The Poetry Of.
Deborah Rey..................................................
Cyclones
They all have names,
the cyclones that sweep up
dust into a drunken spiral
and play with cars
as if they were toys
place roofs of houses
on other ones
in other streets
destroy all life around
but for the few
that hide in time
leave bloated corpses
people, cats, dogs, cows
floating in the
swollen water.
The all have names
but then there was
the Zyclon B.
Just an initial. B.
For Bertha, Bernhard, Bernt?
It's not important now, because
whatever its real name,
there was no wind involved
no drunken spiral ... just
a simple canister, filled
with tiny granules, and
a few soldiers on the roofs
of what were called
the 'shower rooms'.
Open the hatch, empty
so many canisters,
wait half an hour or
till the howling stops,
until it will be safe
to open doors.
Zyclon B has no name,
just an initial and today,
like all the survivors
of cyclones who mourn
their loves ones,
there are millions
who mourn the victims
of the cyclone that goes
without a full name;
just an initial
B
Our Land
Our land
is waiting still
for Autumn to appear
in red golden passing glory
to winter's silent snow and birds hungry
no fear of cats they’re all inside
near the fire; sounds outside,
no unicorn there yet;
a deer has crossed
our land.
Wish
Wish there were torrents
to sweep away my memories,
wish there were waterfalls
to wash away my pain,
wish there were some gentle brooks
to rinse the teardrops from my eyes.
Wish there was a simple way
to stop thinking
of a silver-handled brush,
and a gentle voice that sang,
Sha, sha, main Kind, sha, sha,
and chased my fears with love.
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