hands
And looked into your darkly deep eyes
I held your heart on my palm
And added to it mine
And while the world turned around in my mind
Your eyes lit my ways
To tortured heights and blue skies
It was just the sun in the desert called Negev
Burning blisters on my skin
I had to leave again
To tend the ways that all in time must obey
I was the Negev with its dark secrets
Not white like Rosh Hanikra, but black
Like the night that hides all
I was there and then I had left again
I knew this place the second time now
When it was created and now when it just existed
All was there with me again,
Yanikra too
But with a different name
I asked as always when I returned there:
Why do we have but to forget to change our names?
Now my memories keep the place sprinkled with the black sand
That I left there the last time,
To remember you again and again
In our futures gone back into the pasts
With murdering illusions of happiness
We stood there again
Under the suns of the Negev…
* * *
I want to....
Gayle Burrell, Newark, NJ, USA
I want to make love so deep your heart must cry
And tears flow freely from your eyes.
Each tear I kiss to make it dry
Begets the need deep down inside
To catch and hold your every sigh.
As stars ascend we don't ask why
they foretold a path as yet untried
and the passage our lives defy.
* * *
Leering Past Times
Joseph Balasa, Vancouver, Canada
Oh, the silences that dwell in my cries
And words pour from the lips
While smiles distort my face
Just for the tears
To forever flow
To you
Heartless one with a breath that destroys happiness
Brought the life and deaths to me
With a single call of yours
To forever retreat behind
Walls of memories
That will never fade
Even on the planes of deaths
That I lived many, many times
You were meant for me to torture
And for pains on the planes of life eternal
In places where only blood may flow
To bring the dead alive in misery
There you walk now amongst yours
Those know only themselves to blame
And your pains to send to me
In your arms once life became death
And death avoided me for ever
To hunt me in memories
Of parting our lips in cries
To safeguard the silences in us
And convert them into pains
As your arms fell away from me wilting
Love only that suddenly disappeared
To our leering past times
Where we both lost our hearts…
Listening to Hatikvah with my heart...
One people in god
Step forward now
To bow to fate
Which pursues you
To tear you apart
One people stay aware
And listen to the world's wails
As you live your life
Step forward and claim your place
As one people
Claim your place
Oh god, do not give up on us
Oh god
We are one with you
Do not leave us
To wonder the forever
* * *
Oh it is time?
Joseph Balasa, Vancouver,Canada
How time rolls away into my past
And your eyes are again full of tears
Your head bent on my shoulder
Your soul is now open
Oh how time rolls away!
The room we are in is dark
As it was in the past
When we could not talk
Of the feelings that make one's future
And binds the dust that
Always appears as our past
Oh how time rolls away from all of us!
Once I have seen you smile in the dark
Perhaps not wanting me to know
The light that moved into you
You closed your eyes to all tears
And secretly partaken of the feast
That turns on all the lights in us
Oh how time knows to roll away from all of us!
I sat there once - beside you
Murky and aghast
I saw us part and smile faintly at the sun
As it set in the West
We did not know what to do
To save the moment and make it last
Oh how time rolled away from both of us!
In the night under the bombs
I went to search for my children
They were lost in the night
Left my house
I knew I had to find them
Amidst the explosions, running
Somebody said passing by:
They are bombing Belgrade!
It was midnight and dark
There a dog barked
All scared to death
Just like the ones that owned him for so long
With thumping heart I bled inside
If my son died - oh my god!
I cannot live with that pain
If I find him dead it was all for nought!
Oh my god!
Where to look? Where to seek?
He went to see friends of his,
Can I be sure he can still be there?
Then there was a big thump -
And in my arms there was my son
Hardly a block away - I said to him:
We have to reach our house
There among the tall apartments we will be safe!
We went another block - then another thump
And all scared we ran to safety
There it was waiting for us at the end of the block!
When my son small and shivering
Suddenly stopped,
We were standing there, scared, bleeding, aghast
As in front of us was our once beautiful and safe house
All blown by bombs apart
I cried as I told my son:
My dear you saved both of us this night,
My dear naughty son,
I love you so much!
To my relief quite far away from us
Another bomb just went off!
