Jerry Jerome
Jerryjerome5@aol.com
Bio (auto)
I've been a Calabasas, CA resident for 28 years. I'm a graduate of Columbia College and Columbia Law School and a former Deputy Mayor of a corrupt upstate New York Village where I endeavored to kick a bunch of crooks out of office. While I've written poetry over the years and did some free lance writing in my early career, I retired a dozen years ago from a successful sales career selling commodities, and since then I started writing in earnest, perhaps a little too compulsively. Over the past decade about 50 of my poems have been published in various quarterlies, from well over 1,000 written. In 2008 alone I wrote a sci-fi novel, a historical novel, a personal memoir as well as 200 poems. I've only now started really trying to get my books published. A load of my time has been taken up over the past year battling a giant utility. I find myself now fighting them in the California Supreme Court (all by myself) because of their predatory billing practices, and I expect to win and to get back $20 million for their customers and $130.00 for me (where it's already cost me over $700). I've never practiced law. I like challenges.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Jerry Jerome and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
The Camp
Death's
raucous, rotting reassurances
........are reasserted
........by flaming fires
flinging dark chimney plumes
haphazardly skyward,
billowing upwards, outwards,
spreading Death's denouement
........until charred souls
........become the blackened sky,
& stars blink teary
at man's inhumanity.
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Jim Bennett
info@poetrykit.org
Bio (auto)
Jim Bennett lives near Liverpool in the UK and is the managing editor of www.poetrykit.org. His most recent publication is a poetry collection called "LARKHILL" from Searle Publishing 2009. Jim teaches Creative Writing at the University of Liverpool and tours throughout the year giving readings and performances of his work.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Jim Bennett and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
victims
I cried for you
when you could no longer cry
when tears had been dried
by the dusty slope of time
I bled for you
when you could no longer bleed
when your blood had seeped
back into the soil
I talked for you
when your voice had been stilled
and flames and ovens
turned you into ash
I was a poet for you
when your poetry was burned
and your voice stilled
your blood shed
and your tears salt tracks
I was a poet for you
writing your memory forever
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Julia Stein
juliast@earthlink.net
Bio (auto)
Julia Stein has a new completed manuscript The War Years about the last seven years of war. She has published four books of poetry: Under the Ladder to Heaven, Desert Soldiers, Shulamith, and Walker Woman.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Julia Stein and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
I'm Chugging Into France
How the children sang
......on the train chugging into France!
......I sang like that
....................once in shule songs just burst out of me
.....................in Yiddish, Hebrew and English.
Not in public school.
All the children at the Christmas assembly singing
only Christmas carols.
My voice began to
.......shr
.............i
...........nk.
Once I made it into choir to diligently learn
“Oh came all ye faithful” in Latin.
My stout voice narrowed
........into a thin tremor.
In the children’s train passing through Nazi Germany
.............the Jewish children were
......silent at the French border watching
......in silence the Nazi soldiers take one child off each car
........to inspect them the children
......silently hoping the Nazis would
............LET THEM
..........................GO!
............The children burst into a storm of songs
............as soon as
...................the train crossed into France,
...................a riot a rampage of melodies!
...................Listen!
..........................the whole train is singing
..........................the songs pushed the train
..........................faster into France faster!
I want to sing
....................just like they sang
...........................crossing into France
...........................sing as I once
...........................sang in shule
...........................sing an old song
...........................my Hasidic ancestors
...........................used to sing,
...........................sing a ngonen,
...........................a wordless sing,
..................................Bim bam Bim bam Bim bin Bim bam
..................................bin Bam bin Bam bin Bam
.........................................bin bin bin bin bin BAM!
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Katherine L. Gordon
kanddgordon@porchlight.ca
Bio (auto)
Katherine L. Gordon is a poet, publisher, judge, reviewer and literary critic. She lives in a secluded river valley near Rockwood, Ontario, Canada. Her work has appeared in Voices, Israel, and in a collaborative book: In Moonlight The sky will slide, A Poetic Conversation Between Katherine L.Gordon, Canada and Helen Bar-Lev, Israel. Cyclamens and Swords Press. Katherine's introduction to the work of Helen Bar-Lev and JohnMichael Simon, Israeli poets with Helen's art illustrations, may be read in their book Cyclamens and Swords and Other Poems About the Land of Israel, Ibbetson Press. This connection to the storied land of literature is a constant inspiration. Her love of history, the movement of peoples who shaped our culture, has led her to many cherished contacts in the harshly beautiful Holy Land. Through literature we grasp this common sanctity of humanity, hope as poets to bind all peoples in love and respect. The roots endure and the pruned tree still grows.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Katherine L. Gordon and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Six Million Authors
He gave me his book,
poetry of humour salted with wisdom,
once a child who survived
on the last train out of Czechoslovakia,
waved his family forever good-bye
but carried them with him.
