#orphans
Our lunar orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 12:51 PM UTC
Where shadows dwell,
An orphan's tale too dark to tell,
A life bereft of warming sun,
Where tears and rain become as one.
The world, a tomb of endless night,
Where hope is snuffed without a fight,
A heart once vibrant, now undone,
A thread of life so thinly spun.
No solace found in moon's cold glow,
No comfort in the starlight's show,
Just the abyss that calls, enthralls,
Where silence 'round the spirit falls.
A child of sorrow, born to bleed,
A sprout that's choked by noxious ****
In life's cruel garden, left to pine,
Where light of joy will never shine.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 12:16 PM UTC
Neither have I silver nor gold
Surely know I have soul
With less dismay but bold
I'll let wild out my goal
This would be a resource manual
To rate thy giver to earth
This would be a great trial
To the eves of the earth
Nine rounds of thirty day's understatement
Every round of two hundred and seventy
Days would suit the statement
No merry, no joy but groan plenty
Out of the mind, I'll boldly write
To the eves of the nation
Against the serpent we'll fight
To appease man of creation
Sounds the voice of the traitor
"Take and be unveilely wise"
"where're you" is the voice of the creator
"We're naked" false wisdom in his eyes rise
Forgive us father, suit all mothers
That groan, strive'll be less
At the giving stage. No bothers
Of crucial bitterness but happiness
Oh God, see the folks through
Whom absence is their mother
Know I you are thee true
To present their mind with no bother
Their minds fill with love
Their souls fill with strong aim
That they'll not renege. Above
All, affable care, give to them
Was I to earth by great woman
Ebony black, one'f her feutures
Ago, now aged, by her man
Yeah, you'll confirm by pictures
Either have I soul, mind or hand
I'll celebrate mothers in no dismay
Present, past, to show thee love in kind
To thee all, blessed mothers day
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 7:34 AM UTC
Little feet walking
Endlessly far
Big eyes wide open
Only seeing the war
Little hands clutching
everything nearby
Little skinny bodies
Numb, just wanting to cry
A child tired and hungry
With no place to go
No destiny nor future
Nothing... No home..
Eyes big and wide open
Seeing only the dark
That ..... people
is our
refugee child.
Shell
🐚✨
Jan 5, 2021
Jan 5, 2021 at 11:14 AM UTC
A Page from the Deportation Diary
by Wladyslaw Szlengel
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I saw Janusz Korczak walking today,
leading the children, at the head of the line.
They were dressed in their best clothes—immaculate, if gray.
Some say the weather wasn’t dismal, but fine.
They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud),
but if they’d been soiled, tell me—who could complain?
They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd,
five by five, in a whipping rain.
The pallid, the trembling, watching high overhead
through barely cracked windows, were transfixed with dread.
Every now and then, from the loud, tolling bell
a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull’s wailed cry.
Their “superiors” watched, their bleak eyes hard as stone,
so let us not flinch, friend, as they march on, to die.
Footfalls . . . then silence . . . the cadence of feet . . .
O, who can console them, their last mile so drear?
The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street.
Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career.
No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I.
But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.
No one will offer the price of their freedom.
No one will proffer a single word.
His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman
agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord:
“Give them the Sword!”
At the town square, dear friend, there is no intervention.
No one tugs Schmerling’s sleeve. No one cries:
“Rescue the children!” The air, thick with tension,
reeks with the odor of ***** and lies.
How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm:
Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm!
A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand:
“Look Janusz Korczak—please look, you’ve been spared!”
No use for that. One resolute man,
uncomprehending that no one else cared
—not enough to defend them—
his choice is to end with them.
What can he say to the thick-skulled conferer
of such sordid blessings?
Should he whisper, “Mein Führer!”
then arrange window dressings?
It’s too late for lessons.
His last rites are kisses
for two hundred children
the wailing world “misses”
but he alone befriended
and with his love, defended.
But dear friend, never fear:
be absolved by a Tear!