* * *
Freedom
Emily Marks, Haifa, Israel
Cost of freedom high
Was either that or die
Chose to master this new tongue
Silent words of gratitude sung
Can't believe we are still here
No longer living in ceaseless fear
Two years ago
This ball and chain fell below
We were freed from Egypt
Who ever thought
It would be
So difficult just TO BE
After 20 years
Of verbal and emotional slavery
Freedom is divine
Nothing compares to peace of mind
Now we can be a family
Chance to live without
The devil's choke-hold on us
* * *
Meter Madness
by Ray Walker, Jerusalem, Israel
'Tis the night before class
And I feel so obtuse
Not a meter is stirring
Asleep is the muse.
Come Spondee, come Trochee, come Dactyl, I cry
Not even Iambic deigns to reply.
I throw up my hands
I'm ready to flee
Then out of the blue, I hear
"How about me?"
"Oh my savior, redeemer,
Preserver," I sputter.
"Here am I, use me,"
Anapest utters.
I spring to the keyboard
In fiendish glee,
And pound out these lines
In Pyrrhic victory.
* * *
Words are Strung
by Gayle Burrell, Newark, New Jersey
When you pulled the string from my chest,
my knees would melt and my breath suppress.
But, after a while the string turned to toil
and the tug of the chord caused my heart to recoil.
That string was suppose to release the words
that spark the heat to weld the worlds
and expose emotions, for a kiss alone leaves
a tether unspoken.
But strings are spun as words are strung;
they concatenate lives, within and among.
Without the words what connections exist?
Voiceless assumptions, unfounded deductions?
A watchful glance, capacious stare?
A bodily stance, a hopeful hand laid bare?
Perhaps perceptions depends on the twine;
the links commensurate with words- cruel, kind or blind -
for they all exist within a drop of mankind.
It's a matter of choice which makes our tongues more refined.
Gilded words can form webs of silk.
They discriminate not what's ensnared and bestilled.
Its charisma attracts, but it ne'er releases
the body or soul of what it beseeches.
Reticent words spin a web of tenuous thread
through fragile fiber most easily shred.
Circumscribed expression and guarded intentions
make this ineffectual milieu an unsatisfying connection.
Omitted words, either ignorant or strategic,
are a secret record of dispositive nature and
can be the cruelest of forms, serving only their maker.
Their intentions to obscure a communication's conclusion
leave the receiver dreading what's behind the occlusion.
Confident words of clear intent are often
spoken by those with no need to invent.
They can be unprompted inquiries that seek to explore,
sentiments of support for those who need more,
or provide redirection while respecting one's core.
They anticipate reactions, provide answers to questions,
and with tempered emotions, thoughtful conventions,
they open the door to fluid convection.
Confident words don't reflect just the speaker,
they effect and connect when they presage the receiver.
Perhaps the quality of our words, within the context of life,
form the thread of our years the Fates sever in stride.
Through deeds of silver, mouths of gold, a cloth of honest efforts wove,
but the most basic elements are the words we mold
for these bind the string which embodies each soul.
So, while Lechsis may apportion and Atropos expend,
Perhaps Clotho the spinner dictates in the end.
The quality of thread, its texture and feel,
its strength and resilience, the amount of its yield
are spun from the words we chose to unreel.
Yet, Zeus would cringe at Atropos' hinge;
no one's beyond her predestined singe.
The great leveler at last may cut down our years,
but wouldn't it be great if her shears drew some tears?
* * *
Always Ask For Freedom
by Johanes Franzen, Stockholm, Sweden
They came down the mountains/hungry and cold
Looking for mercy/see they hadn't been told
That the world ran out of mercy/many years ago
They showed me their children/if hearts could tell
About poor little angels/ going through hell
I wish I had the power/to make some bastards pay
A boy mourns his sister/while learning of pain
Whilst the world gently yawns/ mothers cry in vain
'Cause tears is all you'll ever get from crying
The men they are dreaming/cleaning their guns
prayer to God/ teaching their sons
To always ask for freedom/never nothing less
Always ask for freedom and never nothing less
So early in the morning/before the sunrise
You can see them heading for the border/with no mercy in their eys
'Cause these men whom fights for freedom/are learning every day
That tears is all you'll get from crying
* * *
Commonplace
by Martin A. Baker, Philadelphia, PA, USA
It hadn't been anything spectacular. The sky had been a bright grey as on so many good English
days. After watching an old movie on the telly they had ridden to Cambridge by coach. They had walked through the ancient city arm-in-arm looking into shop windows. They had eaten something (he couldn't remember what) and drank a glass each of red in some little cafe. They had stopped on a bridge to watch a duck, a drake, and their ducklings paddle by. He couldn't remember a single word of a day's worth of conversations.