What books there might have been
but yet what books there are,
each carrying a hundred authors
in a line.
They are all with us
clamouring encouragement
as we try to catch each word, each dream,
write and live it for them.
Collective memory a powerful force
to endure and excel.
From the first parchments
that stirred the spirit,
carried a people through the fire,
to the crisp print and electronic data
of a new age,
we still reflect in the mirror of history
the people whose gift was words,
art, music, theatre,
who yet emblaze
the whole of humanity's sojourn here.
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KJ Hannah Greenberg
drkarenjoy@yahoo.com
Bio (auto)
Poetry Pushcart Prize nominee, KJ Hannah Greenberg, sings the wonders of G-d's universe through writing. Her poetry and prose can be found in hundreds of worldwide outlets, including: Scribblers on the Roof, Poetica, Vox Poetry, The New Vilna Review, and The Shine Journal. Her book of essays, Oblivious to the Obvious: Wishfully Mindful Parenting is out on French Creek Press
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by KJ Hannah Greenberg and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Facilitating our Remembering of
Amalek via Danger Signals
Without Arabs or other villainous eidolons to nullify,
Sans simulacrums, whose destruction we’re meant to witness,
Lacking mock-ups of psychic cordite to avoid,
Minus cabals spawning doubt, indifference, also spiritual natter,
We might, has v’shalom, forget Hashem.
Or, alternatively, imprison ourselves in expended civilizations’ vitrines,
Set aside Torah, mitzvot, Tzion, send astride our invaluable heritage,
Carted away, forever, by useless ideologies, cabriolets from past millennia.
Such evanescing, this assimilation, deserves, maybe, the worst.
It’s six million times wrong to discard birthright,
To thrust off all but the slightest bivouac of legacy, to squat
In improvised, maladroit philosophies, to reject hard-wrought tradition;
We’re obliged to retain the menschlichkeit grown from Moshe’s books.
Inmates of Auschwitz, Majdenek, Dachau, Sachsenhausen, Buchenwald, Flossenburg,
Ravensbruck, Mauthausen, Gross Rosen, more, knew a bread crust, menorah thread,
Infirmary pass, extra blanket, carried hope, yielded five minutes of precious life;
Always, heart-felt tefillah surmounts treacheries. Faith eternally answers.
Today’s Islamic “social-political” organizations, replete with urbane rhetoric,
Culture bogus sacrifices, bring false offerings. Hammas lives that we might reinstate
Torah over death, Mordechai over Haman, Esther over demise.
It’s a pity we require rough prompts, that generations of trust’s become diluted.
Fifteen minutes of diasporic fame reifies nothing, builds no Temple.
One Israeli moment of sirens, though, Yom Hashoah on parkways and in offices,
Reminds us of extraordinary forfeits, of how love plus awe conquers hate.
One Israeli moment of sirens upholds our desert pledge.
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Lyn Lifshin
Onyxvelvet@aol.com
Bio (auto)
Lyn Lifshin lives in Vienna, Virginia. Visit here on the web at www.lynlifshin.com
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Lyn Lifshin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Who Held the Camera So Steadily, and Why?
Photographs
at the Holocaust Museum.
In black and white
a naked girl,
maybe six,
gripped by the neck
in the hands of a woman
with huge biceps.
A mentally disturbed girl
shortly before her murder.
Near the dangling girl
is a photo in summer --
trees are fully leafed,
dark smoke pours
out of one building.
Down the hall
a young man with glasses
takes aim at a man
kneeling
in front of a pit of bodies:
the pistol points at the neck
so no shattered bone
will fly his way.
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Margaret Boles
margros7744@yahoo.com
Bio (auto)
Margaret Boles lives in Dublin Ireland. Her poetry collection "Eye of the Tiger" was published by Sanbun Publishers in India.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Margaret Boles and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
One Week
(Antrim, Craigavon, Alabama, Germany.)
