Best Ovens Poems
ALONE AT THE HOLOCAUST MUSEUM
rose early in the morning,
indulged in a lovely quiche lorraine,
ventured out
alone.
silence has a sound of its own.
yes, there was the film, my first exposure -
Kristallnacht – the night of broken glass
S
H
A
T
T
E
R
S
the sterile space…
alone, i enter the “gas chamber” -
no one’s there, no screaming naked bodies.
the only fear is in my mind – i
must get out, feeling claustrophobic.
exiting and to my right, a setup -
a dummy behind a machine gun
my pulse quickens, throat is dry.
then to my left: hair cuttings, glasses, teeth, clothing -
my eyes hurt as i read – many children were thrown
into the ovens A L I V E.
the horror constricts my brain. horrible to imagine
one crazed serial murderer and this was an entire country.
cruelty has sharp claws, hidden behind breath and flesh
gifted by God. monsters have lovely hair, straight teeth,
families preparing dinner, friends cheering with
CLINKING CRYSTAL.
going home, they smile, swing loved ones around,
kiss their merry cheeks,
and they R E E K with death.
10/14/2016
The Party
Everyone is festive
All the ladies in pretty dresses
Champagne in flutes
Flirts in Armani suits
Waiters and penguins
Serving wine and cheeses
Musicians playing tango delights
Diplomats avoiding land mines and devastated sites
I toast them, one and all
Vodka and Russians can not dance
I can drink you all, under and over
Tossing empty bottles over me shoulder
Pretty ladies and purple purses
Drunken observations as the poet muses
Who would bed me now?
So drunk and wise with broken fuses
No one, can see the poetic disguise
Of the lonely man seeking only lies
The tenderness of the Spanish kiss
Hold me, dear dream, caress me inside
The floor is full of empty plates
The party is over, so it seems is my fate
I fall asleep under a street lit lamp
The richest of bums in an old cul du sac
If only before that fateful day
I could suckle upon the breast once more
We are all infants no matter the shore
Love should never have parted out that door
Sanity was broken and tossed away like lore
I mumbled the petty desires of the broken man
I tore out my heart, bloody and beating in my hands
Laid it bare upon the sands
Coupled with crabs
The universe re-created
Eaten raw, love was consumed
New beasts shall roam
Sunken eyes and empty chest
I, am the one who is no more
Tall tails and party hats
The forgotten are never fancy cats
Until one day you meet the maker
Of your story, cooked by the baker
Ovens shall burn and choirs sing
The devil you see, had the last ring
N ever again will the Tribes of Israel be the sacrificial lamb of man.
A nnealed in furnaces not in Olam HaEmet by the Almighty "the World of Truth."
Z ealots rose from the ashes of the ovens and now defend like Sicarii of old.
I srael blooms and grows in the desert, returned by Allied Forces to the cauldron.
H ome to the Holy Land, sent, shipped, caste surrounded by Arab foe, isolated.
O vens melted their hearts, striped their forms for their souls held no intrinsic value.
L ampshades and shoes made from their skin, jewelry from the gold in their teeth.
O rders given by The Third Reich obeyed without conscious. The herd was culled.
C hrist-killer the Christian mind said, devil worshiper, their deaths were acceptable.
A nti-Semitism always has been and always will be a threat to Jews everywhere.
U nited, Jews must form a majority in Israel, so Jews everywhere feel safe.
S anctuary will never again being denied, Israel will be safe haven from persecution.
T o a future where all men have worth regardless of race, creed or religion, pray.
*Thanks to Arild Andresen Ertsland for his inspiring
From the Ashes
Cuckoos hushed, rambling vines and plight.
Hordes of birch, beech, pine, spruce and oak.
Choke of darkness, forcing midnight.
Wax and breadcrumbs children-ditched folks.
Hordes of birch, beech, pine, spruce and oak.
Hansel and Gretel, frightened, twitch
Wax and breadcrumbs. Children-ditched folks -
Woodcutter built house for a witch.
Hansel and Gretel, frightened twitch
Of laced-up fingers spot the
Woodcutter-built-house for a witch.
Tasty-sweet, they eat what they see.
Of laced-up fingers, spot the
Craving, clinging to witch’s house.
Tasty-sweet, they eat what they see.
An hungry old woman they rouse.
Craving, clinging to witch’s house,
Sticky-mess invited in by
An hungry old woman. They rouse
Her wrinkles and warts. The bat lies.
Sticky-mess invited in by
Deception. It’s not a love-in.
Her wrinkles and warts - The bat lies
In wait to bake in the oven.
Deception. It’s not a love-in
Handing the pan, asking succour.
Why wait to bake in the oven?!
Tries to fool girl. Wants to bake her.
Handing the pan, asking succour.
In 1940’s, the earthface fell pale.
Tries to fool girl. Wants to bake her.
Grimm’s prophecy no fairytale.
In 1940’s, the earthface fell pale,
Choke of darkness, forcing midnight.
Grimm’s prophecy no fairytale.
Cuckoos hushed, rambling vines and plight.
1/23/2021
Proud Pantoum
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
there once was an old witch whose pies
were unique in flavor and size
she delighted her covens
when she opened her ovens
with dozens of old crusty guys.