She had worn a short grey coat of wool. He had wondered if she were cold with all the walking but had said nothing. She would have protested anyway and insisted they walk a bit more to prove she wasn't bothered. That was her way.
And so it was many years ago. Nor was it a question now of happiness or unhappiness. Who could honestly remember after so long a period of time? It was, however, a matter of persistence; of why the memory would return to mind like some faithful pet sensing when something were not quite right with its master.
* * *
Light
by U Harold Males, Cleveland, OH, USA
It is naked, the outpoured soul
in stuttering pain, the psalmist
impaled beneath the brazen bowl
of Heaven - until his heart lifts
and his eyes behold the mountain
of the Lord. The earnest Rabbi -
young, fresh, and artlessly certain:
Would I affirm his inner eye?
But I note the A-B-C brick
under incremental half-line
build, the tick-tock firm syllabic
sweep - and the four part quest behind
the screen. Vision, yes - but also
craft. A given, the outer trope
of mind. The Rabbi, stunned: And how
to rejoin heart and mind? One hopes.
In the West
by U Harold Males, Cleveland, OH, USA
Does she approve? Good question. Dad?
Well... crossword and coffee outrank
neurotic stove and Brillo pad.
Am I a good house-husband? Bank
on it. I settle her Esther crown,
then sit among the plush. Applause,
followed by flash and punch. Uptown
and take-out. Refine notes, need source
for sly thrust. Oh, to bloviate!
Article due... ca marche! Her key,
lovely. A kiss for Amy, wait,
now me. To eat. Blessings on me,
Sole father of a class harem.
We smile at such young envy. Life
is good. I teach, I write, and Mom
has her Jewish doctor - my wife!
* * *
December 23, Prague 4
by Akiva Clay Zasman, Haifa and Prague
Buckets full of live Carp
outside the 'Pankrac' metro station
where dirty patches of ice are diminutive skating rinks.
Christmas shoppers shuffle along solemnly
like they've just heard the news of some tragedy
so they mumble or
look on in doleful silence.
But it's almost Christmas f fuckssakes!
someone has a bad cough
Czech winters bring out the phlegm.
A few stalls are lit with floodlight:
the cheese looks too yellow
the black leather jackets like plastic.
someone has a bad cough
to my right, a man selects a Carp from an aluminium bath:
The fish is scooped up with a net and
still struggling, is smashed against a table.
The sound of a wet towel hitting a wall
I'm told that if one is lucky,
the fish will not regain consciousness while on the metro going home.
But three days before I saw an elderly woman trying to stop her bag
from flapping and twisting down the aisle.
/but this could be/anywhere
by Akiva Clay Zasman, Haifa and Prague
The taste of coffee still lingers
thick in my mouth
as I find myself outside
the warmth of the cafe.
Seem so far
from the clink of
spoons
against
steaming
cups-
Mozart dissolving in the rain.
* * *
My Gypsy
by Daniel P, Los Angeles, CA, USA
Come, consume me.
Fill your basket full and gather from this well
this hardy fool in all his pale inconsequence.
My gypsy, lay your head against this breast and listen well.
Mark the troubled beating of this wandering heart
The soul of this mere Jew that keeps no calendar, nor marks the turning of the moon.
That strives to sever lines that straddle oceans of our time
And bring, bare audibly to now, the hazy merriment of psalms
From distant kings.
What oaths are here?
What promises are lain around some lovers neck
As pearls. As rubies?
My gipsy, come seduce me!
Sing and sing. Stay with me till the dawn does come.
Cross my palm with dew.
Upon September 11th. 2001
by Daniel P, Los Angeles, CA, USA
I weep for these days
This hurtling time that holds no hands.
This ill-conceived and raucous age of tumbling skies
Of bleak and blackened mountainsides
And ocean fronts that swirl
And writhe,
Consuming, almost, cities in their tides.
I weep for these days
This godless time.
These years that rise and pass
And disappear
And leave no mark of worth or rhyme.
I weep for these days,
Hard, bastard hours
Of billowing cloud and molten steel,
dense and swallowing fog, seared flesh and skin.
Barren times
Devoid of light,
crazed moments all, of charm and whim,
and sleepless night
I weep for these days, my Lord,
And come to you upon my knees,
This poet, soft, perplexed and doomed.
How can one mortal heart
See and then contain this sin?
* * *
The Dance of The Windmills
by Ashira, Israel
I watch the windmills dancing gaily
On the mountainside at noon
With the wind a wild partner
(Ha! The merry old buffoon!)
