Something
―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba
by Michael R. Burch

Something inescapable is lost—
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.

Something uncapturable is gone—
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.

Something unforgettable is past—
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
which finality swept into a corner, where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.

It was my honor and privilege to work with survivors of the Holocaust and Hiroshima on translations of their poems and accounts into English. What they have told us is unutterably sad, and saddest of all is hearing about the lives of children being full of horror and terror, only to be cut short. Unfortunately today Palestinian children in Gaza and the West Bank are experiencing something similar, a modern Trail of Tears ...

AROUND THE CORNER

You always knew it would happen again:
the ruby beams, the whispered code, the silhouettes, and then
a muffled crunch, a stifled cough, a soft and cryptic knock.

A latch that wasn’t fastened on a door that didn’t lock.

They’ll catch you, they’ll break you,
they’ll wipe you for sure.
They know your every step and stop:
where you are, where you’ll be,
exactly where you were.

What did you feel when your mind was removed;
was it hard, sharp and painful, or satiny smooth.
Do you weep in the dark, do you know in your heart
that they kept you intact when they tore you apart.
Does your lurching awareness obsess on your doom,
do those tiptoeing whispers leave prints in your room.

Keep moving, keep hiding, till death brings the end.
They’re just around the corner, they’re just around the bend.

Go leap out the window, go slip through the trees,
burn the leaves in your journal and bury your keys.
Haunt the alleys and rails as you sneak town to town;
one eye on your back, one eye on the ground.

So where was your head when they rewrote your brain.
Did you think you were God, a file, or insane.
Are you groping for clues in the patterns they weave—
is a single thing real in the world you perceive.

They’re coming. Keep running. Don’t let yourself fall behind.
They’re searching through your blackest dreams, escorted by the blind.
They’re watching from the shadows, their burning eyes aligned.
They’re waiting in the dark around the corner of your mind.


Okay. NOW COPY AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS WORK’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders

CLICK ON IT!

Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
[email protected]

A door slammed in the night-
across the road from I
lived a man-
three children, and him.
Happy family or so to expect ordinary-

I close the door,
but it swings right back.
The latch has been broken,
and shot full of cracks.

I try to fix it,
try to take it all back,
but then it opens on darkness,
and I’m consumed by the black.

I want to step through,
to see if it’s still the same,
because it beckons to me,
softly calling my name.

That’s when I slam it,
and try to hold the **** still,
as something tries to turn it,
and break through my will.

That’s when my fingers,
grow sweaty and numb,
and I can feel the pressure increasing,
and I start to succumb.

The **** starts to turn,
and I start to lose my grip,
and then I stop fighting,
and my fingers slip.

I step away,
as the latch softly clicks,
and the dark whisps escape,
growing feelers to lick.

Then I am lost,
and stepping through the door,
hoping that it won’t shut,
but not caring anymore.

I’m bathing in nothing,
and I feel the memories cut,
as somewhere off in the distance,
I hear a door slam shut.