Long Auschwitz Poems
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Pan doktor my children called me, an orphanage to run.
I was educated in their German homeland but polish born.
My children wrote a newspaper and ran their own law courts.
I created a place of learning for the lonely and the poor.
The Warsaw ghetto was created and the orphanage was moved.
Pan doktor took his children 192 little souls.
On the 6th august the Germans came to call
to take them on a journey, but pan doktor , did'nt have to go
But Pan doktor could not leave his children and dressed them in their finest cloths
Each child carried a favourite book or toy, held tight as if they where gold
he marched with them to the station, a trip to the country they where told !
again pan doktor was offered the chance not to go
On the trains arrival a young child pulled at his coat
"Pan doktor" you said a country trip but that sign says, work will set you free !
as he walked them into the gas chamber ,tightly holding hands.
I have entered this in the seekers comp to me this is one of the most touching storys about the holocaust and is not well know , A true hero and a great man
true story : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Janusz_Korczak
work will set you free, is what the sign says above the entrance to Auschwitz
comp entry 11/07/2016
Family love is born in little rooms,
around sofas, settees, dinner plates,
with paternal bond that strengthens and grooms,
unswerving link that lasts till heaven’s gates!
We were such family in a French town,
traditional, true, religious us four,
mother was good at making wedding gowns,
father a decorator ran paint store!
Sister and I watched German troops on streets,
Tuesday August year nineteen forty three,
parents held us close, could hear their heartbeat,
that was the last day we would all be free!
Dragged on to street by the Nazi soldiers,
our father was punched kicked and beaten blue,
we wept helpless, clung to mother’s shoulders,
that was the last of our father we knew!
Pulled away from mother and Sis I cried,
screaming imploring, no mercy, no heart,
that day for me when humanity died,
was day my family was torn apart!
Packed in a train suffocating with stench,
alone defeated waited journey’s end,
with dead and dying that made stomach wrench,
four days of thirst and suffering to spend.
I remember that train to Auschwitz well,
journey that destroyed many lives like mine,
where our love and hope to tyranny fell,
to death we were paraded in a line!
Six months past we heard exchange of fire,
that made evil enemy pack and run,
We were all rescued from behind barbed wire,
was still hope and goodness under the Sun!
When God smiles he smiles generously well,
lifts suffering souls from bottomless pit,
That day he was smiling we could all tell,
his eyes perhaps gleaming and face well lit!
Each life and hope with dignity restored,
we were treated, bathed clothed and given food,
In room of people saw face I adored,
sobbing with outstretched arms my mother stood!
United with mother back to my house,
and years of togetherness we would share,
on the wall hangs our striped prisoner blouse,
to tell trappings of hatred and its snare!
The train to Auschwitz took many to death,
guilt ridden, to and fro ran that train,
but tracks remain, hate may creep back in stealth!
train to Auschwitz should never run again!
Premier contest 6th placement
Written 09/April/2021
10 syllables each line (PS syllable count)
based on a true story as related by a 93 yr old Auschwitz survivor
The last train to Auschwitz poetry competition
Kai Michael Neumann sponsored
~ For International Holocaust Day ~
Never again, we vowed
when Auschwitz was liberated
When images of human skeletons
flickered across our screens
Four months later, Never again
Hiroshima and Nagasaki
Mushroom clouds shielding
Civilians screaming, burnt alive
Never again, we vowed
then betrayed South Vietnam
the Viet Cong slaughtering
all those left behind
Never again? Never again?
We fled Iraq and Afghanistan
Allies to the butcher's knife abandoned
~ Never again we mutter, Never again
Train To Auschwitz
By R.e. Taylor
How many
How many men, women and children
How many were herded onto those trains
Packed in like worthless hunks of meat
No food or water
Nowhere to sleep or sit
No cool air to breathe
They had no idea where they were going
No idea how long they would be there
But they all had hopes that it would be better
They would be able to at least live
But there were other plans
A megalomaniac decided for them
They were hated for so many reasons
Not one made any sense
But they were condemned for them anyway
Beaten, raped and murdered they had no chance
They were burned or buried in mass unmarked graves
Today, the tracks still remain
As do the memories of so many who were killed
From river to the sea, an ocean of blood, filled with cries of children;
peace is broken, homes destroyed, lives shattered, a sea of refugees fleeing torrential bombs, under the ether of Western civilization resisting a ceasefire.
From river to the sea, Palestine is on the brink, like an express train to unspeakable tragedy befalling a whole nation, slated for extinction.
History's marching backward, to Rwanda and Auschwitz, a clever strategem for land without its original people, invaded by European settlers citing holy book to lay their claims, like Spanish conquistadors, proclaiming an "empty continent."
From river to the sea, a nation rises and put down like new Spartacus, mutinous against their slavery, and the new King Cnut desperately summoning the waves for Eretz Israel, with no more checkpoints and separation walls; they're only needed for an apartheid state.
From river to the sea, priceless treasures, highlighting architectural ensembles of centuries, buried under the chorus 'finish them,' finish them all, old, young, women, children, their animals too. The magic of land that spawned world religions suddenly has dwindled to a trickle of humanity, the catharsis of a crisis of spirit, shutting down conscience, and soon new settler homes shall be built on tower of skulls, with Gaza's unwelcome beaches available to western tourists again, offering kayakers great thrills at discounted prices, with its banks lined with daffodils and new palm trees, so the pleasure boats can anchor for a day to take advantage of the whirlpools of new resorts with a big sign, no Palestinian allowed.
From river to the sea, the light glows within the dispossessed, and with each martyr, their spirit of resistance blooms, and the saga lingers: Palestine will be free, and Jews and Muslims shall live together in peace.
Back to Belfast
I have been to the Ghetto thrice
To Auschwitz twice
And to Belfast once
And to tell the truth
Belfast is the winner of the weirdest places
Where I’ve ever been
But to be fair
That was just before Good Friday-
The peak of the peace process
Deserted streets
Walls dividing roads
Flags aggressively hanging from windows
Emblems that define their owners’ sympathy
Plain buildings bedecked by racist graffiti
It made me think of a European inter-war capital
Berlin or Rome in the era of dictators
Sectarian genocide was lurking there
But no blackshirts visible to give it an edge
My country, my people
What have you done?
How could you do this?
Answer me!
I’ve had my share of tight corners
But I can safely say
No place ever made me feel so uneasy
As Belfast on that day
Until now
Now when I’ve returned
Back there
Back to Belfast
Deserted streets
Fences blocking movement
Face masks preventing and protecting against infection
Emblems that define the struggle for survival
Health signs that warn us how to avoid death
Death at the hands of the virus
Homicide, infanticide, genocide-
This time there’s no special target
The enemy is everybody
With the infection
Now the blackshirts are on the road
Patrolling a deserted dyke
On the outskirts of Warsaw
Soldiers, policemen, imposing regulations
All doing their duty, all plainly seen
But the enemy is invisible
The victims in isolation
Their families in quarantine
The rest of us waiting
For the lurking virus to strike again
If we stay at home-
With shops and cafes
Parks and cinemas closed-
Are we safe?
If I daub the door of my house
With the blood of Lombards
Will I escape this Shoah?
For how long will this go on?
How many more deaths
Before the required quota?
My God, my God
What have we done?
How have we offended you?
Answer me!
They mocked him, the old religious fanatic
Asking God a question with every step
Pleading for mercy for each of the town's Jews
Blessing each morsel of food he so carefully chews
The haughty soldiers are loading up the train now
Jamming the last cattle cart 'til it near burst
But Yankel is still fiddling with his shoelaces
Trying to recall which shoe to put on first
What had the Holy Books told him ~ Right or left
And then which laces to fasten and what prayer
He just couldn't remember. Would God ever forgive him
The sounds of the engine gaining steam up there
Shoes in hand, he chased the departing train
Stumbled and fell on the stones in his path
His whole town transported to Auschwitz without him
Each one to the crematoria to shower and die
~ Only Yankel left to pray to God, mourn and cry
April 14, 2021
Last Train to Auschwitz Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
The Champion
Controlled by remote desires I trip the laurel fuse of longing ancestry
My Mom had been chosen to compete diving from the high platform of
Hitler’s mania for ‘Kraft’ ‘Freude’ living space terror raised arms and all in
guns blazing a misplaced childhood offered on the altar of manic delusion
Wreaths gathered dust on unmarked graves white crossed monuments
administered torches blazed parades marched lined the ‘Higher Faster
Longer’ ‘More Ideologically Corrupt’ abuse of innocent festival of youth
Replaced demounted sacred Mount Olympus for Auschwitz and Stalingrad
My mother was no Jesse Owens who blackened Nazi dreams of whiter than
white no ‘Black Consciousness Runner’ shoving gloves to the sky in post-fascist
Munich 1972 quite close to Dachau where Jews Sinti and Roma vanished
at the hand of Swastika’s psychopathology for denial distanced denied memory
A colour TV to watch remote from a distance was the closest she ever got to
her dream of honour and glory disgraced by politics assassinated like Israeli
athletes in a continuation and preview of fanatical devilish monsters high and
low jacking innocent sports for propaganda politics malignant ideas and ideals
In 1944 there were no Olympics titanic battles were scrambled instead in
General’s Admiral’s chessboards and tactical blood baths no dives into chlorine
and water just rotting gassed trenches exploding the dreams pawns in the Games
crushing to bone meal the Peace with their tanks and grenades fusing demise
1948 came to London awaking from ruins and rubble and the brain washed
German Olympians were banned from all sports had they not spread eagled
their passion prostituted their vigour for eugenics death Fuehrer and Fatherland
My mother tainted blemished in blood and in water a fallen hero on her sword
09th August
Written for Healing Peace and for the contest 'Olympic Mania'
Nobody Died in Auschwitz
Don't let them fool you.
Don't believe the easy lies.
Nobody "died" in Auschwitz
Nor in any of their 10,000 Murder Factories.
No - that's too easy to say.
Starvation = Murder
Disease = Murder
Abuse = Murder
Medical "Experiments" = Murder
Exposure = Murder
They were sent there to die,
But all were helped along to it.
This is what happens
When ordinary people
Turn ordinary people
Into smoke
After those ordinary people
Embrace extraordinary evil
And forget those other ordinary people
Are just like them.
So -
Nobody "died" in Auschwitz
Morality died instead.
A picture appeared on my phone today,
on the proverbial page I perused.
A view of an evil most vile,
villainy veiled behind verve and vim.
Sadists from Auschwitz,
smiling in a storm.
Shoulders shrugging,
to shield from the sky.
No hint of the horrors,
the Holocaust they heralded.
Not haunted like the humans they harrow,
but hyenas, howling, in high humor after the hunt.
Their consciences clear, their cruelty concealed,
their cheer chills me to the core.
They caused such wicked calvary,
a calamity that echoes into the current century.
Yet they dare to delight,
while they deal in death and dread.
Their depravity so deep that they grin,
as they decry virtue and destroy millions.
But what mortifies me more is,
how mundane their mien.
Will we fear the next fiends fittingly,
or in time... if their faces feel like friends'?