The sky's a fluffy backdrop
And to the tune of "Fuer Elise"
Rows of shiny ballerinas
Turn their pirouettes with ease
A nod
A twirl
Quick curtsy;
Arch left
Arch right
Spin some more
That's right!
Keep going -
Don't stop!
Encore
Upon
Encore
Along a winding chain of hilltops
In the sunny southern Spain
The show goes on, regardless
Be it fine or hail 'n rain
Performing to eternity
Such energy they send
And the scenes unfold bewitchingly
Beyond each second bend
I hum the music softly
To myself as we drive by
Leaving rows of windmills dancing
Gaily 'neath the Spanish sky
* * *
Daily Challenges
by Zettalee D. Dennis, Michigan, USA
When the morning comes,
a new day will start.
My ordinary life will challenge me
with a whole new set of obstacles.
Another day, another test,
to reveal what lies deep within me.
The worst, or the best, will emerge through trials.
This will mirror to me the things
I have need to see.
So I will know
who I really am
and the changes I need to make
to become the person
I thought
I was.
* * *
Daniel in the Lion's Den
by Zettalee D. Dennis, Michigan, USA
Daniel was a godly man, he served his God, and king
but when it came to serving God, he placed Him, above all things;
He did not want king's menu, but chose what God had said,
would make him strong, and healthy, so he ate that instead.
One day, the prefects gathered, to conspire to bring him down.
They knew, he was a godly man, through that, a weakness found;
They took before the king, a law, which read that men should bow
to the king, and him alone, and bade him, seal the vow
If any man should serve a God, other than the king;
then in a pit of lions "death's jaws" would have their sting.
But Daniel, was a praying man, and to God, thrice a day
would bow himself, toward Jerusalem and on his knees, he'd pray.
The prefects saw him praying, and took the news, in flight
before the king, who shook in fear, knowing now, this plight.
King Darius, tried to rescind, the law that he had made
but what the king had formed as law, must be, by man obeyed.
He could not recall this dreadful fate, that Daniel soon, must face
but said to Daniel, "Seek your God, and He, will give you grace."
Then he informed the prefects, if Daniel, made it through
then they, must take his place within, to pay the lion's due.
Daniel, then thrown in the den of the lion's hungry lair
while in this strait, the king slept not, but prayed, that God would spare;
In the morning, the king called out in quest of Daniel's voice
and Daniel answered to him, "In my God, I do rejoice!
For He hath sent His angel, to close these hungry jaws
Showing all, He reigns above, what men consider laws."
So Daniel, was set free again, but the prefects, now must pay
So they were thrown into the pit and eaten clean away!
Daniel 6
* * *
Admonition of Repetition
by Zettalee D. Dennis, Michigan, USA
Humanity's inhumanity,
Revealed throughout the years
Numbed hearts with stony silence
Controlling them through fear;
Suddenly, a simple man,
Who would not harm a fly
Became a ruthless killer
Condemning souls to die;
He rode a wave of power,
Giving him a place,
Where he can find high honor,
Though truly a disgrace;
Now millions of the innocent,
Cry from unmarked graves
Leaving us their witness
How humanity behaves;
With such a purposed legacy,
Left as an admonition
We see what future holds in store
With carnality's perdition.
* * *
2 Chronicles 7:142 Chronicles 7:14
by Zettalee D. Dennis, Michigan, USA
If My people, called by My Name,
Would bow themselves to Me,
If they would yield unto My yoke,
And seek Me earnestly
If they would cease their wicked ways,
And thirst for righteousness,
If they'd repent... return to Me,
To live in holiness
Then I would hear from Heaven,
And I'd give them strength to stand,
I'd forgive them of their sinful ways,
And I would heal their land.
* * *
Magnanimous Beauty
by Gayle Burrell, Newark, NJ, USA
Grateful, yet aggrieved
By my own time, deceived?
Does time grow its garden well?
Does it need providence to excel?
Time sows flowers and its weeds
they share the land and air they teeth.
Rarely does one prevail and one recede
But does this garden provide reprieve?
Do time and providence dance apart, their synchrony not achieved?
They alone know when to conceive.
Their union bearing succulent seed
of magnanimous beauty which time receives.
This rare garden does proceed
To bear delights, unique in deeds,
which mend the hearts and quench the needs
and provide our souls the rest it needs.
