A Man in Dachau

A Man in Dachau.

Above the iron gate, 

in letters of iron,

the motto 

“Work will set you free.”

Inside the iron gates 

slavery, nakedness,

sadism, despair, death,

a rule beyond brutality,

a regime beyond callousness,

darkness thick, impenetrable, absolute.

How could light exist in such darkness?

Yet I read of a man who surrendered 

his pitiful morsels of bread to those 

he thought were suffering more.

"I am no mere plaything of circumstance.

They can take my life.

What they cannot take is my freedom 

to choose my own way." 

“Choice,” I joyously shouted, 

“not circumstance, 

determines what we are 

and who we will be.

Look! Even in Dachau a man 

chose compassion over self.”

A friend said:

"Noble indeed is such a one.

Heroes make these choices.

The exception though is not the rule.

Choice is circumscribed by circumstance

and eliminated for most by horror of place."

Another then spoke:

"Oppression's boot can find the weight

To crush all choice away.

Was that man's compassion an act of choice?

I rather think it a gift of grace."

The man from Dachau then appeared.

"The parade", he said, "is unendingly long

of those who shuffle by-

children starving or abused,

women beaten, mutilated, acid-scarred,

the tortured, guiltless and cruelly oppressed,

the dispossessed, the mind-manacled,

the legions of the sick and poor.

I merely do what I must do.

Those who can, should follow." 

“Such thinking is divine,” 

is the voice I think is mine. 

“That one had the gift of grace.

He still gives the gift of hope.

Grant me then the grace to follow.”

First published in Verse-Virtual

Lost, Without Compass or Star.

Lost, Without Compass or Star.

For my mother,

Brenda Lynette Creighton,

1919-2014

I put my hand to the tiller,

turn this creaking vessel 

into a darkly rumbling surge

of grief, bewilderment and betrayal,

finding in love and forgiveness

wind sufficient to fill my little sail 

and lift me up and over the tumult

into water deep and gentle

and sorrowfully compassionate.

Clouds dissipate. The stars are out.

The surge flows smoothly.

My arm, steady on the tiller,

holds the course firm and true.

I know extreme age stole

all her best qualities,

her vision, judgment, empathy

and most especially, honesty.

Without vigour to guide her way,

she drifted vulnerably across the dark.

There are no quiet, protected waters,

only sailing on a sea 

that alternately shimmers or looms.

One day, inevitably, the gift 

of an overflowing surge will come.

Best if it arrives before capacity 

to raise your own sail is lost. 

She was always gentle and kind.

What cast her loose, set her drifting 

on a last dark voyage

that belied all her previous voyaging?

First published at Anti-Heroin Chic.

Visitation.

Visitation.

(For Diana)

Before dawn I felt a touch,
heard a soft voice whisper “Come,”
a pause and then that voice again,
“Your race you have now run.”

I shook my head, withdrew my hand,
I weakly whispered “No.
How can I leave this woman
Sitting quietly by the window?

“O Mr Death I cannot come!
Look on this vignette—
how morning’s growing light
softly frames her silhouette.

“She and I have things to do,
loving not yet completed.”
and I hear my own voice vow
“I will not by you be defeated.

“When you some other time return
I may merely follow,
say goodbye to this
quintessence of joy and sorrow.

But her soft touch makes
your cold grip fall away.”
Then weakly turning towards the light
I embrace again the coming day.

First published at Blue Heron Review, Winter Edition, 2018

The Diamond Litter of Stars.

In this tinsel world of botox faces,

perfect orthodontal smiles

and all those desperate attempts

to keep youthful looks

I’m thinking about

the headlong stampede of youth 

and the crumbling that comes with age

and I’m also thinking that for beauty

sunset’s red, orange and purple blaze 

equals sunrise’s swathe of pastel glow

and how, after the end of day,

is the velvet quilt of night

and the diamond litter of stars.

First published at One Sentence Poems.

The Merchant”s Pearl.

    

The Merchant’s Pearl.

Gentlemen, our last item is truly special.

I unveil magnificence. 

