Pillar of Strength

Part of the exhibits in the UAF Museum of the North is prehistoric mammoth & mastodon bones and teeth.  There's a femur bone you're allowed to touch, so, during our Walk and Write, I spent time just studying it; running my hands over it to feel the textures; enjoying the way the bone and the history both gelled in my head.

This poem is a result of the time spent with that femur bone.

Pillar of Strength

Strong yet hollow

It stands the ravages of time

An outer face,

Once pale and unblemished,
Darkens…
     Cracks…
          Chips.

Smooth from wind and rain

Preserved by Nature

A supporting character –

Just a part of the whole –
Unlocking history

Fragile,

     Easily broken

Indestructible,

     Resisting pressure

Adolf Hitler

a small man possessing a genius mind,
he holds out his hand in greeting
to a people with dying hope.
just a corporal when he suffered
crippling humiliation and
debilitating gassing at
the hands of his mortal enemies,
he now leads the country in
a war of revenge,
vowing to make those who oppose him
pay with their lives.

Wasted Beauty

large, dark eyes stare out of
a once pretty face now
tanned brown and dry as
weather-worn leather.
small, yet foreboding,
she never thought about
the short-lived beauty of
countrywomen –
that is, until her own daughter
flashed a brilliant smile,
revealing her own radiance.
she bore no regret
for the passing of
foolish youth or beauty –
having come through
sickness, poverty, and danger,
the sight of a pretty face
may bring a smile to her lips
but only as a simple reminder
of the truly bountiful life
she now led.

Simple Pleasures

a sunlit field and a sense of serenity
washed over him with
the smell of spring drifting daily
to tease his hopes and
to give a shy promise of
a coming radiance.

he settled against the split rail fence
underneath a weeping willow and
comfort poured all through him
with the relaxation of his body
and the clearing of
his work wearied mind.

considered lower class by most,
he felt fortunate as he watched
his children play –
their small white feet pretty against
brown waves of freshly plowed earth
laying sleek and glistening in the sun.

his heart burned with
the lonely ache beauty sometimes
brought him –
the beauty that came from
the contagion of his children’s devotion
to finding the joy in life every day.

Life As A Slave

their stories are written on the water –
the men and women who were
broken in body, soul, and spirit
by that peculiar institution known as
slavery –
men and women whose names are
lost forever to history,
left only to be whispered by
the lakes and rivers of time.

for these people,
death
was better than the degradation and abuse
suffered during a harsh life lived on
a cotton or sugar cane plantation.

Very violent, sudden
uprisings,
where liberty – not malice – was
the motivation for their work,
were an acceptable, welcomed way to die.

and once finally freed,
these men and women crossed
the length and breadth of
a land which had scorned them.
they walked the land in search of
a promise of freedom and
a chance for a life outside the
bonds of slavery –
a promise meant to go unfulfilled.

Familial Sacrifice

made to fear somebody above all else,
he was born for another’s benefit -
firstling of the cabin flock and
selected as a meet offering to
a fearful and inexorable demigod,
whose huge image so haunted
his childhood’s imagination.

she kept him kindly ignorant
of dreaded events about to transpire.
upon that long, tiring journey,
she kept sad facts hidden from him.
he was naïve, innocent – helpless!
and she led him along by the hand,
like the spring lamb to slaughter.

and her gaze lowered, resisting all inquiring looks
with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess.

Brothers By Blood

brothers and sisters by blood and
made strangers by slavery –
the domestic hearth with
its lessons and precious endearments
abolished when the end is slavery.

hearing the words brothers and sisters
must mean something –
something of import and value –
but slavery robbed these terms
of their true value to man.

she was gone clean out of sight
without a goodbye or such.
as my heart broke and my will died,
wounded by her grave betrayal,
i lay upon the ground, weeping bitter tears.

i sobbed myself to sleep –
to rest upon the healing wings
of an angel, soaring above
the clouds and earth as
i lay there, fitfully slumbering.

that healing balm –
so warm, so inviting –
was never more welcome
to a wounded soul than
that very first night.

brothers and sisters –
sharing the blood of
one loving mother, having
rested beneath her breasts
and been born from her womb.

now strangers, bound by slavery –
entered into bonds so degrading
no man, woman, child, or animal
should ever experience –
let alone live – a life that way.

