"jewess" poems - Hello Poetry

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down. My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound. A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey. I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground. ****** I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound. Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe. He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow. I served in France in Forty –one; before these Russians were our foes. I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes. I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man. My soul is black for I’ve done some things; for which I once would have been ashamed. I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe as I placed them in a common grave. This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command. He is clever, this one, he waits his chance. Either its him or me that’s dammed. The drifting snowflakes hide his breath. But He’s still out there this I know. My Captain lies still upon the earth and is slowly covered by the snow. We are soldiers who risk our lives. We sacrifice for the Fatherland. We dream of a woman and a warm bed Never of Death’s cold clammy hand My men cry out, the fox is flushed The ****** has at last been found. It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you; I never even heard the sound.

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May 5, 2016

May 5, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC

john-f-mccullagh

******

The snow was blowing among the trees. In large wet flakes it tumbled down. My captain turned, as if to speak, but from his lips there came no sound. A red rose bloomed there on his chest -staining dark the Wehrmacht grey. I looked in horror as he pitched face forward to the ground. ****** I yelled and ducked for cover. The copse of trees echoed the sound. Somewhere out there he awaits; the Devil’s son, the cunning foe. He’s stalked our party for three days yet leaves no footprints in the snow. I served in France in Forty –one; before these Russians were our foes. I shiver but it’s not from fear; it’s just that we lack winter clothes. I motion briskly with my right hand, I think the shooter must be there my corporal nods and starts to move; perhaps he can outflank this man. My soul is black for I’ve done some things; for which I once would have been ashamed. I saw the Jewess try to shield her babe as I placed them in a common grave. This man out there, a warrior; he risks his life upon command. He is clever, this one, he waits his chance. Either its him or me that’s dammed. The drifting snowflakes hide his breath. But He’s still out there this I know. My Captain lies still upon the earth and is slowly covered by the snow. We are soldiers who risk our lives. We sacrifice for the Fatherland. We dream of a woman and a warm bed Never of Death’s cold clammy hand My men cry out, the fox is flushed The ****** has at last been found. It’s true what they say of the bullet that kills you; I never even heard the sound.

30

I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew and angry Irishman who never laid a hand on her, even when she turned the butcher knife on him when he tried to stop her from slashing her red wrung wrists this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest, but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow

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Oct 9, 2017

Oct 9, 2017 at 11:57 PM UTC

spysgrandson

child of a frightened Jewess

I didn't choose to be son of a scared Jew and angry Irishman who never laid a hand on her, even when she turned the butcher knife on him when he tried to stop her from slashing her red wrung wrists this spectacle in plain view of 5 children for whom "woe is the world" was daily refrain I recall Father's blood trail on the concrete between our house and the neighbor's, a surgeon not expecting a bleeding Sunday guest, but my mother's madness didn't rest on the Christian Sabbath, nor on her own after that, the shrinks did their magic: Mom did the Mellaril march, the Haldol hop, the Stellazine stomp, and the less alliterative Thorazine shuffle none of those chemically induced dances did a thing to increase the chances for my mother's salvation soon she was behind the locked doors of "Ward 30," where I visited and Mom told me she had found Jesus a befuddled revelation since I didn't know she was looking for him--her kin had hung him from a cross and taken the heat ever since the doctors released her to the street, where she made misty retreat to the hills of Saint Francisco's bay though she found faint solace in Pacific waters, she would never again see her sons or daughters half a lifetime later, I found a long lost cousin my mother agreed to see, though not with me, for I was too much a reminder of scars which never heal she sat with Mother near the end of days, sharing silence, the scent of Salisbury steak, and a view of the distant shore as my patient cousin rose to leave, my mother finally spoke of a sea she watched turn from cerulean to indigo dusk childhood beaches my mother did recall: the castles she did craft, the crawling ***** she did follow, the sun bathed sand where she made her bed far from the one where she now lay, the one in which she would go smoothly into the night, perchance returning to blue waters, where hot blood trails cannot follow

20

and so the syrian "samaritans", as the twin satans rose against king solomon's profundity in praying for wisdom but only unearthing the woad pigment for his people on their faces, striking a river-flow where no water should have abounded for them to congregate, yet congregate they did, as immigrants, to a flow of awaiting mingling of metaphors, such that the amassed people turned into a river, winding northward into the womb of the holocaust; and among many the lament, while sylvia took to expressing a stoic end, ending it all by amassing a respectable readership... she still reminds me of Eva Braun... who, after all, geneticists proved to be a Jewess - indeed that twinning of dichotomies against the practical linear expression of reincarnation disproved - the linear parallels of: one life, one life, this world; that, whatever that is, you name it god, you name it heaven, you name it hell... forget that, take hold of this. i am fasting all day, but i drink, i get the calorie intake of fire first, then i stuff my stomach like geese or turkeys for slaughter; apparently i'm purified that way; no, i don't take lovers, i take prostitutes into the garden... less hassle; they're like socks, i'm the shoes with that magnetised quote: never judge a man by his shoes, or try to wear them; you might get a hex of excess skin - basically wear your own and leave a river of echoes where you might.

0

Mar 26, 2016

Mar 26, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

anti-ramadhan

and so the syrian "samaritans", as the twin satans rose against king solomon's profundity in praying for wisdom but only unearthing the woad pigment for his people on their faces, striking a river-flow where no water should have abounded for them to congregate, yet congregate they did, as immigrants, to a flow of awaiting mingling of metaphors, such that the amassed people turned into a river, winding northward into the womb of the holocaust; and among many the lament, while sylvia took to expressing a stoic end, ending it all by amassing a respectable readership... she still reminds me of Eva Braun... who, after all, geneticists proved to be a Jewess - indeed that twinning of dichotomies against the practical linear expression of reincarnation disproved - the linear parallels of: one life, one life, this world; that, whatever that is, you name it god, you name it heaven, you name it hell... forget that, take hold of this. i am fasting all day, but i drink, i get the calorie intake of fire first, then i stuff my stomach like geese or turkeys for slaughter; apparently i'm purified that way; no, i don't take lovers, i take prostitutes into the garden... less hassle; they're like socks, i'm the shoes with that magnetised quote: never judge a man by his shoes, or try to wear them; you might get a hex of excess skin - basically wear your own and leave a river of echoes where you might.

22

I once had a love affair With Shakespeare From Nick Bottom's fuzzy *** To Launce Gobbo in the know And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess Then a new direction R&J breaking rules Pants on a Shrewess Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia Bleachers, lights and stage A comedy, no Error, then Tempest, the Next Generation Prospero in 2314AD. Yep. All of them: Complete works! (abridged) Before I left the park. A gap in time before Darkly pierced prince Mourning loss of mother Ends the affair.

0

Jun 23, 2017

Jun 23, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC

james-floss

SHAKESPEARE IN THE DARK (PORTFOLIO)

I once had a love affair With Shakespeare From Nick Bottom's fuzzy *** To Launce Gobbo in the know And feisty Feste crooning a Jewess Then a new direction R&J breaking rules Pants on a Shrewess Two Gents Rockin' 'bout Sylvia Bleachers, lights and stage A comedy, no Error, then Tempest, the Next Generation Prospero in 2314AD. Yep. All of them: Complete works! (abridged) Before I left the park. A gap in time before Darkly pierced prince Mourning loss of mother Ends the affair.

20