Seeing the Seine
and the Eiffel Tower view
it's not the same
without you
so feeling somewhat blue
toujours l'amour ma chérie
with this brief billet-doux
thought I'd drop a line
wish you were here
the weather's fine
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The canals wear mirrors today,
polished by bicycle tires
and the scuff of slow-moving clouds.
A houseboat tilts slightly left,
its geraniums nodding
‘welcome to Amsterdam’
Someone’s lost hat floats
down the canal
like a disobedient thought
between two bridges.
P.S. The coffee here
tastes like rain
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It arrived thirty years late,
the stamp still clinging
like a last breath.
The handwriting—your grandmother’s~
shaky, as if she wrote it
in the dark.
The weather is mild here,
the streets quiet.
You would hate it.
No date, no return address,
just the postmark bleeding
into the paper’s edge.
You hold it under the lamp,
turning it over,
half-expecting her voice
to rise like steam
from the ink.
But the silence stays.
And the words,
now brittle as old leaves,
whisper nothing
but her absence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ink has bled to spectral blue,
a date erased by morning dew.
Some hand once pressed this brittle page~
now just the wind turns down the edge.
No name, no stamp, no whispered word,
just Paris in a script absurd.
The Eiffel Tower, sketched too tall,
leans like a man about to fall.
What love or lie was sent in haste?
What heart lay quiet, undisgraced?
The postcard floats from desk to drawer,
a ship that never found its shore.
In remembrance of 9/11/2001
A skyline, once two-headed,
a postcard promise.
I saved it,
that future view,
my feet on the ground,
neck craned back,
in the shadow of steel giants.
They took the dream first.
Not just the view,
not just the towers,
but the postcard, torn.
The future became a past I never lived.
I saw them fall,
and a part of me fell with them.
My anger, a hot fire,
against the smoke,
the dust that buried my dream.
The broke the glass of the window I was looking through,
shattered the symbol,
Left an empty space.
But the broken glass became a mirror.
And in it, I saw us,
not broken, but reflecting.
A million faces,
not shattered, but hardened.
Holding each other up,
in the place where the towers used to be.
The dream changed,
it became something new.
A different kind of strength,
forged in the space where the twin towers stood,
built not of steel, but of spirit.
We were not broken,
we were made stronger.
Postcard perfect- a picturesque town
Where the locals come to wind down
A hidden gem, a park of simplesse
An oasis, heavenly, it's beauty bequests
An art form to behold, a sculpture; nature's showpiece
Serene and tranquil in the heart of the city
A stream lined with a plethora of trees
Every color showcased upon their leaves
A vast variety, Each the opposite from the last
No comparison, within it's contrast
Harmoniously standing together
A strength against stormy weather
Surrounded by majestic abodes
So grand, each and all, becoming stories told
A backdrop- regal mountains- not seen before
Only Nature could compose such a musical score
Unforgettable
Baguio Strawberry field
Rainy day biking.
Off to the cabin on the lake for a much need rest
Time to get away and experience nature at its best
The SUV is loaded let the journey begin
The kids in the back all with big grins
After a long and tiring drive time to put my feet up and kick back
Dinner by the campfire, but first firewood to stack
A chorus of songs fill the air as marshmallows start to ignite
The flames from the burning wood light up the night
The moon shines down brightly from high in the night sky
Wolves in the distance let out their welcoming cry
An evening of fun and excitement has come to an end
A picture postcard of our retreat ready to send
Over burning canefields black soot ash
on an east wind past my balustrade blows,
and big white pelicans the riverine splash
their dive pouch longbills in the shallows.
Windsurfers, sailboats, and rowers in row
pass up and down in their wake across,
and fishermen in the Cod Hole below
sit reeling in their boats off Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide.
When the sun is low and the moon high
fly a plague of bats just passing through -
sipping a wee tincture of scotch in my dry
puffing a wee willem on the avenue.
Girl, like The Iliad it’s all Greek to me
and soon a new life and bridge to cross,
but before the two of us become three
I write my postcard from Mykonos.
