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Alan Peat Poem
The Mountains of the Dead
I’ve seen the mountains of the dead,
the worn-down hobnailed boots,
a child’s pathetic pair of shoes,
those ladies’ heels in red and blue,
and stared at each macabre caress;
scuffed patent leather,
canvas twisted rubber soles,
threadbare laces noose tied,
forsaken footwear’s silent echoes
of ghettoes quickly cleared.
A million steps that led to death.
In moving epitaph to abandoned hope,
a pile of battered suitcases
bare the hasty scrawls of human beings
I’ll never know:
Klara Goldstein,
Peter Eisler,
Olga Kornfeld.
A lost property office
for the Lost.
Reaching out, ten thousand spectacles
watch me through a window,
peer deep into my soul, tug heartstrings
to my conscience,
these twisted frames,
the ultimate victims
of a twisted ideology.
One thousand lives
Extinguished
Every
Single
Day
Copyright © Alan Peat | Year Posted 2023
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Alan Peat Poem
Shame
When word had spread of His arrest, I left
Bethesda, passed five porticoes and came
Eventually upon the Roman fortress;
My curiosity overriding shame.
Six trials they say He underwent, stood still
With arms behind Him bound, yet He refrained
From admitting guilt before being dragged outside;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
They flogged Him with a lead-tipped whip and placed
A crown of long sharp thorns to mock His fame,
With laughter wrapped Him in a purple robe;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
As parting crowds allowed the Cross to pass,
A constant storm of fists and curses rained,
My silent form within the shadows hid;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
From my place upon the hill, I watched Him
Shake his head when offered wine, the same
Brew sipped in greed by His companions;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
With scant regard to modesty they stripped Him,
Then gambled for His clothes and scorned His name,
Brought hammer, nails to crucify this man;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
As noon approached, the sun retreated and
Darkness fell across this land, yet hard rain
Fell none to wash away complicity;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
His sweat stained forehead creased in agony,
That wound where spear had pierced his failing frame,
And from on high I felt His gaze meet mine;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
When all was still I helped Joseph wrap Him
In a linen shroud, was thanked, proclaimed
A friend, dismissed this status out of hand;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
Sunset stretched the shadows, an olive grove,
A cave His resting place, Mary Magdalene
In stifling tears reached out to say a prayer;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
And there we sat until the night sky turned
To dawn, cold stars above, the burning flame
Of our own thoughts now dwindling embers;
While I could only hang my head in shame.
I’m older now, my life is nearly done,
Have followed in His steps despite been born lame,
For healing hands once worked a miracle;
Yet even now I hang my head in shame.
Copyright © Alan Peat | Year Posted 2022
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