Wladyslaw Szlengel (1912-1943) was a Jewish-Polish poet, lyricist, journalist and stage actor. A victim of the Holocaust, he and his wife died during the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. Janusz Korczak (c. 1878-1942) was a Jewish-Polish educator and children’s author who refused to abandon the Jewish orphans in his care and accompanied them to their deaths at the hands of the Nazis at the Treblinka extermination camp. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Janusz Korczak, Wladyslaw Szlengel, children, orphans, Warsaw, Treblinka, genocide, ethnic cleansing, racism, antisemitism, intolerance, injustice, ****** horror, terror, Nazis
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 3:30 AM UTC
T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers,
these tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.
Each a troop,
in the army of orphans,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.
All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to the rabbled boors,
the imagination suppressors!
World:
cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.
Poets!
Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.
With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!
For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.
*When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
taste his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
becoming one who was, yet still is,
because of you,*
because of poetry.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 4:53 PM UTC
He opened his arms,
like a catchment for rain,
took their tiny fear
nurtured them
for many years,
melting moments
huddled with love,
candy hearts
made out of tears.
.
Aug 19, 2019
Aug 19, 2019 at 1:54 PM UTC
Blood spilled
Tears streamed
But no matter how much you beg on your knees
That’s what war can be
The child cried as his mother’s body lied
With the building burning to ashes
Ashes to the ground, as you hear the child plea
But alas that’s what war can be
The man strangled out cries
As his dying breaths suffocated
Underneath the collapsed building, trying to flee
But alas that’s what war can be
Remember the father who starved himself so his children could eat?
Who had been stripped from his luxury?
His happiness, his love? Who wanted to be free?
Is that what war can be?
What about the brother?
Who lost his leg, saving his sister from a shooter?
What about the sister?
Who died so that her brother could survive his gun inflicted blister?
What about the children?
Who think the parents went to the store?
Only to have the parents in a Ranger’s view
Lying on the ground, blood seeping through
What about the men and women?
Lined up, not knowing their final words
Tears prickling, not being able to see
Is that what you want your people to see?
But that’s all fine
Get the victims in a line
For it’s all for honor
For it’s all for power
What do you think
Goes through the people’s heads?
Oh how great is our country,
For being torn to shreds?
Or oh it’s fine your son died,
Even if you had cried
All this bloodshed is just insignificant clatter
to such an elite matter
What about the bloodshed?
The dead families?
The orphans?
The starvation?
The pain, the agony?
The tears?
The lost homes?
The children living in fear?
The bonds broken?
Is it all worth ego?
While you bet the lives like a gambling casino?
Imagine suffocating slowly and painfully, still having so much to do
Imagine watching your mother die, right after she attended the stew
Imagine holding your child, trying hard to erase all doubt
Imagine living a life, where nothing goes right and about
Imagine seeing your school friends cry
While blood trickles from your thigh
So go on with your slaughter
But remember the mother
Every eye you made shed salty water
The sister
The brother
The father
The farmer
The doctor
The peasant
The teacher
The student
So hold your ****** weapons up high
But remember
That once blood is on the hands
it never fades or becomes dry
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 8:15 AM UTC
...a.l.l..
...l.o.n.e.l.y...
...o.r.p.h.a.n.s...
...n.e.e.d...
...e.s.c.a.p.e...
...a.l.o.n.e....
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
No surname for identification, no address for communication, no relations to own and no rights in my possession,
Discovered in the trash bin as long term survivor of affliction asphyxiation and malnutrition,
Given shelter yet brought up in isolation, called by names that describes my origin,
Denied basic human rights for I possess no rights to be born.,
I am by definition; An illegitimate result of legitimate love induced illicit physical union of a ****** woman with her unlawful man.,
While the sinful man and the woman are at relief that their sin is trashed away in the bin; My shoulders carry its burden and forever my peace and happiness are forbidden.,
Should I be Grateful to my fellow man who saved me from death to curse my birth all my life, Or to the God who created me as an illegitimate sign of a man's sin .,
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 5:31 AM UTC
There are clouds of sound and noise
That utter thoughts in a muffled voice,
Gestures of hands simply won’t cast out
Cloudy skies in days of doubt.
