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Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch

There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon’s, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her,
                                      and is not the same.
I still love her and enlist this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.

On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles ...
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the “surgeons.”
                                                    S­leeping, all.

Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less.
                              Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man’s crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I’ll bed there and bid the world “Good Luck.”

Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Black Medina, Voices Israel, Other Voices International, Verse Weekly, Poetry Renewal Magazine, Mindful of Poetry, The Eclectic Muse, Promosaik, Famous Poets & Poems, The Wandering Hermit, FreeXpression (Australia), Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), Trinacria, Pennsylvania Review, Poems About, Litera (UK), Yahoo Buzz, Got Poetry, de Volksrant Blog (Holland)

Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, Auschwitz, rose, Sharon, name, forgotten, sacred, memory, flame, briar, thorns, reddening, sunset, thistles, nettles, innocent, innocents, surgeons, blood, crimson, petals, weeds, muck, lightning, blitzkrieg, strike, struck, attack, war, violence, ******, death, bed, grave, goodbye, farewell, good luck
memoona kazmi Aug 2019
The candles flicker and fumes
Rise from the wick
Into my room

A baby flame
Born at once
Took a breath and died

A mother with a coin
in her pocket chooses
poison as her diet

With gun pointing at innocents
The all say
Death for them is a child's play.......
Hi guys, i want all of you to open google and search for the brutality of indian army... Search for kashmir... Everyday hundreds of them are being massacred mercilessly...... They need our gratitude.  They want us to stand for them... Please stand for kashmir
Kay-Rosa May 2019
two children,
rocking back and forth
on creaking wooden swings
aged with time
the sky dark, casting a blue-grey filter over the world
a little blue skirt swings with the inertia
a teddy in the small pale hand
"are you like me"
patent leather shoes scrape the wet mulch beneath the swing
"that depends, how do you play"
"i play with minds, i show them things only i can see"
"well, when i play, they feel things they dont know how to feel"
"so you are like me"
"i guess... do they take you to big people in white coats"
"yes... do they try to make you blind like them"
"yes... i tried to introduce them to my friends, but they couldn't see them"
"i can help you"
"okay"
"wanna work together, to show them"
"yes, that would be fun"

**

one thing you didnt notice
the teddy has no head
how innocent
how sweet

hey, im back, feel frickin free to comment, as always
s Willow Feb 2019
A haze of betrayal
as memories twist, crawl and scream.
We once experienced bliss, childlike innocents,
and untainted love.
We dont want to go back.
But your desire vanished.
A horrific pool of agony.
Follow the night,
follow the darkness.
Love was torn apart that day.
In a haze of betrayal.
I still love you.
Jessie Schwartz Feb 2018
LOST INNOCENTS…by Jessie

Children, the tiny seed of man; their innocents won’t last

For all the history of the fathers

Present to the past

What's sad is children never mean

Kind and pure of heart

People take that innocents and tear it all apart

The hopes and dreams of years to come

Placed within their hands

Expectations way to high

For them to understand

Pressures put on the child, from an early age

Just so fathers get the chance to stand on center stage

Weighting down the children’s will

Boot tight on their throat

Trench dug deep around their soul

A finely crafted moat

Children grow to be adults

And do as they were taught

While all along the fathers words

Sit within and rot
Shaxy Jul 2017
Blood of the innocents spilled, can’t we live in peace?
Stop the war, cherish and respect the people around you. Spread love, not hate.
Shofi Ahmed Mar 2017
Inside the great
big global village
not everything is rosy
even a cat knows it
a leaf can sniff it.
The Moon shines
not in every night
nor God promised
always a blue sky.
Still the roses bloom
Cinderella has the lot
the reasons to groom.

The richest among the folks
turns philanthropist in the globe.
The wisest among the men
celebrate the era for it’s
the civilisation at its peak.
Hooray what now triumphs at last
is the wisdom and humanity!

Really? O please tell me?
Not very far, nor for much,
just because some differ in faith
mothers and fathers left in pain.
Not because they are to lose
Rohingyan sun nor the land
beneath their feet but in no time
their sons and daughters
can be put to death into fire
that too before their eyes
before the silent established world!
Slouched atop the bookshelf resting his fluffy head
against much loved Rudyard Kipling's finest.
He watched the day to day stories of King Anthony
'The child ruler of the world' and his beloved younger sister Anya.

Avoiding arguments downstairs in the dying segments of daylight,
the boy's reassurance to Anya showcased rare moments of humanity
not seen by Little Weissel's beaded eyes since occupied Holland.
Amongst his stuffing was still memories of his first best friend,
in which many a day was spent quietly hiding away,
listening to the sound of boots roaming around the house.

King Anthony reached his hand out in full view of the aged bear's face
and plucked him from his perch.
As warm as the bear felt to him, he felt to this plush relic, whose eyes
would dilate in the melt of such moment if only they could.
From his arms passing down to her trembling ones;
she was looking for solace in the wake of mother and father's quaking
voices in the kitchen.

For Little Weissel it seemed like 'what was old is new again'
and now after spells after neglect he was experiencing a second
lease of life.
As the war downstairs fizzled out into quiet evening, King Anthony and Anya were locked together, both tenants of sleep with
Little Weissel just as lovingly clung to as the first moment he'd been clutched.

Maybe in the new harsh terrain, the scabby mass of the little bear
could once again feel the need to be needed as any good plaything deserves to be.
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