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Robert Mounsteven Poem
We drink to Life. L'chaim. Summer smiles
In Leah's eyes, June sunlight gently glowing.
The glass waits on the earth, bowl, base, and stem
Remembering. Then, shards beneath
My foot. Then, Mazel tov, the guests all cry.
God send you many sons. Then, fields of stars,
Sweet Heaven's blossoms, blessings from the night.
Eyes, lips, and fingers feed and taste delight.
One soul. Two bodies. Her great gift to me.
My dearest Leah. Look at me again.
Wild November wind. Summer's flowers, dust.
A crystal night. Tears, rain, sharp broken glass,
And terror in the dark. Some dogs have caught
Their quarry. Then, one barks: Ein jüdische Ratte.
I stare out through the crack. That ghetto street.
That starless sky. Whose son lies there,
Sweet body broken by strong blows and boots?
Inside, our other children cry. We hide
Beneath the floor. And, Leah looks at me.
Winter station. Waiting. All to separate trains.
One final look from Leah: blind despair.
Three days. No food. No water. Pressed to death.
God's chosen people dying, standing there.
A stop. A silence. Sudden searing light
Like Hell erupting in sick poisonous flames.
I step out, blindly. Stumble. Glasses fall.
A soldier, looking like my son. Nicht Gold, he sneers.
Grinds slowly on the twisted broken things
As if to show he'll break me, too. He won't.
You doubt my story, boy? God gave you eyes.
These numbers on my arm cry who I am,
And who I was back then, when worlds were lost.
They wake me from my summer dreams and thoughts,
To weep for Leah,
For my sons,
For broken glass,
And love reduced to shards.
Copyright © Robert Mounsteven | Year Posted 2020
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Details |
Robert Mounsteven Poem
I'm strong and black and wild and hairy. Am, in fact, a wolf, although the shepherd claims me as his sheep. He holds me high above all others, softly strokes my midnight fleece, calls all: "Come see the finest of my flock, which I thought lost. God gave it back to me." Yet, I am a wolf. I sense it in hot veins, blood thirst, and quick, taut limbs. I'll baa a bit, for now, and play sheep games, and wait until our shepherd sleeps.
Whiteness all around.
Even watchful shepherds dream –
Predator on prey.
I asked no maker, from dark clay, to mould me sheep. I urged no placement in this flock. I crave an hour. One's enough. A silent chat, alone with neighbours, two or three. I'll feed, then run. For now, I rest beside still waters, chew my cud, and think.
God made me His wolf.
God placed me with His lambs.
God made me what I am.
The winter's passed. The rains have fled. The soft and tasty lambs all leap about. They have no fear of me while shepherds live. Here, at our table, short sweet grass: sheep prayers answered. Simple safety. Sleep and seem content. No, wait. Wake up. I’m wolf, not sheep.
Prayer lulls the shepherd –
Opiate of the masses.
Deep drug-brought comfort.
The day is done. The fire's dead. The tent is dreaming. Darkness wakes me from day’s weak, pale thoughts. The moon begins to rise. What mercy need I offer pleading sheep? I'm wolf. I'm Wolf.
Pleasure comes from flesh,
Not intellect or seeming.
I'm Wolf. I'm feeding.
Copyright © Robert Mounsteven | Year Posted 2020
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