A Cry For Freedom

what heart could be so hard as
not to be pierced with piteous feelings
to see that company –
that peculiar institution which serves
no greater purpose than to
rob the heart of every gentle disposition,
and to harden it, like steel?

you are loosed from your moorings –
you are free!
i am fast in my chains and am a slave!

you move merrily before the
precious, gentle gale, and
I sadly before the bloody whip.

you are freedom’s sweet swift-winged angels
that fly `round this world.
i am confined in bands of iron.

o, that i were free –
nestled in the mane of the
british lion,
protected by his mighty paw…
safe and free from the
talons and beak of the
american eagle.

World War I Gas Attack

It was just before sunrise, and the sky was the colour of molten silver. A light fog had settled over us, and the dampness settled right to the bone. The air was crisp and cold enough to see your breath, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

We lay hunkered down in the trench, waiting for the first sign of Fritz (our name for the enemy) to appear on the horizon. Minutes passed into hours, and it seemed like we’d be in that trench forever. Some of the men dosed while others cleaned their rifles. No one was prepared for what was about to happen.

Our watchman, gazing through the handheld periscope we carried with us, suddenly sat up in alarm. “There’s a green cloud rolling along the ground towards us. It’s…”

I cut him off and grabbed the periscope. Looking out and fearing what I would see, I spied it – this green cloud rolling along the ground like tumbleweeds being pushed along by the wind. I swallowed the lump of fear that clogged my throat. Grabbing the bayonet laying at my feet, I began banging on an empty shell casing – our signal to one another to don our smoke helmets.

The smoke helmets were made of cloth and treated with chemicals. There were two windows (our “glass eyes” as we jokingly called them) through which one could see. Inside was a rubber covered tube which went into the mouth and was constructed to prevent accidental inhalation of the gas. A solider was supposed to breath in through his nose, the nasty gas being filtered through chemicals in the helmet, and out through his mouth, the foul air being forced out through the tube. One of these helmets was good for five to six hours, so we had to have two for each man on hand at all times.

The seconds ticked by slowly as the entire regiment struggled into their helmets.

The gas, which was much heavier than the surrounding air, poured into our trench and lingered there, unable to escape because of its density. I tried not to panic and just breathe deeply while the moment passed.

A scream cut through the silence like a pair of scissors through paper. One of the new men, a young man from Ohio, had been too slow putting on his helmet. The gas had filtered into his nose and mouth, and he sat there, hands clutching at his throat, unable to breathe. As the oxygen depleted in his brain and blood, his body began to spasmodically twitch, and our watchman started to retch.

The regiment pulled together and, grabbing the young man, we began to filter out of the trench. The goal was to seek a new place to hide, but our goal was short-lived.

A group of German soldiers was standing there, helmets on and bayonets at the ready, waiting for us to emerge. One man stood up without looking, and Fritz sliced open his belly with a bayonet, kicking him backwards so that his entrails spilled out.

Our soldiers began to fire, trying to clear a path to safety for the regiment. Shrapnel was bursting over our heads and all around us as we fought back against Fritz. As some of the enemy soldiers were felled by gun fire, others took their places. Nothing could stop their mad rush.

Suddenly, there was a loud cracking in my ear. My head became light; my throat got dry. A heavy pressure on my lungs and an overwhelming dizziness told me that my helmet was leaking. Turning my gun over to a man by my side, I changed helmets. The trench began to undulate and wind like a snake, and the sandbags surrounding us appeared to float on the air. The noise was horrible, and I sank to the ground. Needles seemed to be prickling my flesh. Then, as sudden as the onset, my world went black.

A friend removing my helmet cajoled me to consciousness on a now quiet battlefield. How delicious the cold, damp air felt in my lungs, fresh and untainted. They told me I had been unconscious for hours and that they had feared the worst.

I sat up and examined the first smoke helmet I’d been wearing. A bullet had penetrated it on the left side, just grazing my ear. The gas had seeped through the hole in the cloth and into my nostrils.

I gazed up at a twilight sky, thanking God I was still alive and more determined than ever to fight back all of the enemy horde that was threatening our American way of life.