Once,
I was so outraged
By Shock and Awe,
At each
Petrol Bomb,
Car bomb,
Suicide Bomb,
Each new atrocity
brought Venom
to my pen,
Ink to my page
As I hoped
the tenor of my words
Could halt
the march of time....
now
it's like
I'm tired
I've forgotten
How to be
Outraged
At new killings
Raw, cold-bloodedness
Inhumanity repeated
Once again
As if
it's all been seen before
It will all be seen again
We never learn
From history.
I hate my cynicism
My burnt-out-ness
I want the pen to
Burn my fingerw with
Anger once again
At Death
Outrage
In
Our Country
Our World,
Yet again.
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Patricia D'Alessandro
ciaopat9@gmail.com
Bio (auto)
Patricia D'Alessandro has been writing poetry for 40 years, having discovered her latent talent by going back to college in 1968. Author of seven volumes of poetry and a Memoir, she hosts the Barnes&Noble/Palm Desert/Westfield Center's monthly poetry series "Valley Voices of the Muse" funded by POETS&WRITERS Magazine through a grant received from the James Irvine Foundation. She is also an essayist/artist/ photographer, and lives in Desert Hot Springs. She received a Life-Time Achievement Award from the Sacramento County Board of Supervisors in March, 2007, for exceptional volunteer services in the cultural arts. She celebrated 86 years of life on April 7th, with a wish to live to be 100 to complete all the work she has begun.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Patricia D'Alessandro and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Bearing Witness for Moishe Felman
Words seem trite
to match raw feelings
surging through me, when I visit
the Holocaust Museum in Washington,
thoughts scattering through a massive
consternation as to why we let this happen, and no one shouted STOP!
when it began?
Grayness of the building
match the day and my feelings
and as I enter, a Docent hands me
a small gray card, like a passport
with a photograph of you
MOISHE FELMAN
born in Podlaski, Poland in 1926,
youngest of seven - two years after
I was born in Pennsylvania, and you are 13, when the Germans invade Poland and your village is bombarded
and your father's granary commandeered, and all the Jews
remaining in your town,
are forced to wear the Jewish Star, bright Yellow on the shoulder - and everyone is sent to live
in the ghetto.
On the Day of Atonement
no different than another day to
Barbarians, a day of restoration and
redemption, they round up your people
and herd you like cattle into boxcars
and those who hesitate are shot,
but you
MOISHE FELMAN
your mother and your sister are
deported to Triblinka, and
gassed like all the others
when you are seventeen.
I study your face on this card
MOISHE FELMAN
this small sacred card in my hand
envision you a man near my age
and wonder how you might have
served the world, perhaps as owner
of your father's granary, for only
goodness shines from your eyes,
conveying sorrow words cannot
describe, so deep and poignant
as they commune with mine,
reminding me of the PIETA in Rome,
and I visualize your mother's
tender hand, gently stroking back
a tuft of hair from your forehead
after tucking at the collar of your shirt,
your sister calling
MOISHE! MOISHE!
when will we go home?
It is not easy, moving from one room
to another, past these pages of your
history, and this 20th Century Purgatorio, for your face is now a blur
in my hand, through the scrim of tears
I can't defer, before the silent eyes
of those who knew, and did nothing
to prevent this Pandemonium,
creating smoke that spirals wild from
crematoriums, as trains rattle through
the countryside on time, and no one
has the courage that I feel you have
MOISHE FELMAN
to speak out and stop
this Holocaust.
I walk in silence with you
by my side
MOISHE FELMAN
to testify for you against this
blasphemy, your Spirit guiding me
through horrors unbelieving
beyond the world's believing
engraved on heart and soul
as though on stone
to last a lifetime,
a confirmation I will carry
as I leave this place
this place in Washington
this place of Sacred Holiness
MOISHE FELMAN
where you
and the victims of this Holocaust
cannot rest in peace, as I move
to the rhythm of your Spirit
feel your presence by my side
surrounded by the victims of this
Holocaust, in this
Hall of Holy Presences,
for you have anointed me a
Witness
MOISHE FELMAN
that no one must forget
to remember.
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Paul Cummins
jstehr@newvisionsfnd.org
Bio (auto)
Paul Cummins is the Executive Director of New Visions Foundation. Since the Foundation's inception in 1994, he has been the primary founder of New Roads School, a co-founder of Camino Nuevo Charter Academy, Los Angeles Academy of Arts & Enterprise Charter School, and the New Village Charter School. He is also the creator of the Center for Education Opportunity, which places foster children in independent schools, and the founder of Families Helping Families, which redirects low income families into life-changing new directions. In addition, New Visions has instituted an after-school program at Camp Gonzales (a probationary incarceration school) to redirect and relocate juvenile students. Prior to New Visions, Dr. Cummins was the primary founder and headmaster of Crossroads School and founder of P.S. Arts. He is the author of several books, most recently, Two Americas, Two Educations, Funding Quality Schools for All Students. Paul and his wife, Mary Ann, live in Santa Monica and are the parents of four daughters.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Paul Cummins and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A Trp to Dachau
............You may drive there
.................................thru residential tranquility,
passing ordinary homes
.................................behind whose ornate doors
normality –
.................................or what in cities everywhere
passes for such –
.................................prevails now as
presumably it prevailed
.................................seventy years ago
when design built
.................................as the first of its ilk.
The quiet canopied streets
.................................lead to an open space
now a memorial
.................................which contains the remains
of one building
.................................replete with meticulous records
of those admitted
.................................those released
and those
.................................who never left.
I knew a man
.................................sent there in thirty-eight
for a stay
.................................before transferred to Buchenwald.
With his extraordinary memory
.................................he recalled his day to day
existence there as I
.................................over and over vented rage
at what he had seen –
.................................invariably he would hold up his hands,
“my dear,” he would say:
.................................“such emotions, though normal,
you must harness,
.................................otherwise,
you become
.................................just like them.”
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Rhoda Pierce
rhoalan@aol.com
Bio (auto)
I live in Niantic, Ct and am part of the New London School of Poets here. I am also the co-author of Leah's Blessing, a novel about the conflict in the Middle East.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Rhoda Pierce and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
My Mother Dries Her Tears
I am 5
I play with dolls
Dream of becoming an actress
This summer I will go to camp for the first time
My mother and father are crying now
Do they miss me already?
No, no they say
They are weeping from joy
The war is over
I am 5
I don’t exactly know what war is
Just something very bad
That has camps with mothers and children and showers
My mother dries her tears
Years later there will be Paper Clips
A documentary about children in Whitwell Tennesee
Who study the holocaust to learn about prejudice
They can’t imagine such a thing
They order paper clips
To represent each person killed
Six million arrive
It takes the entire town to count them
Whitwell creates a museum from a railroad car
Used to transport Jews to the Camps
I tell my mother
I don't want to go to camp
I don’t want to take a shower there
Come to me, my mother says
Everything will be all right
I am 5
I believe her
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Robert Klein Engler
RKleinEngler@aol.com
Bio (auto)
Robert Klein Engler lives in Oak Park and DesPlaines, Illinois and sometimes New Orleans. Many of Robert’s poems and stories are set in the Crescent City. His long poem, The Accomplishment of Metaphor and the Necessity of Suffering, set partially in New Orleans, is published by Headwaters Press, Medusa, New York, 2004. He has received an Illinois Arts Council award for his "Three Poems for Kabbalah." If you google his name, then you may find his work on the Internet. Some of his books are available at Lulu.com. Visit him on the web at RobertKleinEngler.com.
The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Robert Klein Engler and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Nachtmittagfuge
It is not found by skulls,
nor is barbed wire our witness.
That was years ago on this same road.
I used to love this countryside of rolling hills.
Yet it is all behind a glass of memory:
the bunk beds stacked four high,
the thin turnip soup,
the cold and coughing.
Our days were made of endless winter
and scabs. This, after I gave them so much
of my learning. We were born here, you know,
well, most of us, but not the gypsies.
They took us from our homes at night.
Yet I saw a bright terror reflecting
off their boots and buttons.
They came from the country
on the other side of the heart.
Lightening was their tattoo.
Can I tell you that I dragged
my will to live like an iron sled
over sand, day after day into darkness
until the gates were opened.
After that we stopped playing with words.
Who ever imagined they would leave
while bombs ripped up clods
from the pasture with spades of fire?
The world is so convincing by its mirrors
and memos, or its just-as-long-as-its-not-me
candles sputtering on the altars of power.
There are openings in the night,
but you cannot find them alone--not
when they take your body for food.
Its been so long since I made love.
No one wants to hold in their hands
what I hold. They do not see powder
on my back but ashes. Later,
when afternoon settles on farmlands,
I sip the malty amber of a beer.
It is a strange country today.
I have the wonder of a foreigner
as I watch the easy banter
of young men at the bar.
Perhaps no one comes to peel their
smooth skin for lamp shades.
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