Note the perfect plumpness of the breasts,

the silken smoothness of the thighs,

the fineness of the skin,

the thickness of the hair,

the untarnished youth.

You have been blessed with money.

Your power has brought you rare privilege.

Many dream of such honour.

Now this can be yours to buy, to possess, to enjoy.

There are no obligations attached.

Keep it for as long as you like.

Do with it as you will.

I see your eyes feasting.

Let your imaginations feast too.

All will envy you, consider you blessed.

Now, gentlemen, who will start?

Who makes the first bid?

This satire was first published in The Ekphrastic Review.

Gifts.

Gifts.

I give to you these trifling things,

light from life, love and age,

diverse experiences distilled

and patterned upon the page.

Are they only wisps of breath?

Distillations of the chest?

Essence of love, joy, hope or pain

dripping forth before I rest?

Are they lighter than thistledown?

Little more than seeming?

Are they the heart’s desire to search

for beauty and for meaning?

Some build tall towers or bridges.

My desire is just to sing,

so take these gifts I offer.

Are they merely trifling things?

First published in April Verse Virtual. 

Searching for Gold.

Searching for Gold.

I dip my pen into the stream

to see what will unfold,

swirl and sluice upon the page

seeking for that glimpse of gold.

I have seen the shining glory

that some old miners found,

drawn from darkly rippling water

or gouged from littered ground.

Now I dip into the mystery

flowing by the riverside,

seeking in the moving stream

for where the gold resides

and eagerly bending to the task,

desire just this small part:

that the treasure which I seek sings

of truth, beauty and the heart.

First published in April Verse Virtual. 

Thanks.

Thanks

for this blue-sky, cloud-scudded, leaf-swaying day,

this glistening, sparkling, sun-filled day,

this dappled, shade-strewn, patterned day,

this magnolia-blooming, freesia-littered, plum-blossoming day,

this bud-swelling, bird-singing, spring-cool fresh day,

this day that turns its back on winter’s cold,

this day of growth, colour and warmth,

this day of birth and laughter and song,

this tender day, this day of beginnings,

this lung filling, mind uplifting, joyous day,

this day when the heart swells and hope, like sap, rises,

this day when the world seems bright and light-

yes, thanks for the glory of this day.

First published in Verse-Virtual, March 2018

How Long?

How Long?

They said they spoke for you,

those men of old.

They claimed that you spoke through them.

“Thus says the Lord,” they say,

“the High and Holy One”.

They had great visions:

justice and equity for the poor, 

swords beaten into ploughshares,

spears into pruning hooks,

the horror and waste of war finished,

everyone having their own vine and fig tree,

the lame leaping like the deer,

the blind receiving sight,

the desert blooming,

tears wiped away

and best of all, the prisoners, 

those appointed to death,

unshackled and set free.

Trouble is, every day 

I hear screams of children,

see mothers cradling starving babies,

watch the thick smoke of war 

blanketing the near horizon,

read of detestable men in high office,

villages covered by sludge slides,

the sea rising, glaciers melting,

species disappearing,

cities running out of water,

a huge tide of refugees

adrift and homeless,

on and on that old repeated story

of corruption, inequality and blood.

Those promises were ancient long ago.

Millennia have passed since their 

“Thus says the Lord”.

And what I want to now ask

are questions also asked long ago

by prophets and psalmists.

They cried out in their anguish and confusion

and I cry out the same.

How long, O Lord, how long?

Will you keep your promises?

Will this earth be restored?

When will you fill it with your glory?

When will the knowledge of you

fill the earth as the waters cover the sea?

First published in Verse-Virtual, March 2018

Let.

Let.

let me be an open ear,

slow to speak and quick to hear

each rustle, whisper, stifled cry,

joyous laugh or inward sigh

let me be an open hand,

a hand which in compassion touches,

a gentle hand to tenderly heal

time’s red welts and painful weals

and if this tongue must needs speak

let words truth and beauty seek,

such words as always combine

balm for soul and salve for mind.

First published in Verse-Virtual, March 2018