On Viewing Inferno of the Innocents
Poised on the edge of the bed
she sits in sharp light,
pointed feet barely touching
the dim floor.
Through fear-filled, furrowed brow
she stares at the encroaching shadow.
I want to protect her, reach into the canvas
and take her home,
adopt her
make her my grand-daughter
hold her safe and warm
make her whole
watch her dance
fearless
in the golden morning.
As I despair
another little girl approaches the painting,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Anniversary (November 24)
The treasure of trees
golden mounds
on the green ground.
Urged by the morning sun
yellow leaves
coruscate in chilled air
radiant
with the afterglow of a summer
well lived.
But thirty-two years ago
the light died
when dark death’s hand
seized your struggling heart.
We buried you,
bright treasure,
under still
green grass.
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poem by Steven Federle
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Hamza al - Khatib
Hamza al-Khatib,
smiled sweetly.
Was he thinking of school
and soccer, or friends
waiting to play
when they caught him,
roughly hauled him into their white van
took him to their station, and demanded
confession
from his glistening tears,
from his tender face flushed
with confusion and fear?
They would make of him
an example
of what happens to those
who pursue happiness
in Assad’s Syria.
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poem by Steven Federle
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A Prophecy
The cities of England burn
with the rage of youth -
nothing to gain
and nothing to lose.
Blitzkrieg rains incinerate
shops and schools
give cover
as they rush through
gaping windows.
“so why not go get your own?
a penny’s worth, a purse,
a watch,
designer jeans
you know
loot”
“nearly one million school leavers
and graduates
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poem by Steven Federle
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This Day Will Not Come Again
'A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again.
The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills.
Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again. '
Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
I expected the slight rise
in the east, the sky
growing slate, then
blushing pink and
suddenly blue.
The winter tree
is often
bathed in gold,
and the familiar song
of thrush and jay,
woodpecker's rapid tapping
brash geese
shouting,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Death at Home
I entered the silent house
and saw my sister in the kitchen,
brooding over tepid dishwater, sipping beer,
slipping away from her pain,
as her sons, in the dusky back room,
door ajar, stroked his hair and gazed
in wonder at this spent, peaceful man,
and there I saw it,
the detritus of cancer,
spent oxygen bottles, bedpans,
unused morphine patches,
and there I felt it,
his quietus
filling the room,
thick, cutting, invisible
insistent.
So silently I took my nephews
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Eye Exam
I Struggle.
The white dropper
looms like a bird's beak
a little too close
to my tender eyes,
but finally the drops splash
over my eyelashes
my nose and cheeks.
First a sting
and then I feel
nothing.
Soon the quiet room
becomes immense and bright.
I gaze in wonder
as my hands grow
transparent,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Eucharist
Walking through the dusty grove
we talked of death and empty graves
when a stranger suddenly appeared.
He walked with us and asked why we trembled so.
Amazed that he seemed not to know
of the blood and pain in Jerusalem,
we told him
how dark the day became, how the sun slid down
to shivering night
when, broken, our friend was placed in the cave.
Rebuking us for our lack of faith,
he explained how it was all foretold in the ancient books;
from Adam to David, the inevitable grave
insatiably claims
corrupt humanity
until now.
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Obscure Sense Of The Presence Of God
I see how the evening sun lights
the high grass, trees shift in the gentle wind
and small brown birds flit between
outdoor tables as young women
reach for coffee cups
dropp sweet crumbs to the rough sidewalk,
to the birds. Intent on home-work,
office-work, they never look up
to see how the sky
deepens to darker hue;
how day will fade soon
and vermillion night set fire
to the seaward hills.
The west wind will finally drive them in,
and the grateful birds will all fly away.
I see it all.
My old eyes know how this old world works,
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poem by Steven Federle
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Waiting
Waiting
sitting in silence
finding things to do
on this normal, quiet evening.
rustling papers
and tapping keyboard,
with one eye on the phone
waiting for disaster
to ring through my complacency.
I can almost see
the sterile walls, the contained chaos
as hurried doctors and nurses
bring relief to the battle-weary
binding the hundred wounds
of collision and anger,
cancer and a failing heart.
I can almost, but not quite, hear
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poem by Steven Federle
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