They Are Coming

Hermann Otto Hoyer, In the Beginning Was the Word, 1937. United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of US Army Center of Military History.

After listening to the rhetoric of various politicians, I believe times have grown ever more dangerous to democracy no matter how much those same politicians claim to be defending it. I’ve revised and retitled this piece which I first wrote and posted the night before the 2017 inaugural and titled If They Come. However, I owe a huge debt to Martin Niemöller (1892-1984) who wrote “First they came for…”  Often this quote is mistakenly referred to as a poem.  Niemöller often spoke of his own complicity with the Nazi regime in its early years by his inaction and not speaking out, especially when it came to the persecution of leftist political party members with whom he did not agree.  However, after too many disagreements with Hilter’s policies, Niemöller was imprisoned on July 1st, 1937, and was not freed from the concentration camp until 1945.  There are various versions of his famous quote as Niemöller changed the list of victims depending upon the audience to whom he spoke, but his message is clear: Silence and inaction equals complicity.  If we are silent, we too are guilty.  We must not be silent. 

Source information courtesy of Holocaust Encyclopedia

They’ve come before.
Remember history.
Remember the millions,
the thousands, the hundreds--
totaling seventeen million.

And yet,
always,
they come.
Different times, different places.
Always leaving behind traces
of their strange bitter fruit.

They are poised,
preparing, ready to come.

Some of us remember,
state the parallels,
recite the historical,
are laughed at as the hysterical.

The majority, sigh and say–
They come not in his name
for they wear not the robes of the arcane,
burning crosses straight, 
painting crosses twisted.

Some forget,
leaving voices unraised.
Some simply care not,
since they come not for them.

Yet, we must remember--
Since, in the end,
they are coming for us all.

Darkness imprisoned for years
revels and romps now freed from sanctions,
freed from society’s guilty tears.


They are coming
for the immigrant ones
to part them from jobs no one else will do,
leaving a river filled with razor wire
and shouting, “Build a wall. Build a wall.”
I will raise my voice, “Build it around me as well.
For I, too, believed the words inscribed upon Liberty.”

They are coming
for all the women
who do not walk 72 steps behind,
chaining them to males who must approve.
I will raise my voice, “I will not walk into yesterday.
I will not let you make any daughter a handmaid.”

They are coming 
for the Jewish ones,
pinning yellow stars, 
creating gas chambers,
I will raise my voice, “Take me with them too.
For I too, am a Jew.”

They are coming
for the Muslim ones,
planning to kill the Geneva Refugee,
with their unproven facts, shouting, “Terrorist. Jihadist.”
I will raise my voice, “Take me with them too.
For I also pray to the God of Abraham.”

They are coming
for the darker ones,
with ropes and whips and epithets from the past,
shouting, “White Power, White Power.”
I will raise my voice, “Bring enough to kill me too.
For I have the same red blood as my siblings you seek to kill.”

They are coming
for the transgender and queer ones,
with fists and broken bottles and shouts of “Freak.”
I will raise my voice, “Beat me as well.
For I am sure to upset you by the bathroom I plan to use.”

They are coming 
for those who love differently
with researched plans of electric shock to convert,
all therapeutic to change, of course,
or with hands dripping violence and shouts
of every demeaning word we ever heard.
I will raise my voice, “Beat me. Take my rights
so recently given, though long denied.
Never will I lose my dignity again in silence.
For I hid among shadows much too long.
Now, I, too, live in the sun,
Proud of who I love, and I will not go away.
I remember we are neighbors,
each of us, brothers and sisters
in God’s eyes.”

When you come for one,
you came for us all.
All you deem different,
dangerous to your thinking,
we make you uncomfortable,
but we give you something--
Someone, something to blame.

But after you have come for us all,
bound and bloodied us as best you can,
taught your school children the different are to blame,
worthy of nothing but your hate,
allow our resistance,
without striking, without killing,
no sling shot will we need
to shatter the crystal facade
of patriotism you fashioned 
to cleverly hide away 
your destruction of democracy 
and all your injustices. 
Then the world will see
the monster of fear and greed
you are and your destruction
of democracy.

On the day of God’s light,
perhaps you will look
beyond skin,
beyond abilities and disabilities,
beyond roads to God and ways of worship,
beyond gender and orientations,
beyond your own fears and needs,
and then see
the human heart is born
with weakness in hate and greed
with strength in justice and love
all in equal portions.

What will matter most,
when each heart lies dissected,
splayed open, bare,
before its maker,
is which portion we allowed to atrophy and die,
and which we sought to exercise,
strengthen and increase in size.


Armor

image courtesy of openart.com


I forged this armor
with my blood and bone
like smelted metal from
years of saved up pocket change 
and the woven hip length hair
from my nearly shaved head
when I was twenty-two
and have worn it since.

The strength of this armor--
Unparalleled. 
The weight of it
made me strong,
yet it weighs heavy
after all these years.

I cannot begin to count the scratches,
the dents, the pockmark scars 
of battle wounds.
That much is very true.
My armor is far from new.
Yes, I should have 
replaced it a time or two.
It’s been steadfast,
a friend, truer than any lover
ever has been, yes.

My shield, I can barely lift.
My arm and body weary
from the weight of shield
and armor—

The sword?   I laid it down
a little while ago
when I finished forever
the battles with myself, you see.

Yet the armor, the shield
have protected me,
though they weigh heavy,
and I am weary. 

Forgive me, forgive me
that my fingers tremble
at the buckles.
For when the weight
of this armor falls,
you would be the first
to truly know me at all.



