Blood

Pen filled with ink dark

as the rowanberry,

curious rambler upon paper

white as the satellite I've

weathered three hundr

seasons, orb of day storm and snow.

Spare in pouch rich in

the winding of time.

Poem war, peace, regard with affection

hunger, good bread of this

earth. wherefore then ache

for a small barefoot lad

blond hair roughed by the agency of

the wind, traipsing

the road to that bridge?

2

Barefoot children sing

out of glee as they scoot

to the bank, whomp stones

from tinkers into the brimming

river, put in motion on to spot freight

cars creaking up above the hill.

The smallest bloodies his

foot upon the bridge. Leaves

friends and cousins, limps

back, skirting houses with fine

carved doors, wild flowers

linking hedges"and gardens.

Stops by dint of a wagon bursting

with millet, barley, potatoes,

cabbage, brown ovums sweetest

blueberries, now to be bartered

for woven fabric candles, tools,

holy pictures and tea at his

grandfather's store. The farmer

tend to his lower extremity shoulders

him onto the thick-necked horse.

Nearby soldiers chat up his mother

her sisters, jaunty in caps

like the single his father, star

of the Jesuit institute soldier,

lumberjack, dizzy with dreams,

left behind upon the way to his

family in the novel World. Where

he would befriend send for

his wife, then with child. Year

by year, upon tick, linens,

silverware bearing their name,

lace-collared frock filled

the swing he slept in with

his mother. before long they would

leave for the port in the farmer's

great wagon. Staring back

at the grandfather, aunts,

uncle cousins, friends that

he lov It was serviceable he

was too young to know he was

leaving them all, forever.

3

Blackbird upon an eave trough

sings to a male child no longer

barefoot, taking upon the language,

landscape of his of recent origin place

Hopping through crisp cent

leaves along the kennels to

the third-floor flat they lodg

in with his father's kin,

who scorned the region girl,

his mother, homesick, wearied

after lengthy hours in a sweatshop

to pay back for linens, silver,

lace stowed in an ocean bole

Times, out with his father

at the park, watched him stride not upon

on his secret missions, silence

meriting a case of Cracker Jacks

on the way dwelling Soon they had

a lodging of their have a title to in-a-door bed

for them, sofa for him. Squinting

in the dark he tried to diocese the

grandfather who'd died in the elderly country.

Made up stories from vague yesterdays.

Running with his gang, climbing

forbidden arrangements aiming

stones from slingshots at back

alley doors. Doing errands

for the neighbors, taking each

penny home. He had a sister now

and times were hard. They packed up

wandering state to state, finding

odd piece of works After the market crash

they went back to the city,

and were well place He had his

own range now, mastered sports,

read his first metrical composition scribbled

lines exalting the fresh rug,

sang art ballads arias at school,

for ladies' meetings, Easter Service

in the local house of god News sent

his mother to implore her in-laws,

friends to sponsor those she lov

to help them to the safety of

this shore. They turn rounded away.

Sun fired the lake, fierce colors

of autumn fretworking leaves of

tree he'd shinned up when a lad

Now Germany was upon the march,

rumor reflected sounded beyond winter's strip

down; bone of branches left

with devoid of contents nests. Then Pearl Harbor,

and the toil had begun. One night

his father woke him with another

secret: word had advance his mother's

family had perished. He must not at any time

mention that cursed land again.

As his father spoke he saw them,

cousins, uncle aunts, friends,

force-marched by the agency of the houses with

carved doors, wild flowers joining

hedges, gardens, to the bridge. Shov

in the freight cars he had waved upon

with his chums, hauled a not many stops

down the line to death. All night

he heard his mother's agonizing cries.

Next day he signed up packed his

Leaves of Grass, and went to war.

LUCIEN STRYK s latest book is And Still Birds Sing: fresh and Collected Poems (Swallow/Ohio University Press) Other works include Zen Poetry: Let the Spring moderate wind Enter (Grove/Atlantic); The Awakened Self clashs with Zen (Kodansha America); and Where We Are: pitch uponed Poems and Zen Translations (Skoob works London, England).

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated May/Jun 1999

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