The Poetry Of..
Deborah Rey...................................................
Come, Let's Toll That Bell
He was your Grandfather,
he wasn't mine.
She was my Mother,
she wasn't yours.
He survived, his soul in shreds,
(so hard for him to live with),
she died, her remains somewhere
in Auschwitz (hard for me to live with).
We never even heard of him,
of that soldier, I mean,
but his family
was handed the telegram
politely announcing
his death
in a bloody senseless war
in a far-off land.
The new captain on
his country's ship came
just too late
for this son
brother
friend
lover
husband
father.
Today one war ended,
in May of every year
we remember another one.
Then, there are, to
name a few,
some ended,
some still going on and on
Korea
and Vietnam,
Iraq,
Iran (next one?)
Lebanon,
Afghanistan
the Middle East
Africans killing their brothers,
fathers,
mothers
sisters
and on
and on
and on
it goes
and all we can do
is help those who survived,
but still live it,
still feel it crawling under their skin,
still cannot sleep
thinking back to
a pal
my pal
your pal
his pal
our pal
blown to pieces.
We can't help them and
helplessly wonder,
When will it all end?
Come, let us rejoice! We still are able
to be sad, feel the loss and mourn.
It's more than most of those running
this mad world seem to be capable of.
Let's rejoice that, upon seeing a poppy,
we remember and feel the loss.
Let's not give up remembering,
let's not be shy to shout it out,
let's toll that bell,
year after year,
lest they forget.
Hiroshima Beach
(24th January 2009)
Like soldiers once on Omaha Beach
they fell, left and right and by the thousands,
yet this time not an army of brave men, but
one of proud, tall trees.
This time no enemy gunfire, but the wind,
a Tempest they decided to baptise Klaus.
In just over three hours time, Klaus destroyed
over sixty per cent of the majestic body of pine trees
that is, together with the beaches, the livelihood of the
Atlantic Coast region, the Aquitaine.
Seven hundred and fifty thousand acres of
forest. Gone. Leaving a Hiroshima of uprooted,
or snapped like matchsticks, lifeless debris of pines
that even the paper- or wood industry doesn't want
and part of which people will have to put in their
last will and testament. The next generation's firewood,
to go with the inheritance of the property.
We did survive, so did all our animals and even,
quite amazingly, my still skinny, but steadily
growing weeping willow tree. Its branches weep,
like many people do these days, quite openly,
men and women alike. What else to do, when
Nature, in the time span of a few hours,
destroys your livelihood, declares you bankrupt?
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