Like strangers lost in a crowd
Whose cries are buried by the loud,
The loud din of helpless wanderers
Whose presence disrupts and disturbs.
All strangers left on their own,
Islands floating out in the fog;
Orphans with cruel fates to bemoan;
Fates that are swept under the rug.
And who's looking with interest, who reaches down with an arm,
Never so eager to help, neither too late nor too soon?
Who would make this world perhaps a little more warm
And freshen the skies of our cloudy afternoon?
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 2:18 AM UTC
It was green before this torment
It was jovial before this storm
There was no stinging tear
But, the clamouring of fleer
My heart throbs with every breath
For I have swallowed a venomous drink of fear
My eyes are searching for a life
An intimate being they do seek
The winds whispered in my ear
‘All those are gone and some disappeared.’
The foul odor around is burning my soul
And the bawling of dismay is all I can hear
For the night is restless and it beseeches aid
I, here, stand still with my back on a spear
The world will recite my story, it will celebrate this day
And will sleep somehow after the vigils on the graves
Yet how I shall find the one who gave me birth?
And will he pay for my dreams with a fatherly stare?
Solace is not what I require
Words will no longer prevail
For I do not feel anything
It is now an eternal pain
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
I am like a saint,
being kind to others is me,
Caused I was abused.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 6:56 AM UTC
streets that once sang salvation
capricious with their mercury cracks
promised a sunlit city of night
to charismatic tramps
starlet girls drag men into motel rooms
desperate to make a buck
cafe drifters fumble for broken cigarettes
young harlots curse their luck
neon upstreet outlaws
don't hang around this part of town
just poor people's shadows and ambulance drivers
drifting around
the subway poet's disillusioned
didn't find his crystal jukebox queen
and despite his desperate, lovestruck words
the city is onerous to please
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 12:11 PM UTC
Despite all we've been through
You still believe the lies
The figmented truth they sell us
In neatly folded towels
Ironed sheets and fresh linen
Tempting us with home
A seemingly harmless word
Dragging us under
Sinking us deep
Those words held memories
Drilled into our bones
Buried in the recesses of hearts
While we wander the streets
Clutching to our rags
Nursing broken dreams
Scampering like mice in the night
Tugging at loose ends
On the pieces of frayed cloth
For the unspoken promises
The light at the end of the tunnel
The reward from the journey
You didn't believe me
When I said survival is for the fittest
But you have seen for yourself
There are no such things as miracles
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.
As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.
He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.
There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.
Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.
The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…
With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,
The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.
But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Our lunar orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Born in this world, blessed are those:
Who with family and love; I suppose.
Born in this world, blessed are those:
Who live with friends and die very old.
Blood defines family; blessed are those:
Who belong to a branch of an old tree oak.
Love defines friendship; blessed are those:
Who aren't family but matter the most.
Born in this world; we come alone.
We live with people and then die alone.
Born in this world; blessed are those,
Who realize we're orphans or I suppose.
-The Silent Poet
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:47 AM UTC
Lou,
You're an orphan now.
The deciding vote
In your favor,
The good kisses,
The latent reconciliation
Linger in this thick room.
You won't need to clean chimneys,
Work in a blacking factory,
Get your ears pinched, and your **** kicked.
You've laid out a fine plaster effigy
In this cherry box;
Yet Enzo's nature is hidden:
His personal tears
And public laughter
Aren't in this demeanor
With rosary weaved into the basket of his hands.
We've polished our shoes,
So we stand and discuss
The crucifix wedged
To hold up the lid,
And how we follow our fathers' footsteps.
We knew it to end this way
With our fathers' generation.
*But you must know your father lost a father,
That father lost, lost his...*
I too am orphaned, Lou,
And we'll continue on
As orphans do.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:04 AM UTC