* * *
Failed
by Jason Silberman, Jerusalem, Israel
She had quite a few chances
to show her worth during
her short, but privileged lifetime;
but when she was judged sinfully
and absurdly, they all just shook
their heads and blindly fell into
a ditch dug earlier by those
who pride themselves as living
in full view and answering
in understandable phrases and
decisions, homespun in all directions
by the desirable sequences of
shifting events that we have all
experienced and failed.
* * *
Ride
by Jason Silberman, Jerusalem, Israel
It's somewhat brisk this morning.
Taking the subway on a Sunday
morning is absorbing. Those on the
train are loyal, they have the train
in their guts, they are the truly
faithful. Some drinking mandatory-to-them
coffee, some newspaper buyers,
each with a different destination,
a different example of the fragmentary
individualist; lonely in his/her/their quest
to pass the time; to 'make the best of it.'
And there is always the beggar;
it's too early for the musician or
salesperson, these times are only
for the diehards, we who
live for the subway, the train, the smell,
the total feeling of soul; of
talking to the child of then
and of now. I have arrived.
* * *
Victims
by Leo Solomon, Nahariya, Israel
Will she ever forget
The bomber's head
rolling wall-eyed and loose
At her feet?
She looks in her mirror
At a broken scarred carcass
remembers a body
Once wholesome and sweet
And she cries and cries and cries.
Will the shards
Of the bomber's bones
Be in her still
When she is, at long last,
Dry eyed but dead!?
Is she there in him
In his seventh heaven
Riding camel backed through
The seventy two
Eternally virginal
Veiled black eyed brides?
His mother clad
In yashmak black
Raises her arms
she
claws the skies
and in
vindictive triumph
Ululates and ululates and ululates!
With imprecations and curses
She counts and calculates
Then contemplates
the fates
Of her
Other
sons
* * *
Too tight
by Leo Solomon, Nahariya, Israel
Too tight?
doesn't fit?
It won't suit?
Well
Never mind.
We'll trim it here
And pare it there.
Or, better still,
We'll shape you
To fit the shoe.
Either way
You'll wear it
And
In most painful
And unnatural ways
You will hobble out
Your remaining
Days.
* * *
Love Mistimed
by Gayle Burrell, Newark, NJ, USA
Being in love can be just a state
that conjures impossible things
and obscures probable stings.
An erotic elixir better suited for youth, unfettered, untethered,
sufficiently nimble in spirit and body
to absorb its demands of unearthly prodigy.
The anima of love robust in its hopes
effaces from clutter time gathers and stokes.
It dissolves and conforms as youth yields and transforms
not impervious to drink, but in irony reborn.
For the elixir can make a wide awake drunk, not uncouth, but in truth,
aware of its madness once shielded by youth.
Love is the binder of lives to be built,
A liquid turned viscous, heating brick out of silt.
Lives constructed from love found in youth
have formidable gates and inflexible roots.
A protracted love of new found attire
An untouchable love for reasons required
Leaves empty the flesh, disembodied desire,
And the specter of love cursing old bricks misfired.
So what good is this mortar without any brick?
The buildings are done, but the ground is unfixed.
The irony is, when viewed from behind, the elixir of love can taste bitter mistimed.
* * *
The Cafe Oleh
by S. Alex Kass
Denizens of multi-ethnicity,
disembark into an enclave of cultural diversity.
Music and prose pour into vessels we call
the mind, heart, and soul.
Drinking this delicious brew of exotica,
we synthesize the universal language of
rhythm and harmony.
The barriers of difference,
melt before the crucible of understanding,
an understanding that we are essentially the
same in our pursuit of happiness and the
communion of spirit.
* * *
Change Takes Time
by Emily Marks, Haifa, Israel
A 360 degree transformation
Since day of creation
Voice named faith and determination
Won't hear this on your local radio station
Took all this grief, anguish, immense pain
Stopped pointing the finger
Who cares who's to blame
It's in the past can't change history
Regardless how disturbing
Change the present, the future
Forgiveness attained
Why do these recent wounds
Still cry and bleed crimson red teardrops?
How long will it take
For these suffering wounds
To scab up
And create new skin?
All I know is that
One day, it will happen.
* * *
Words Left Unspoken
by Emily Marks, Haifa, Israel
Waiting waiting,
Contemplating
What refrains you
From being true?
Reasons put upon me
Make no sense,
Hence
I ponder why you flee
Like to play it smart
Though cannot deny
What feelings flutter in my heart
Wish you would unravel
This bittersweet lie
Gently I take your hand in mine
Whatever it is, it's okay
No need to run astray
I don't bite, I would understand.
