In Poland

I have been seeking the answers to the same questions for about 35 years, or since I was finishing up at Harvard, and being told by my self-important professor that my idea for my thesis wasn't good enough ... seeking the answer to why some did, and why some didn't, why some fell in step, and why some resisted, why some surrendered, and why others fought ... just didn't interest the guy. I guess I was in the wrong department, probably belonged in philosophy. And of course no answer exists, but it's still interesting to pursue what's there in the history of it all, no? Oh, well. Anyway these questions have haunted me since. I had to go there to find out I was asking the wrong questions. And I still feel unqualified either to ask the questions or comment on any of it, frankly, at all. But hey, 35 years ... I am determined to share the words, as humble as they may be. Here goes. In Poland In Oswiecim The air is thick With why it’s not my story. Yet I’ve come so far To find out how, And why. So long I’ve sought Those answers. How some could, How others couldn’t. Why some surrendered, Others fought. Some swallowed hate, Others poison, And still others silence. All of them, They hover here And like the dust Cling to my clogs. Ashes echo across The flaming August sky Like the ghostly trail behind a jet; But I'm deaf as mud. Hunger rises, But no answers. Then I see. Cornflowers would do well here If not for soil That’s steeped in sorrow. Lisa E. Paige, © 2009

Seasons

In the forest He made a garden And there she grew. The house he built there Was the second one With walls for warmth And windows through which She could safely watch The wilderness. The first house traveled with him. In his arms She dreamed of rainbows. The harshest wind was just a lullaby. But slowly She added lyrics And now her song Is the melody he hears. On the new bare walls He sees her hues: The bold strokes of autumn Like leaves gone golden, The yellow tint to honey that is Just like sticky summer heat, Dazzling vermilion Like her heart. She wants serenity In moss-like green But ahead lies the waking Glow of sunrise – Roses and oranges bursting Open like her future. So much nears completion. Now through his fingers Pass the rushing blues Of soft cascading waterfalls. She wouldn’t want it, but If he could, would he reverse The current that Carries all downstream? Lisa E. Paige © September 2009