A Train In Winter

The route left the Côte d’Azur
at the golden height of Autumn
in the silver splendor sun
on the silky stretch of sand

Parallel lines
stretching out

Jews                 Christians
wealthy            workers
old                    young
Oppression     Resistance
never meeting until
the chain connects
in commitment,
in the blood of
one another
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The tracks are different than normal tracks
Those will never meet, but these meet
in the meat and the smoke and the ash heaps

Of Auschwitz
In Dachau
Thru Treblinka
To Birkenau

A Train that left in Autumn arrived in Hell
A Train in Winter fueled with horror.
A Train Running Silent, Death Shark
along those metal tracks, sparks flying
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whistle silent
and my trauma rides there too
cold in the shiver-cold cars packed
with the bodies and the empty eyes
and the ever playing rape and violation

as I follow my own tracks to my own connections
to face down dead flat eyes and masquerade eye lashes
that blink furiously to bat the truth away
monsters

Pain-t-pot

Terse words…Words muddy
and swirling and steaming
like cream in cold-coffee
like death in soft-nectar
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words lumbering lead-footed
fat flat and hard hulking
fear-shadows are lurking
in other death-words
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words rain down like brain bombs
explode in uncertainty
pregnant with confusion
communion of judas-kiss
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they use words like bullets
to shatter my skull
and blast my brain bloody
and turn my head into
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an urn full of red
a paint-pot of death
that they can drink deep of
and spit on their canvases
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in words and in brush strokes
dipped into the paint-pot
that my brain has become
from traumatic words
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the top of my skull
ripped open by shrapnel
and now just a pain-t-pot
now just a pain-t-pot
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A Disjointed Incomplete Meditation…

houses of grey blank walls decked out in smooth rich wood
panels and pictures of picnics and parties…
banal bacchanalia, all splattered in Blood.

Beds of spikes, hidden neath down comforters,
and wool knitted afghans of colorful,
threatening sinister pattern.

Houses in neighborhoods bereft of neighbors,
each one is serving themselves and alone
in community of this alienation…and all is
destroyed by their own bloody hands…

the work of rough hands…even rougher grave throats.

Our eyes are still bloodshot from staring at visions
of genocide done that we didn’t see coming
but now we continue to watch, in foreboding

but hoping in vain that the cute lil houses
are what’s really real and not all the horror,
lurking beneath in destruction and gore.

we are really in fear and wondering…
what happens when a killer comes home,
or (gulp) even worse

if that killer had never left home?

what then?

what happens when victims
*widows orphans*

and murderers

look each other in the eyes again?

what then, and who blinks first and looks away in shame?

What are these wounds on your chest?
The wounds I received in the house of my friends.

What is greater:  the pain of being violated
or the bitter agony of forgiving?

a valley of dry bones cannot be forgotten
even in the face of forgiveness so costly.

This impossible for me to try to describe
or even conceive of apart from the cross of Christ.

Because forgiveness is also
it’s own rare and exquisite
form of great suffering.

And so now we get down to it:
there is no exit, no escape from the agony,
no pitstop from pain…
all we can do is exchange suffering’s form and it’s face,
from our own for the pain of another…
and us become willing to be bashed and broken
by those very ones we so desperately want
to reach out to and reconcile and leave pain behind.

This is the agony of a tortured soul wrestling
and a wrecked body there…offered in prayer
on the altar of sorrow…for the forgiveness
of torturers’ torments in this dank dark world
of violence and victims, laboring heavy
beneath weights unspeakable and even greater,
the weight of the cross.

And Him?  The Reproached?
The Betrayed, Who was Broken?
Him The Despised and King of All Criminals,
King of All Victims, King of All Shame?

Perhaps He knows of the path thru this valley
of broken dry bones full of dust, full of death.

Perhaps He can see those small signs of life
that are hidden from eyes filled with blood, hate and rage
and only seen by the eyes washed clean with tears
of repentance and wonder to look for our Spring

and the signs there so gentle
of a coming glad day of Resurrection…tumblr_ni0sfjatWG1qzq0kvo1_1280

Robbed No More

The thief had tightened his bright red cawl
over his dusky-dim face of shadows.
Sneaking snaky-quick past slumbering guards
awash in smoky-hazy
maisy lazy thoughts
(and assumptions)
he stole to the cradle and breathed
ice and death in stark puffs.
And then he touched what was not his
and rent eternity bloody within.

I have screamed for 5 decades
WRONG WRONG WRONG!
The tear, jagged and oozing from my soul
gapes, stupid and dull and empty like
that cradle was, ever after.

But Grace has been walking,
from then forward to now,
a gryffon on steady paws
beating breaths of golden Life
to the ever-ache within.
She, with unveiled face and shining glad,
has caressed, crossed
the vast and rheumy spaces
with Promise and Her Red and blazing
tender love to ease my throat,
my heart,
to  transform
that empty achy cradle
into a vacant tomb…

and let my voice now say
in thankful praise

ENOUGH

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