How divine,
Privileged it would feel
For you to reveal
You'd like to cross this heated line
Let our lips slowly intertwine.
* * *
Kristallnacht: Night of the Broken Glass
by S. Alex Kass
The procession of torches held by the hands of evil,
stretch upwards, as if in defiance of heaven. These
mutants of mankind, plant their seeds of pestilence.
Flames perforate the night.
The sound of broken glass crackles in a liturgy
of demonic rage, echoing from the distended bowels
of the abyss.
The howling fury of furnaces blast the names of martyrs,
whose gentle memory will singe the soul of humanity.
Like the plague, this brown-shirted bacterium diffuses
its virus into the organism of liberty. Its sulphuric stench
invades the nostrils of those who gasp for the precious
breath of freedom.
The twisted trail of blood-stained glass, lies scattered,
crushed beneath the heels of polished black boots.
These pagans profane the holy spirit of man, and seek
to squelch his divine spark with the contents of canisters
created in the name of death.
Like an unnatural sun, arising from the umbra of madness,
the four horsemen of the Apocalypse become illuminated
against an incendiary horizon.
* * *
Sixties to Nineties
by Jacqueline-Louise, Jacksonville, FL, USA
The Sixties spewed forth a unique time;
numerous transformations took place.
War evolved despite history's rhyme;
its memories, we could not erase.
Multitudes rebelled across our land;
the Bank of America was burned.
Thousands made choices and took a stand;
they cried out for change, for peace they yearned.
Survival fragile, many were lost;
each sacrifice made, patriotically dear.
Restrained in the fight, they paid too high cost.
What was then won was never made clear.
Life was greatly affected, it seems,
by turbulent times and outcomes wrought.
Psychedelics and elusive dreams
were abstract mirrors of fear and doubt.
As deviating lifestyles were born,
bold violences began to spread.
The flower children who rose each morn
could not comprehend this newfound dread.
Novel ideas and drugs were tried;
long held mores and values faded.
For loss of security we cried;
vintage philosophies seemed jaded.
Realities moved, we felt alone
as the social revolution grew.
Expression took a different tone,
stirring a basic rights issues brew.
The Seventies issued welcome close
to combat long waged, but not to win.
Our weary warriors endured fierce blows;
some returned to start over again.
Scores struggled to restore their old lives,
with precious few thanks for standing fast;
to honor them now, our nation strives
for roles that they played, not by them cast.
Names of the fallen are etched in stone,
a belated tribute to great loss.
Of heroes come home, we see not one
among lengthy lists our land across.
On stateside front, we were confounded
by persistent ills carried forward.
Mass media daily recounted
crime and poverty marching onward.
Diverse horrors came with the Eighties;
terrorism's ugly head was raised.
Hostages held brought tears to our eyes.
Yellow ribbons were everywhere placed.
The Mid-East pot continued to boil;
old conflicts fueled an eight year war.
Battles raged on for control of oil;
for liquid black gold, Arabs would spar.
The crumbling Berlin Wall was observed,
while Communism's death knell sounded.
Eyes to the Persian Gulf warring swerved;
modern death's game left all astounded.
A dictator's brazen infamy,
to global community shone clear;
savage aggression and tyranny
brought condemnation from far and near.
Hands reached out, alliances were sealed
to subdue scandalous defiance.
Diplomacy's intervention failed;
combined defense forced acquiescence.
Loyalties appeared more unified
among revived patriotism.
Some Nineties warriors also have died;
all but few praised their heroism.
Riveted by Kurdish holocaust,
as countless fled the homes they cherish.
Our rapt attention was never lost;
their hopes were raised, only to perish.
Democracy's growing hue and cry,
throughout the shrinking world-stage we find.
Myriads have united to vie
for liberation and peace of mind.
Allegiances long held have altered,
with new independences declared.
Proud secessionists have not faltered;
to define new boundaries, they've dared.
A giant among nations fallen,
jockeying for power and control,
splintered in competing sedition
in an economic stranglehold.
Basic needs effected corruption
of industry to a flow of arms,
setting up another act and scene
to be played out with renewed alarms.
Toward the future we must look now;
our history we cannot rewrite.
Were lessons learned, have we found out how
to survey the past, avoid the fight?
Has fresh cooperation emerged
among a host of discrete factions?
Is a new world order being forged
to govern universal actions?
The time has come for humanity
to join in one voice rising to pray,
for peace, freedom and stability
that is owned by all and here to stay.
* * *
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