Poetry Super Highway
PSH Main PageLupert It's The Website

 

week of April 19 - 25, 2010

Our twelvth annual Yom Hashoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day) issue.

Alexa Havok
B.E. Kahn
Carl Palmer
Curt Eriksen
David Neves
Deborah Rey
Donal Mahoney
Gary Jacobson
Graham Fulton
Hanoch Guy
Helen Bar-Lev
Jerry Jerome
Jim Bennett
Julia Stein
Katherine L. Gordon
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Lyn Lifshin
Margaret Boles

BECOME A POET OF THE WEEK
click. here .for. submission .guidelines

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick

 

  


Rolland Vasin
rvasin@vhcoaudit.com

Bio (auto)

Son of Encino booksellers Alphabooks (Betty Vasin) and a naturalized native of Van Nuys, Vachine currently resides in Santa Monica, is a devoted bodysurfer and dabbles in performance poetry and stand-up comedy for which we was recognized as the Laugh Factory's 1992 3rd Funniest CPA in Los Angeles. Fortunate to hold a day job, he audits child and family nonprofits and speaks to groups globally on workplace ethics and fraud deterrence..

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Rolland Vasin and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


You Amsterdam

Children in those cobbled streets jeered: Jew-killer.
German parents held your girly nine-year-old hand,
pretended the hail of Shoah's shadows did not fall.

You told that fifty-year-ago story
at our Tuesday Witness meeting.  I felt
your shame-tears on my hand
during the closing prayer

written by an unknown prisoner
in a concentration camp
left on the body of a dead child:

Let all the fruits which we have bought,
thanks to our suffering from those of ill will,
be their forgiveness.

I abandoned the desire to punish.
You harvested my rain, filled your cistern,
when I cried at the memorial.

New vines curled 'round our legs,
stretched for sunrise.
Lips open, our tongues danced an afternoon waltz.

We slept, nested dolls under silk sheets,
bathed in Hillman, Nietzsche, Carlin and Wilbur.
I cuddled your laughter on my chest,

stroked flaxen hair.  We braided songs
from fibers of child-hurt,
I chanted your praise from Proverbs.

I released my night visits from dead sailors
into the custody of your downy-soft ear.  Dropped
all inquiries into motive and widened my dawn gaze.

Our entwined selves, like a matted tango
of river reeds, dammed Holland's tidal flows.
I fell in love with you.



Shaun Hull
shull.fl@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

Shaun Hull is an engineering technician by trade, a guitarist, singer, songwriter, poet by nature…He has been featured in voices for africa (black mother), poetry super highway in the 05-08 holocaust editions (tomorrow morning, the feel of rain), winning writers-august 06 (ground zero) with critique by jendi reiter & new vs. news-april 07 (death row)… Shaun currently lives in Knoxville, TN. where he is surrounded with family, friends, musicians and writing…He has samples from his cd: "if the shoe fits" at www.soundclick.com/shaunhull.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Shaun Hull and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


bring the night

then bring to me the night
on the heels of mislead humanity
grotesque clouds with ghostly black fingers
linger across a blood red sky
trails of hidden suffering
rise to greet the soft glow of the moon
oblivious to the cry’s of the child
lost without parent
guarded by the wire
whose electric smile
invites a means to an end

oh the dreams
the dreams
that remind me
of what is left behind
oh the dreams
the dreams
that lead me
screaming towards
the light



SK Iyer
iyersk.geo@gmail.com

Bio (auto)

am 58, a commerce graduate, retired and leading a simple life. Presently, residing at Pune in India. A member of PK Poetry List. A few poems have been published including in Poetry Kit Magazine.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by SK Iyer and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Fanatic Hollowness

In the hollowness of fanatic thoughts
there were no gods, no humanity,
no peace, but monsters.

The playful twins were lured
offering sweets and toys
and were sewn together back to back -
Onkel Mengele's holocaust experiment
of packing the tortured souls together to hell!

In the hollowness of fanatic thoughts
there are no gods, no humanity,
no peace, but terrorists.

The holocaust continues
on myths, on hallucinations,
abstract, non-pragmatic ideology.

God, where were You? Where are You?



Stephen E. Mead
SMead@uamail.albany.edu

Bio (auto)

Stephen Mead is a published artist, writer and maker of short collage-films living in Albany, NY. His latest release, “Our Book of Common Faith”, an exploration of world cultures & religions to find what bonds humans as opposed to divides, is available through Amazon.com.

The following work is Copyright © 2010, and owned by Stephen E. Mead and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.


Resurrection From Shadows

The Star of David is our skin,
a sacred tattoo for a trial of Time.
We develop character by the badge scars etch,
our whole bodies making one map.

I've traced your country ritualistically,
the flesh as sacrament.
It glowed tallow-gold
& eyes dreamt of Nazareth
burning straight through.

Oh fertile visionary, Jerusalem-human,
bloom Nile depths again.
That transversal echoes out
dark, mysterious & swift.

In vestibules confessions whisper, disrobe.

Without labels can we rise
redefining denominations?
How dangerous is religion
when scapegoats are desired!

Surpass the piety.
Will angels fill the breeze?

What baptismal is a fiery font
when flesh melts there
branded gypsy, Jew, fag?

How does one hearten belief
& get resurrected from shadows?

Press your star to mine.
We issue truth like small embers sparking.
We're children giving testimony
for those lovers to come.

May they be able to live more freely
because of this Justice we've been through.



A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast | I'd Like to Bake Your Goods | Stolen Mummies | Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town
Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
| I'm a Jew, Are You? | Lizard King of the Laundromat | I Am My Own Orange County
Paris: It's The Cheese
| Poetry Super Highway | Judaic Links | Rick's Bookmarks | Cobalt Poets
E-mail Rick
| Other Cool Rick Stuff / Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick