Long World war ii Poems
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Einstein's Brain
Gifted genius, Newtonian spoiler,
Physicist, and Nobel Prize winner,
And a pacifist whose formula and theory
On energy and quantum mechanics
Advances the scientific community
In the development of nuclear weaponry
By unraveling the atomic enigma,
Leading to the bombing of Hiroshima.
In letters to FDR, Einstein expounds
On possible German research into atomic bombs.
This convinces the U.S.A. to initiate
The Manhattan Project nuclear weapons race.
Somewhere in his meditative thinking,
Einstein’s life has no destiny, only being.
His preserved brain is dissected and analyzed
And reported as human with no hidden secrets.
***
Notes:
1 Albert Einstein(1879–1955): Albert Einstein was a world-renowned theoretical physicist known for his theory of general relativity and mass-energy equivalence (E=mc2).
2 Franklin Delano Roosevelt (FDR) (1882–1945): Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the 32nd President of the United States of America from 1933 to 1945.
3 Einstein’s letter to FDR: On August 2, 1939, a letter drafted by Leó Szilárd (1898–1964) and signed by Albert Einstein was addressed and sent to FDR (the then-president of the U.S.A.). The letter warned the United States of America of possible German research and development of an atomic bomb. It further went on to urge the U.S.A. to do the same and develop an atomic bomb before Nazi Germany. This prompted President Roosevelt to take action, which would eventually lead to the Manhattan Project.
4 Manhattan Project: The “Manhattan Project” was the code name for the secretive World War II undertaking by the Americans (with British and Canadian consent and contribution) to develop and produce the world’s first nuclear weapon. On July 16, 1945, the first atomic bomb was detonated at the Alamogordo, New Mexico, test facility in the United States.
5 Albert Einstein attributed quotes:
i) “Had I known that the Germans would not succeed in producing an atomic bomb, I would have never lifted a finger.”
ii) “There is neither evolution nor destiny, only being.”
My Nonna
My Nonna lived to age eighty-six,
and Rosa was her given name.
From Italy, she settled in New York,
and married my dear Nonno, who
from Florence came so long ago.
Nonna, such a kind and gentle soul,
taught me to understand her words.
Although I never could speak it well,
she did convey her thoughts to me
through her native Italian dialect.
She was a seamstress and as such,
designed and made my fancy clothes;
some adorned with her embroidery...
all works of art by her creative hands.
It was she who taught me how to sew.
I still remember her salt and pepper
hair, so long, but wound up in a bun.
Her face that looked a tad older than
she was, from quite a stressful life
in growing up...but as a mother too.
My Nonna did outlive her only son,
who she lost to World War II.
My Nonna outlived my Mom, who
succumbed to cancer at age fifty-five.
To lose two children, way too young...
a double tragedy for her it was.
And so, we bonded closer after that.
I still remember her loving arms
around me, soft but very strong,
and the security I always felt within.
I so much miss her still today...
my loving, caring, sweet, Nonna.
March 3, 2019
Note: Nonna means Grandma in Italian;
Nonno, Grandpa
Sorry your kids can't come into
school today
As all the teachers are out on strike
wanting better pay
So are the doctor's and nurses and
paramedics as well
If you are sadly unfortunately feeling
unwell or have any form or other of
medical emergency or have an untimely
fall
As they also want a fairer living wage
to take home at the end of the month
And even if you wanted to go anywhere
and don't have your own car
I am also sorry to inform you that both
the buses and trains are currently out
on strike as well
So it seems like nobody is going anywhere
at the present moment in time
Because you can't or may be unable
to go or get anywhere anyways
And chances are no one will be there
or is probably at and manning their
work stations anyway
As everyone and everyone seems to
be currently out on strike
Seeking and searching for better pay
come what may
Only problem is nothing seems able
to be or is getting done for all and
sundry
And the negotiations between both and
all parties concerned
Don't seem to getting or going nowhere
either
Because and after COVID there
is hardly little or no money left in the
pot we are more so in debt since
world war II
The birds of steel fly over the sky,
Oh, why! Oh! Why?
The steel troops advance,
That's when the fell upon my glance;
I had to return to base,
Fore' the Nazis made a chase.
I took my heels, then I ran,
Then I saw my own sitting in a van;
I staggered a bit, but I managed a jump,
couldn't mount, therefore I bump;
into scrap, I'd hit,
my own didn't even care a bit.
For the betrayal that he made,
Lord! Stab him with a diamond blade;
In a war, none are your ally,
so is war called a human folly;
he pushed the throttle, went away,
I thanked god, for my last day.
the bandits took me to execution,
I shriveled down for their persecution;
This was an end of a life,
an end of my everlasting strife;
to a limit of betrayal by friends,
THIS IS HOW A WAR ENDS!
One cold November, in the not-too-distant soon
the echoes of these shores will ever silent be
as fewer come each year to where their pals were strewn;
on Omaha, among the rest of war’s debris.
Fewer again will hear cannons roar, a rifle’s snap,
a bullet’s thwack, the screams of pain, the corpsman call.
And yet they come, the few, in regimental cap
across from far and wide, to stand, salute, recall.
One cold November, when the last of them has gone
will we still hear the echoes of the silent shore?
Will we remember what it is for us they won?
Or is it just the closing of another door?
Four-score years ago, the youth of Allied Armies stormed Normandy's shore;
Men in the December of their years returned today recalling the gore of war.
They wept at comrades graves who freely gave their all on that crimson strand;
Heros reaped by the Scythe of Death to ensure that freedom would yet stand.
Old men wept as the dulcet notes of Taps was played,
And rendered smart salutes as Old Glory was displayed!
Many of the veterans leaned on canes to guide their stride;
Others in wheel-chairs were helped by guides to ease their ride.
Gnarled hands that once held the fearsome weapons of war,
Beckon for peace that we shall know war nevermore!
Upon the plain above Omaha Beach lie 9000 buddies they mourn,
Who await Gabriel's clarion bugle call on that Triumphant Morn!
The glistening sand that once was stained by a hero's blood,
Is now cleansed by the ebb and flow of decades of tidal flood.
The beach that once resounded with the cannon's roar,
Now trembles with the booming surf rushing to the shore!
The hardships these gallant men suffered, we shall never know;
So much, so very much, to this Great Generation we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Van Gogh's Yellow House
On the corner of a cobblestone street, a yellow house is located,
and nearby, there is a bistro to eat at and a café where friends meet,
which are illuminated by a sulphur sun under a cobalt sky.
A train barrels past the sunlit house of unfulfilled dreams
as I enter the building and grin as life passes me by,
because I can’t see the future for the tears in my eyes.
Through cracked-open green shutters, as reclusive as I can be,
I see gawkers with their arms outstretched and fingers pointing,
saying to each other, “Look up there, the painter’s crazy.”
My heart has grown cold and dry. Destiny has been mean to me.
And now, the police come to my door to force me to leave,
by decree of law, with a petition signed by the community.
Still, the scenery inspires me, and I can’t relinquish my painting.
With palette in hand, I mix red, green, blue, and yellow paints
and brush their hues, tints, tones, and shades on the canvas to create
“The Street” (with audience) on 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France.
***
Note:
On May 1, 1888, Vincent van Gogh (1853–1890) rented four rooms in the Yellow House at 2 Place Lamartine, Arles, France, and lived there from September 1, 1888, to March 1889. Fellow artist Paul Gauguin (1848–1903) shared the house with Van Gogh from late October 1888 to December 1888. It was here that Vincent van Gogh painted many of his masterpieces.
Van Gogh was forced to leave the house in March 1889 when the police, acting on a petition signed by thirty townspeople claiming that Van Gogh was mad and a threat to the community, closed the house.
The house was severely damaged during an Allied bombing raid in World War II and later demolished.
While searching for unique places, where I could watch the rising dawn
with stupefied eyes always eager to search and discover,
I came across a rare and never seen childhood picture;
can anyone imagine the wondrous joy of the first exploding emotion?
That picture was taken in a town where history left its trace,
and by rediscovering it, it infused gladness
enabling memory to make a return to sadness...
when I stared at that boyish, timid face with a sun-lit face.
The huge square with a neoclassic water fountain was cramped with vendors...
it flashed vivid images of thrifty visitors, neighbors, family and friends;
I recall mom carrying her heavy shopping bag asking for my help,
and peaking to see what was inside, I accidentally dropped my gray cap.
Many decades have passed and much has changed ever since;
wasn't my town ravaged by World War II? Didn't horrifying screams rise
while above hovering Allied airplanes dropped their powerful bombs
to target the German soldiers who had invaded Baiano by the thousands?
A picture such as mine is a testimony of a bygone era some would like to forget,
and seeing buildings reduced to rubble was heartbreaking; no, some were never rebuilt
to witness the atrocities of war experienced by the doomed citizens of Italy;
and wasn't Mussolini Hitler's puppet of vain ego who caused his country much misery?
Somewhere in hell their war still rages
Somewhere in hell their fires still burn
Somewhere in hell they fight through the ages
Somewhere in hell evil swears to return
Somewhere in hell the devil wages
Who's gonna win the war from before
Somewhere in hell a truth of light engages
Against evil to stop hell from finding your door.
Somewhere in hell evil enrages
Against a spirit who will not leave his post from before.
Somewhere in hell light blinds evil at all stages
Somewhere on earth a woman bares witness to memories of their war.
Somewhere in hell his eyes will never close
Somewhere in hell memories will never fade
Somewhere in hell his life counts for something
Somewhere in hell the truth beats the lie
Somewhere in hell their war still rages
Somewhere in hell good will not die.
Somewhere in hell.
Kalamazoo kids went off to war
leaving giddy gals to go forward in fractured
factories ~from music to munitions
gay guitars would wait until battered boys
came hurriedly home...
or would they wait?
The thought was there but Gibson's gals
did not care for world war and behind
the building's walls would give guitars
attuned attention; first making munitions
then manufacturing those magical music guitars.
The Gibson Factory in Kalamazoo, Michigan is known for its iconic guitars... During World War II, many of Gibson’s competitors had switched to munition-making in an effort to support the war at home. Gibson followed suit—on the surface, at least. While it did hire more women than any other guitar-turned-munitions manufacturer, these women weren’t just making bullets—they were also making guitars. Specifically, the Kalamazoo Gals made Gibson’s Banner line of guitars, which were later used by musicians like Buddy Holly and Woody Guthrie. ~Atlas Obscura