Poem-a-Day 2: War?

The bombs fall in the predawn for

Maximum fear. If they are real. A meta

War sends bombs upward toward workers

Pulling strings on paper planes. The rules

Require no casualties in a beta test of

Fantasy dreams death cleansing war

Of fear and blood, while the bombs keep

Falling down and up, down and up, shifting.

 

A golden shovel based on a New York Times headline.

SOLSC 16: Ukraine

My mother’s parents, Liz and Sam, met in New York City in the early 20th century. Both came from what is now south-central Ukraine, a town called Khotin, or Chotin, or Hotin, depending on whether you spoke Russin, Yiddish, or Ukrainian. (There were also Hungarian, Polish, Romanian, and Turkish names, but I didn’t record them when I worked as part of a team of 12 copy editors on a massive revision of the Columbia Gazetteer in the late 1990s. Khotin was ruled or had residents who spoke all of these languages over the ages, and it was named first in the third century. It was also at the northern tip of what was also called Bessarabia.)

            Liz’s family ran a small restaurant in their apartment for “landsman,” people from their region of the world. Khotin became part of Romania between the wars, but when WWII came, Romania pushed many of its Jews across the Dniester River, where the German, and some Ukrainians killed as many as they could. (It doesn’t seem to be part of what is now called Transnistria, though that name was applied to the area when Jews were killed en masse.)  Liz corresponded with her family back in Khotin until the war, but after, my mother told me, there was silence.

            So, while I know there is no more family in Ukraine, I still closely follow the news coming from there now, hoping the war will stay away from that city (last population around 10,000). Many around the world are watching with horror what is happening, and those with families still there are much more connected than I am. Yet I still feel connected to a place I have never been and know almost no family stories about.

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I’m participating in the 15th annual Slice of Life Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers. This is day 16 of the 31-day challenge.  It’s not too late to make space for daily writing in a community that is encouraging, enthusiastic, and eager to read what you have to slice about.  Join in!

 

July Golden Shovel #14

Her spirit rallies while she sleeps under trees, with

No limits. Reality jimmies the lock to her dreams, 

Glaze of light bursts borders, crashes onshore, making sport

Of wishes that juggle for attention, nowhere near

Satisfaction. She’s reprieved for a moment, huddles in a

Corner, gathering allies and strategy and tactics, critical

To overcoming reality. No gods rescue her at the crossroads

Of hope and despair, yet she holds close a nostalgia

For the time before birth, when all possibility reigns.

 

source: With the Sport Near a Critical Crossroads, Nostalgia Reigns