The End

The End

Hearing the sounds of goose stepping feet,

I run home forgetting my tattered jacket,

My yellow star.

Crossing the bridge over Zgierska Street,

The rails were soundless—

No trolleys with painted windows today.

Crowds of people silently in prayer,

As memories tossed from windows

Covered the streets below.

The caterwaul of mamma’s cry, “Eli! Eli!”

Deafen the sounds of “Juden!”

Tears steak from hollowed eyes,

Over jagged, boned flesh,

Cleaning, clearing a path to my mother’s bosom,

Mamma’s hand stretching from the chaos clenching mine:

 “Eli,” and “Bubala,” gently, lovingly, softly.

We walk, we stride, we run

Whistle’s blowing, dogs barking, gunshots calling— “Aufmerksamkeit Juden!”

Steam engine smoking, and cattle cars packing—“Hast Juden!”

Mamma’s grip tightening, droplets of blood
Falling, leading, trailing,

To the place I once called home.

Two Tales from Hell

The Poet

Cold wood planks travel for three days and four nights

Along the white barren world on parallel steel rails

Take us from home to Ghetto,

To electrified fences or persecution

Alone, but number with family

We watch the flames of eternal damnation burn.

Smoke and ashes of mother, father, sister and brother

Fill our lungs, with breath of life

We breathe the air of death—oh, bitter sweet taste.

I watch you die a million times,

As I live day to day

I listen to you die a million times,

As I pray for every day

I hear you die             I see you cry

They come

They go

A million times

The Storyteller

The gray from the ashes blocked out the sun;

It was neither winter, spring, summer nor fall.  

The chimneys of the crematorium,

With its insatiable appetite for Jewish flesh,

 Forbade the horizon. 

Smoke and ash from the brick stack refused the day;

Fire from its mouth denied the night.  

It was as if God was asleep,

 And the earth reborn a nightmare,

For only in this state,

Could humanity be void of consciousness.  

The sun never rose,

And the sun never set,

We were left to die.   

The Prologue from my first complete novel

DER SOD

Prologue

It was cold and desolate, as David Goschen stood alone on the parade ground.  The acrid smell of death and disease filled his lungs and burnt his throat as the human race entered its final dark age. 

            David had the sense he could leave the camp without anyone being the wiser, yet, when he tried to move, his legs wouldn’t budge.  Something was wrong.  David stood in the middle of the empty yard staring up at the gray sky as flakes of human ash, which resembled snow, fell upon his face.  Three to five times a day, the yard would be full of prisoners, which resembled skeletons with a thin coat of flesh covering their ivory bones, standing at attention for the order of the day.  Once a week, sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on the number of new shipments, a select number of captives would take the short walk to the gas chambers to make room for the new arrivals.  However, today the yard was void. 

            David could feel the chill of the early evening and his body shivered as the cold seeped through his clothes.  Aaron loves nights like this, he thought to himself.  David smiled as he thought of his only child, a Holocaust survivor, a rabbi and a father of three.  David and his wife, Ariel, could not have asked for a better son, or family.  David spent a lifetime trying to make right the injustices to humanity.  He understood, through experience, he could not change the world, but with conviction, he was determined to make the world a better place.  Yet, with all his work, dedication and relentless drive, there was one wrong, one mistake that he had not made right; that he did not address.  Albeit he had plans to change this,  he realized that circumstance and time had moved beyond him and this mistake, perhaps his most damaging, would slip through his fingers like the ash of the dead, only to burden his son after he was gone. 

David noticed a light emanating from the guard tower directly in front of him.  This is odd, David thought to himself; there was a light, but no guard in the tower.  The light David saw was extremely bright, yet not blinding.  “I guess it is time to go,” David spoke as the warmth of his breath contrasting with the chill of the night brought his words to life—his voice echoed in the emptiness.  David started to walk in the direction of the spotlight, but as he moved, David realized that he was not really walking, but almost floating towards the light that beckoned him.  David thought things were a little queer, but these were different times, and to survive such times, reality was tricked easily.    

