PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Ashes spread on rural backroads after wintry storms

will provide some vehicular traction, and perhaps

accelerate the accumulated snowmelt.  

Leafless trees, gnarled and bent, reach their clutches to the sky.

Clouds, the color of steel upon oncrete,

descend like leaden clots upon the empty horizon.

These ashes look like stains upon the impacted snow:

these that have been from the Stammlager at Brzezinka---

removed from the massive ovens they operate there.

Even ashes have a place of service to the

rudimentary functions of the greater Reich.

Violin melodies of a certain kind---a forbidden kind,

played in tempo adagio in a plaintively minor key---

resonate in disinterested corners of my mind.  This is

my own struggle (Mein Kampf  of my own, shall I say?).

Let us sing the Horst Wessel Lied:  enthusiasically, victoriously,

befitting the historic destiny

bestowed upon our people.

Starward

[*/+/^]