And .. No One .. Cares

 

It behooves the powerful of the world to gather

as one at a significant memorial of man's inhumanity

to man, as a demonstration that they are concerned

not only with securing their nations' advantages

when they regularly appear at convocations to

discuss the state of the world economy, their security

and international relations. They gather on grave

occasions of remembrance as well, to recall the

sacrifices made when World Wars roiled the globe

and when the most extraordinary effort at genocide

occurred within living memory, on its way to receding

from the world's notice altogether. There they are

their august presence signifying grief and consolation

for the unfortunate target of a totalitarian government's

obsession to obliterate Jews, despised, isolated and

disenfranchised, strident propaganda preparing their

population for a culling of a people unsuited to live

among them. The architecture of a vast scheme meant

to free Europe from the grasping, mendacious Jews

proceeded apace with stunning regularity and success

the knowledge of which was acknowledged yet not one

country in the 'free world', much less a coalition of any

determined to save whom they could did other than close

their borders. Yet that lazy indifference to the plight of

Europe's Jews lingers  and the same nations that decried

the enormity of the genocide, gathered at Auschwitz to

polish their concerned credentials supporting human rights

once again do nothing as the same Jew-hating forces from

a variant source infecting populations everywhere are once

again at full throttle. And .. no one .. cares. The rampant

hypocrisy on display as Jew-hate marches triumphantly

through the streets of Europe and North America despite

stringent laws forbidding such fore-runners of solutions

to the ancient problem of what to do with the Jews...when

all Jews want and long for is to be unrecognized and safe.

 

 

Exceptionalism

 

All lives, the wise among us say

are unique. Except some more

so than others. There is only one

tried soul whom his obituary

can identify as the final survivor

of the Treblinka death camp, now

too gone. Some among us live

double lives reflecting dissatisfaction

with the reality of their own. They

dream of winning a lottery to

free them of financial cares

solving all the ills their lives have

ever confronted them with. Little

knowing, much less caring that

the lottery of life was theirs not 

to have been born a Jew in pre-1935

Europe. That last survivor lived

his own double life, that of

normalcy after liberation from

death from a living nightmare

that deprived him of those he loved.

And the live memory of a lifetimes-

worth of horror. Now, laid to rest

both his lives have surrendered to

obliteration in mortality's due time

of human reckoning, nature-designed.

 

 

Divine Music

 

Does genius confer upon itself

a greater awareness and

partnership with nature?

Perhaps those brilliant minds

capable of nudging their

brains to wander along

strange pathways to

theorize nature's blueprint

were first nurtured by an

especial endowment at birth

exposing them to the music

of the Universe's rotating

spheres, the soft hissing of

gases, the low moaning of

the celestial winds, the

musicality of light glancing

off ice and meteoric flash-bys

strumming those ineffably

divine chords enticing minds

of genius to leap over the

mundane, grasp the waves of

energy and time to focus on

the purpose of existence.

 

 

Yours Forever

 

Well, it seems, not forever at all.

Who knows the mysterious ways

of the human heart. These sadly

pensive letters of regret and

longing must have meant

something to whomever they

were meant for, surely? Neatly

handscripted, literate and

heartfelt, I imagine them to have

been addressed by a young

still-heartsick woman to a

young man, their parting amicable

and of mutual agreement however

regretted. They are neatly folded

expressing lingering love and

no solace to be found anywhere

but in memories of time shared

deep in companionship. Discovered

between the pages of a book

discarded for resale, an adventurous

memoir -- so then, written to the

man, one can reason. On the other

hand, this book has been bought

to be given to me, a woman.

Whichever half of an erstwhile

tender pair who tucked the memories

of a love dissolved evidently

dispensable; the evidence in

the discard of book and letters.

 

Seeking Simple Solutions

They are eternal and everlasting

those questions that perplex

humankind, queried by one

generation after another leaving

each to struggle with an answer

to achieve a final response that

will put those questions and the

search for the solution to the

dilemma forever at rest. What

is the purpose of existence? ask

troubled souls unwilling to live

life to its fullest potential without

knowing why they should bother.

Why is humankind destined to

live a paltry defined lifespan? leading

to a search for a magical elixir or

readily-achieved blueprint to

guarantee long life. Then the

perennial Valentine's Day question:

how do I show my loved one in

how many ways do I love? But

if one loves another the answer is

abundantly clear and achievable.

Love as you would yourself, and

care as much as you do for yourself

and express that love in innumerable

simple ways throughout the length and

breadth of your fortunate lives together.

 

 

 

Letters

 

Although we both loved books

and read voraciously, you never

were much of a writer, unlike me

with a roster of writing friends

whom I'd never met other than

through letters that went back and

forth over the years. Many years;

one now long dead, others not heard

from and one whose habit it was to

make carbon copies of all  her letters

certain that some day she would be

memorialized and everything she'd

ever written held in perpetuity by some

university trust. She had once erred

and sent me the carbon instead of

the original. I've never kept any

of the letters I've written, but one.

Alongside it is one you wrote to 

me at age 16, barely literate, but

profoundly dear, professing your

love for me. The other is one I had

written to you once when you were

away from home and our children

were small, to tell you that we all

were fine, and our youngest child

was digging up the backyard

determined to discover a dinosaur

egg. I've kept those letters, they're

precious, I just don't recall where I

placed them. But no mind, each

and every word is engraved in my

mind, never to be forgotten or mislaid.

 

 

Impressions

 

When I was a child I thought

like a child. Now I am aged I think

like a child again. There are learning

moments aplenty when we are young

so young and clearly impressionable.

In our innocence we assume. As a

child I had few possessions but

those given me were treasured. No

dolls or toys, occasionally books and

once a tiny tricycle I learned to pump

with my short, plump legs. I loved it

until a street bully grabbed it and I

fled weeping to 'tell my father'. Go

right back and get it, he ordered and

I cowered and refused. He retrieved

it and its allure faded. One evening

when my mother had washed my hair

I girded myself to tell her with bated

breath that someone had fondled me

in a naughty place and I felt fearful. 

She recoiled, warned me never

to repeat such dreadful things then

turned away from me. Before then

I had once overheard her boast to a

neighbour that her child never lied

and from that I understood that to

speak truth was pleasing. When later

I informed my mother that my

uncle abused me I was denied

comforting reassurance for

displeasing her. Then I realized

how complicated life really is.