            Ariel sat in a chair next to David’s bed holding one hand and stroking his head with the other.  She spoke to him softly; reassuring him that everything would be all right, although she understood their time together on this world was almost over.  Smiling at her husband, Ariel leaned over the bed railing and said, “You’ve lived your life better then most men; touched so many lives in so many ways,” she wiped the tears from her checks then kissed David on the forehead.  “David, I know you are hanging on for me, but it is time for you to let go,” Ariel paused as she tried to gain her composure.  In her heart, she knew David could hear what she was saying and the last thing she wanted him to hear was the fear of uncertainty in her voice.  “I will be okay, honey,” Ariel continued.  “I have the kids, my work, but most I have you in my heart and soul,” and for the first time in several days, she thought she felt her husband as the hand she was holding seemed to grip back.  “I love you so much, David,” and this time her words were barely understandable as her emotions got the best of her.  There it was again; could it be, she thought to herself, was he coming around?  Ariel had hope, but the chirping of the EKG told a different story; as soon as the doctor and nurses rushed into the room Ariel knew the time had finally come and she kissed her husband on the forehead and walked to the window—it was raining outside.  “God must be crying because one of his angels is coming home,” she said under her breath as she, too, began to weep.

The Gulls of Star Island

Behind me, the brabble of seagulls drowns the waves slapping the jagged jaw of the shoreline.  In the distance, two white seagulls attack a larger gray fowl of the sea.  It’s a picturesque dogfight, slow moving, and graceful like the prop planes of World War II. They move in an aerial jitterbug of life and death. Weaving, gliding, and accelerating before me as they jockey for position.   Descending violently towards terra firma—their wings thrashing, and beaks snapping—a single feather floats.

I drop my journal and raise my camera, focusing on the goliath Gray.  I am a voyeur to their violence.  I move forward, “A perfect shot!”  I say, taking the picture—nothing happens. 

Still moving forward, I examine the camera—I forgot to turn it on—I fix the problem.

Still moving forward, I bring the camera back to my eye.  The birds take flight, Gray in front of white. The antagonist sways to the left, then shutters to the right. The gulls match it’s grace.

Through the viewfinder, the Gray seems to close.  I let go off the camera, and it slaps my chest.  I focus on the narrative as the scene unfolds before me. “It’s to close,” I say to the wind.  I see the Gray’s black eyes.  “Too close,” I say.   The Gray blinks at me; it will not surrender its path, my path.  I drop to my knees before the collision, and I can feel the downdraft of his flight on the back of my neck.  

“Chicken!” the Gray says flying over me.    

The Waiting Room

A woman sits in a wheelchair.  Her red button down shirt overwhelms her; greasy, silver-white, windblown hair drapes over protruded check bones and sunken jowls.   Grey sweatpants balloon as she sits, white cotton tube socks, with patches of pink, cover her feet.  

“You took it Jack!  I am not going to say it another time.  You took it!”  She tussles through her faded, torn black patent leather wallet.   “You damn sure did, Jack!”

Jack, hunchback, dressed in a stained sweat suit, and torn shoes says, “No!”

“As soon as we are done her, I am going to leave you Jack.  As soon as we are done Jack, I am going to leave!”

A technician opens the door, “Ms. Downs.” He pauses.  “Ms. Downs.”

Jack gets up slowly, grabs hold of her wheelchair, and pushes her through the doorway.  “I know you took it, Jack!” 

Everyone in the waiting room lifts their heads.  “I wonder what her story is?” an elderly man sitting next to me asks.

Desert Winds

Coyotes cannot keep up with the winds howl.  Mesquite trees bear down, fighting to keep their shallow roots grounded.  Palm trees sway in dance like competition as palm fronds fall in circulated motion, whispering to the earth below.