Suicide Dolls
Tiss a maddening state of affairs
Why my lovers don’t gas themselves to death
Have they not the decency to assist my endeavors?
Is my future to be written in stone of no importance to them?
The public would breath and eat the words
Of all my little suicide dolls
If only, if only they would find the ovens
Yeast you have failed me in these dire moments
Let me rise above it all
With poetic verse
Sing to all my tragedies
My death and re-birth
In the gas chambers of poetic verse
Break these chains that bind
holding in the deep ovens
blazing a fire for love.
Smiling midday moon
dressed in a baby blue sky
with sparsely scattered clouds dot.
White mother of pearl
their silver lining treasure
held soft beautiful warm babe.
In her finger beams
a light touching inside thoughts
sitting posed at three o’clock.
The moon just pops out
in kissing a golden sun
white ivory pearls smiling.
Within daylight thoughts
sweetly I pray in sunlight
shining warm all over you.
Deep ocean salted
with the bluest warmest waves
luster smiles sunshine color.
The magic tear drop
forms the silver lining bright
and cries for ivory pearls.
Alchemic water
wondrous most blue, dark and rare
lies love in Salt of the Earth.
Mermaids caress hope
encouraging happiness
makes all the more magical.
Pearl chain links in place
Neptune commands do it now
with finest gold most smiling.
Bathed best and brightest
white ivory pearls ready
for their concatenation.
Neptune’s grandeur finds
all sea creatures in awe now
abounds pearl dreams of rare love.
Pearl Dreams of Rare Love
14 linked all so precious
from the ocean’s heart and soul.
Gary Bateman and Liam McDaid – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 16, 2014)
(Terza Rima in Unrhymed Tercet poetic format)
Let me tell you a sad story, a true story . . .
In another time, under the dictatorship of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi
Party, millions deemed undesirable were murdered, including children,
imprisoned in Nazi concentration camps and extermination camps or were
shot, or hanged. The first exterminations of prisoners took place in the
month of September, 1941. Those not killed in the gas chambers died
of starvation, forced labor, disease, self inflicted death, and medical
experiments. Prisoners were forced to staff the gas chambers. After they
were dead the bodies were burned in ovens or tossed into pits like garbage.
They had stripped them of their clothes, stripped them of all dignity.
Piles of shoes, clothing, eyeglasses, suitcases even baby things taken.
Today those things are in museums to honor forever the millions of dead.
Hundreds of Germans staffed the camps but only 12% have been convicted
of war crimes. Auschwitz was liberated on January 27, 1945 but most of
the population had been evacuated and sent on a death march. All this,
was in another time. Hopefully the world has learned from this horrific
time in history. Black and white pictures of unimaginable scenes are
witness to what happened during the years 1933 to 1945. But the scenes
I see on the news seem that the world has not learned the lesson well and
leave me weeping and weeping for those who suffer.
I saw an image
of a women with children-
death their destiny
____________________________
July 14, 2016
Poetry/Narrative/Senryu/Weeping Still
Copyright Protected, ID 16-808-673-07-14
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Any Poem Written in 2016
sponsor, Laura Loo
Third Place
My vacant stare was sure to be
a giveaway to anyone that saw . . .
I was a Pilgrim there to the land of techno-jargon,
of icons, Help instructions meaning nothing,
and a world of young and savvy operators.
Our teacher wasn’t there.
Certain that the worksheet explaining all the basics
would be a breeze for us to carry out,
he’d arrogantly left the room
and left the lot of us to the mercy of
a keyboard and computer.
I looked up from his worksheet
to a screen that stared right back at me,
awaiting my commands.
I was on the starting path to what is often called
the Super Highway,
and my boarding pass, tuition to the class,
was non-refundable.
Overwhelmed, I started out. Then I hit a rut
and didn’t have a clue what next to do.
My learning peers already seemed to know
the route quite well.
Some, in fact, were calling it a day
while I stayed on, ashamed to bother
any of the others there for help.
I looked around the room, my tired brain
a hot plate in the midst of younger minds
with the speed of ovens made for microwave.
Perhaps they’d all conspired to put
the older lady at unease.
It seemed the more I tried to understand,
the more pathetically off course I’d go. . .
Till finally (longing for a time when
“cut and paste” implied the use of scissors),
I got up from my seat and left behind
the self-instructing worksheet which
that egghead teacher said would be “a cinch.”
Two big words were scrawled across the top
of its first page, two big words in red,
written with the one tool I could trust:
SCREW IT.
For Natalie Whitlock's
"Talkin' Technology" Contest
I was dancing and prancing
And singing whooped Dee Dee
Not realizing I was not alone
Until he opened his shirt to me
He threw out the mayo, some jam and some jelly, a real hoot.
I caught the chocolate milk in midair, he was dancing up a toot.
He laughed and winked and some ice fell down his crushed ice shoot
He was a rascal, a scoundrel and a womanizer to boot.
I have never seen a dishwasher who can move like you
he said holding out his hands.
The oven, his furious ex, reddened her burners and threw out some pots and pans.
We laughed and we swirled and we boogied and we dipped.