Beyond my Grecian villa walls of stone
a great bridge does cross the river’s divide,
and the Maroochy water’s gentle groan
concentrates my mind ‘twixt moon and tide
Written: October 1999
Dear Mariam,
I’m sending you a button from my cotton shirt
And a Pinecone; that I coloured blue, last autumn.
I also coloured my room, blue.
Your shawl, ruined by barbed wires; can I have it?
It reminds me of the blue veins on your snowflake breasts.
Boot stomps on your wooden door,
They can’t smell the tender grass on your feet.
I remember when your fists turned into flowers
And you swallowed a whole cloud.
There is a place on the back of your knee,
Where I kissed long before the first hour.
They asked me to write down your address on the envelope
But I almost forgot it,
So I wrote a poem instead.
Dear All
Hot today. Hired a car. Took to hills. Travelled far.
Narrow road. Never ends. Sweat on wheel. Hairpin bends.
Glanced at temp. Glanced at fuel. Aircon found. Turned to cool.
Island sun. Not like ours. Single track. Other cars.
Parked at top. Lovely sight. Valleys. Vineyards. Left and right.
Church looks out. Opened door. Spanish writing. Walls and floor.
Candle lit. Sat for prayer. Silence deep. Everywhere.
Dark and cool. Warm in feel. Off The Strip. Life here's real.
Gary & Ann
X
Went to a postcard show today
Capitalism in action!
Picked up some nice cards
One dealer - whose parents were Holocaust survivors
Gave me a break on the price
Another collector at the show
was an old Army buddy of my father
Used to work for him at shows
He sold his collection for six figures!!
Used to work in the Wall Street area
for a rich French stamp dealer
He sold a stamp for seven figures!!!
The battle between socialism and capitalism still rages in this world
One does not have to read Ayn Rand
Nor does one have to read Tolkien
But they are two famed authors
which are worth dipping into if you get the chance
Years ago I read Studs Lonigan
James Farrell - another one worth reading
Poetry is the order of the day
for those who love verse
No one is shooting at us for writing verse
in this land
Enjoy the holiday season you out there in the darkness!!
Looking at the painting, toned thorough and strong
Pure death of a lonely soul, last hour theme, so long!
I was trying to grasp what I saw, and I do not know why
I was not a critic of art; I never felt I would ever try!
I kept on looking and looking, beyond all what I was able to see
A familiar cry of inner pain? I might never be able to think that free.
A postcard, written in my native language, such tremendous!
Beautiful, precious, poetic words, quite lovable, quite joyous!
One unique beauty she is! A touching stanza of dreams and longevity
Dancing life through those words, those dancing words of creativity!
An exact moment to earn a defeat, yet, I felt, I am somewhat relieved
Unspoken wish for a soul, for the best, through this beautiful postcard!
We saw their pictures:
tortured out of Our imaginations
like golems.
We could not believe
in their frail extremities
or their gaunt faces,
pallid as Our disbelief.
they are not
with us now;
We have:
huddled them
into the backroomsofconscience,
consigned them
to the ovensofsilence,
buried them in the mass graves
of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.
We have
so little left
of them,
now,
to remind US ...
Originally published in the Holocaust anthology Blood to Remember.
The countryside looked like a Christmas postcard,
Spruces were covered with snowflakes .
Looked like God's painting,
There were tracks in the snow where friends had walked.
Skiers ascended the mountain and skied down swiftly,
Skateboarders came and went,
You admired their ability to caress the slopes,
What a complex sport this is.
Cross country skiers left their prints in the snow,
They wore winter fashions with elegance.
Began snowing again, the gentle six sided snowflakes,
Touched the earth and created a new blanket of white.
Skaters glided on the ice with ease,
Figure skating is a good past time.
A walk in the snow on a snowy day,
Friends would guest and appear.
A visit to the local restaurant ,
A delicious lunch with a friend.
Befriending winter is an art in itself,
Combating the weather each winter is normal.
Travelling in a horse drawn carriage,
Very romantic and popular.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
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