—



In the Afternoon

image is my own

A scent,
remembered from morning
deepens missing,
yet the knowing
grows green, healthy tendrils
like the Golden Pothos 
sitting in the window,
enjoying warming sunlight.

Shattered Stone

image courtesy of Jenő Szabó on Pixabay.com

Inside a sarcophagus of stone,
I have dwelled,
a hard place in which to learn to live,
no breath taken, heart stilled, 
where all living shrinks down,
behind skin and soul, 
to be bound in hieroglyphic wrappings
designed by others.
Onlookers believing 
the pretense they wish to see--
as I stopped struggling for air,
a mimic of the beating rhythms of life,
accepting the coldness of the stone.

Any warmth transitory as the sun
in its travels from
season to season
from rise to set,
in these years 
I have known only coldness
after any fleeting glimpse of warmth.

Such a bitter coldness--
though none would think
I lived encased within stone,
so life-like my hieroglyphic mask,
a masterful mimic I had become.

Until stone cracked,
by mountain winds and sun,
falling in splintered shards,
crumbling to dust ‘round me.
My tattered, faded wrappings
torn, hanging loosely.
Until a hand, as if in possession 
of long forgotten, ancient magic,
should touch long dead embers,
and in touching rekindle flame,
swirling within, spiraling outward 
warmth that does not die
upon the withdrawal of touch. 

A heat lingering, warming still,
stirs hunger once thought dead to life.
Sweetness pounds a rhythm out—
starting a heart to beat again,
blessed breath returns 
to deflated lungs,
the shallow breath, the weak pulse 
hold ancient power,
leaving flesh and blood and bone
to move in life again,
a life reclaimed from the stone
of gray filled years.

Cautiously, hesitantly, 
I step over the dust of shattered stone,
making my way toward the touch 
that carefully, tenderly removed
my tattered hieroglyphic bindings,
allowing me to move freely
within my own skin.

There trembles within,
a longing I never sought to find.
Hope rises and takes Fear 
within its embrace,
transforming it to joy,
as I extend my hand
to the warmth of you.

In Light of You

photo courtesy of Cannundrum.blogspot.com

Here, beneath the trees,
we sit in the peace 
of a sunlit afternoon.
My words, my pale pathetic words,
fade in the light of you.

As the words 
I grasp at as possibilities
to say all I mean
evaporate 
from my hands and mind
like the water
in this drying arroyo
shrinks away from its banks
before us, 
I am left wordless.

For no words can stand
in the light of you
and the gifts you bring
to places where
I discovered 
pieces missing
in light of you.

If the Eternal Exists

Image is my own
no gulf across time
no forever in forever promises
of time that drips still
as if the eternal existed
in the binding of souls
and yet--

and yet—
breath stops in hope--
with my final breath
I will soar into the sun
to wait for you,
or should it be--
find you there waiting for me,
then we will fly beyond
whatever magic of spirit
there exists,
mingling and joining
with the elements--
of air
of earth
of water
of fire
merging and separating
and merging again
for an eternity.

then should we,
in the beauty of condemned blessings,
fall to earth once again,
no matter where,
no matter when,
I will find you yet again.

An Unrepentant Sky

Image courtesy of shutterstock.com

merge with the unrepentant sky,
learn the truth, the reasons why
suffering and fear and hatred abound,
feeding upon human souls,
destroying what Nature did so elegantly design,
the beauty of humanity
from the inside out--
until we are devils,
our mouths foaming blood-tinged froth
while our claws fill with sinew torn
from our innocent brethren,
who different from us,
are deemed worthy only of hate—
and the earth turns
on its axis of destruction
in an unrepentant sky
as any God that be cries.

Where I Found You

Taken when she was still trying to work while going through treatment for ovarian cancer.

In the early morning hours of January 3rd, 2015 my wife, Karen passed away from ovarian cancer. On this day, the eighth anniversary of her passing, I decided to repost this poem. While no relationship may be perfect, I’ve come to realize perfection is found in the things people share. Karen and I shared our love of dogs, so of course, in a dream, I met her as I walked the dogs, and one day I’ll meet her again, but when that happens, she’ll be the one walking all the dogs.


I thought to find you on the path
between the heather patches.
You were not there.
I thought to find you along the roads 
from here to other places I traveled,
but there were no traces.
I thought to find you along the routes
where I walked the dogs.
Of course, there you were,
ready to laugh and say they loved you best--
as you always did.
Taking treats from your pocket,
you fed and petted them.
Looking up at me, you said I had more
grey than last you saw, but it didn’t look bad.
Your idea of a compliment, I know.
I killed the weeds of anger over things like that.
Now I must learn to trim back the hedges of grief.

Get electric hedge trimmers, you laughingly said.
Then whispered I should learn from the dogs 
and you’d meet me along the path
between the heather one day.
And that was all.
You were gone.

Seven Years of Visits to the Garden

image is my own

Each new year brings 
Now this garden grief
Nourished by regret

Each year, this day, here—
Standing, kneeling, sitting—I
Spend tears, words, wishes

All meaningless now,
In the barren garden grief
Flowers never bloom

Seven years gone now--
Nothing roots, though it has tried,
In the garden grief inside

Color Dreams

https://godoggocafe.com/2020/05/26/tuesday-writing-prompt-challenge-tuesday-may-26-2020/

Today’s prompt: End a piece of prose or poetry with the phrase “I miss you”

 

Don’t know what to do

when I dream of you.

Waking, I want to drench

my brain in pure bleach,

soaking it through,

until all the colors of you

out of my soul leach

and no longer do I miss you.