She threw out ovenware but The frig and I ducked every one.
I shut his door, so we could dance up a storm.
Refrigerator boogie was so exciting and fun!
Dishwashers are reputed to be the best dancers around,
And I was confident as we twirled, we were breaking brand new ground
The ovens burners were blood red now, the kitchen was like a Sauna.
I blew him a kiss and whirled away giving him back to his ex, so sound.
As they trotted through the the kitchen, laughing, their sensors lit,
I danced around them with a loud dishwasher's whoop Dee Dee
Now whenever the three of us decide to liven the kitchen a bit,
We dance cheek to cheek, and throw sauce pans, the wild three!
From Poland hailed your Uncle Max, who in matters of manners was a bit lax,
While from France came Aunt Belle, whom I thought was really quite swell.
Next up from Russia was Cousin Boris, whom I always confused with Nephew
Morris;
And then from Germany came Aunt Gitel, whose fingers fairly flew o'er
her fiddle.
After that from Lita came Uncle Beryl, whose fistic prowess put enemies
in peril.
Of course, from Ukraine came Cousin Emma, whose soup was the crème de
la crema.
It's our duty to recall Uncle Saul, though no one knew where he came from
at all
And finally, from Prussia, poor Aunt Masha, who subsisted for years on
potatoes and kasha.
What's this? You say you don't know any of these relatives at all?
Neither their names nor those of their children can you recall?
Then furrow your brow and bestir your brain; just don't be appalled:
Uncle Max may have been from Krakow, but his skeleton was prematurely
interred by the Nazis at the death-camp of Dachau.
Cousin Emma was from a wealthy family in Vizhnitz, though her fiery
cremation was reserved for the ovens of Auschwitz.
And pretty Gitel, who grew up in the small village of Dulmen, was gunned
down in the caverns of Bergen-Belsen...
So much for our family tree.
Had grandpa not fled to America by sea,
One of those dead branches above
Would surely have been me.
HOLOCAUST MEMORIAL DAY -- 73RD ANNIVERSARY -- APRIL 12, 2018
NEVER FORGET!
I’m thinking of a place
with monkeys and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
upon the stamp it wears
A basement sitting at the top
of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
in a bowl of cocoa beans
Where questions become answers
or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
that the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
as every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
a trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
as it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
as the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
a necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
they always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
you’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
it lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
when we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
that always will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Barefoot on the paving slab chill, concrete
feet feel frostbite emanations in their callused souls;
rooftop mystique clamours silent slate triangles,
perched the stray cat observers, red-eyes smoking coals.
Down to the river's edge where swaying reeds
feed mongrel contemplations with moist whispered words;
rusty oil-slicked surfaces lick the muddy banks,
karma sutra assassins are the predatory birds.
Fixated upon a frozen traffic system, bolt-locked,
dumb-shocked by electric one way streets to dead ends;
barstool poets weep sleep-sozzled cabbage tears
for the closing-time tragedy of long-time absent friends.
Drunkards shamble on beer-stained coliseum floors, grumble,
mumble incomprehensible diatribes into thin air;
the memorial park benches flake skin and rot within,
white spirits rape the dreams that anyone should care.
Deserted boardwalks spool a crooked travel,
unravel with myopic glint and blink, cat's eyes dying, died,
and the desolated song from night's deflated lung
hums doggerel consolation with no meaning left inside.
Illegitimate offspring of fatherless daughters and sons,
buns in sceptic ovens, burnt baked black offerings;
sacrifices on toilet stall altars, to lie in state
no more than ether, aborted ghosts, empty superfluous things.
Saviours ride no pale horses, immaculate white stallions,
galleons never sail to where the sun pristinely sets,
for the purpose of this life resides in its conclusion,
deserve has nothing to do with it and nothing is all it begets
Thousands were selected.
In each country, hunted and arrested.
Hatred so extreme. Genocide the theme.
Mass extermination, old, young and sick.
Into the pit.
Sons and daughters, like your own.
Gassed and burnt, down to the bone.
Slaughter of a human race.
Because, a type of face.
Naked en mass, waiting for the gas.
What a way to die!
Unable to breath or cry.
Vomit, blood and gore.
They are no more.
Comments
I have had lots of feedback on this poem.
Mostly, they comment on Hitler being
the cause, I think that the whole German race
was responsible. The clouds of smoke from the ovens
covered all of Europe. The smell of burnt flesh was
everywhere. All of Germany combined to carry
out this enormous task.
Jingle-jangle bells
Sing-song syncopation
Ambulances hurtle down streets
of post-war Europe
Eerie bells; haunting bells
ghosts of round-ups, of Auschwitz
of Buchenwald, and Bergen-Belsen
sounds of death and doom
Shades drawn suddenly
blinds sealed tight
Breath held; pin-drop silence
'Till the peril passes
Bells tear at tortured souls
Dragnet's tentacles probing
Reaching for fresh corpses to feed
Insatiable crematoria ovens
Decades later, survivors flinch
hearing jingle-jangle bells
So, too, sons and daughters
living victims of inherited terror
June 02, 2019
Entry in 'What Makes You Flinch' contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver