It may be time to lay road-worn feet to rest,
I’m tired of chasing a love that might never arrive,
And if you ever miss my pursuit,
Or decide to turn back and track me down,

I’ll always meet you halfway…

I had fallen in line, obedient to the rules of the museum at Auschwitz.
We entered a room filled,
floor to ceiling, with cases containing
what had been taken from them;
so unsuspecting some must have been
as they shuffled, much as we do today, not knowing
what horrors would unfold:

Suitcases neatly marked, each with a name
and ahome address, and all that that implies;
some had come in with the canes,
the crutches, the prosthetics, now piled in the next case;
and then the eyeglasses, broken and twisted; and then
the hair, and on we went, as a grey numbness
crept over me like a shield from what we humans cannot bear,
so much horror, so much
loss, so much
humanness; so much reality;

but after all that, it was the case near the end
that penetrated all those barriers the numbness had built;
it was as if all those insidious yellow stars
they had to wear had suddenly converged and
imploded into utter blackness
within the marrow of my own bones,

and these are the only words, the only emotion
I had left:

A lot of good it did those holy souls, 
trembling hands packing, perhaps gently smoothing
before closing the lid,
prayer shawls,
white-tassled and blue and full of trust
for so unholy a journey. What could they have thought,
and how could they have known
that between the train tracks and the impending
shower of cloud,
there would be no shawls,
there would be no time 
even for prayer–

Nie wieder, the sign at the museum entrance reads–

But today, I can only remember
Kyrie.
Kyrie eleison

Have mercy, Lord–
We said we woud never forget–

☆Posted with permission from my Co-Author, Kells.

New Street

So many fond memories
and of course, the best:
the little one named Violet we got to meet.

So many lessons learned,
so many firsts.
But now,
it’s time to say farewell.

If the walls could write,
I like to think
they’d write poetry
of love and loss,
of mistakes made,
and lessons learned.

Now it’s time
to find a new place
to learn,
to grow,
and to begin again. ?

sharp, so slick, so slimy
sneaky, slowly slithers south

you should have left the snake in the garden
but you put it in your mouth

Homey treats, knick-knacks arrayed
in the shade.                      
                         Fine, but where are
vegetables I expect to see growing
in plastic pots on tables in the patio?  

The tables are there, but almost bare.
There’s only morning sun at a slant,
a squinty light I’ve seen in dreams &
childhood.                  
                     Fine, but I strike a match
and demand an accounting, lest I be
judged.             

What I call a match glints like a knife
held upright as an obelisk in the dark.
I’ll notice this yesterday or tomorrow.  

It skims the river,
sounding its motif
only in the treble clef. 
Swirls its voice again
and again before notes soar
beyond my comprehension.
Music for my eyes
disappears this morning.

prompting me each day
a touch of inspiration
and guilt, and—yes–art

I hear in the loneliness of the day, a lone woodpecker calling
bringing peace and solace from one passed away?
Get out and seek
Feel the heat as the sun is falling
Solitude brings me comfort
rather than the longing of another way