Transcendent Thunder
Deep thunder shakes this warm July evening
and lightning flashes over the waterfront
filling the clear, starry sky with acrid clouds and glimmering rain
falling to the water as children gaze
in shock and awe,
waiting for the next big one to explode.
False bombardment as celebration:
such fits my nation, founded in genocide and slavery,
this nation baptized in the blood and tears
of Navaho and Cherokee and all the tribes of the American holocaust
a nation that devoured one quarter of its sons
in four short, blood-soaked years; my nation,
a nation of efficient bigots and hungry hypocrites,
giving the world Gettysburg and the Trail of Tears
as models for problem-solving;
a nation unlike any other, not able to live up to its promises
because no other nation dares make such promises.
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poem by Steven Federle
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America
Deep thunder shakes this warm July evening
and lightning flashes over the waterfront
filling the clear, starry sky with acrid clouds and glimmering rain
falling to the water as children gaze
in shock and awe,
waiting for the next big one to explode.
False bombardment as celebration:
such fits my nation, founded in genocide and slavery,
this nation baptized in the blood and tears
of Navaho and Cherokee and all the tribes of the American holocaust
a nation that devoured one quarter of its sons
in four short, blood-soaked years; my nation
a nation of efficient bigots and hungry hypocrites,
giving the world Gettysburg and the Trail of Tears
as models for problem-solving;
a nation unlike any other, not able to live up to its promises
because no other nation dares make such promises.
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poem by Steven Federle
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The Homecoming
When you were in Vietnam
we got your letters, two or three at once
and then the whole house buzzed like a nest
of honey drunk bees as we poured over
your every word.
We kids imagined you, strong, tough,
blazing with righteous American fury
cutting down those dirty commies,
but Mom and Dad
read each letter more slowly
glancing at each other
with darker looks.
Then one day we got the recording you made,
tiny plastic reels, shiny brown tape wound
in fragile loops; your voice!
just like you were in the room, speaking
re-assuring, everyday chat about R&R
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poem by Steven Federle
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Marshall
I heard the game was tough, and they lost,
despairing in muddy jerseys,
turf jutting from face guards and heavy cleats.
Sweat-stained and sore, they showered,
and the camaraderie of the locker room
broke through the stern silence with boyish laughter, and
weekend plans made, they climbed into the chartered bus
and drove slowly through the misty night
to the airport, to go home, back to West Virginia.
The plane gleamed reassuringly, like technology always does.
The power of the lift, the whine of competent engines
flinging them into the clouds, driving them high beyond the storm
into the clear, star-filled night. But the flight was rough, and
nearing their goal, it happened: a jolting shudder,
surprised looks, and amid the confusion of savage g-forces
suddenly nothing remained but flames
and twisted metal
and silence
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poem by Steven Federle
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Memorial
Summer
He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.
We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.
And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,
when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
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poem by Steven Federle
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Morning Prayer
In winter's stark dawning
in cold fog encased,
your warmth I'm discerning
though night will not fade,
for unwilling is morning
it lurks in sore limbs,
your song's arising
and I know that you'll send
to my darkest night-hour
new light to set me free
and your song I'll be singing
in the glow of the east!
**
У т р е н н я я м о л и т в а
Н а а б с о л ю т н о м з и м н и й р а с с в е т
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poem by Steven Federle
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In the Cold
In the cold
there's no room
for old fears; tears
that freeze on your
cheeks are
useless.
Lying under narrow eves
on porch or sidewalk grate
waiting for sleep
or death
to ease your pain,
you cannot remember
how you got this way;
for thought, like water,
congeals to solid rock,
and you can't
even pray.
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poem by Steven Federle
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