old film in the night awakens-

i cannot conceive what my parent's survived
i watch old films and documentaries
of lines of people waiting like refugees
for a bowl of soup and crust of bread

the men who walked with carbines into
the death kamps; jewish peoples
dead and dying their bones trying not to pierce
taut skin pulled to its
final strength

ration cards and meatless days, knowing
the fight to the death
to save the all of humanity
from stalin and hitler and mussolini and the emperor
from the rising sun; after ten years of our own collapse
in a fallen economy

they, my parents are of our greatest generation
the twenty years of hell on earth
the darkness so beyond our small difficulties
they cannot be mentioned in the same halting breath.

-charles boyer and ingrid bergman
accents as thick as cold day old coffee
and the nazis coming to paris
i held my then love in the night
watching the drama in forboding
black and white; more shadows
the impeding gloom of stolen lives
and tortured deaths-

the german propaganda film
replays with scary title;
''triumph of the will'' and their lithe aryan youth
training nakedly in the sun as if inheritors of the
greek ideal; lean and blonde and hungry
for the challenge of dominating the entire world.

not enough flag-waving parades or medals
or old men in legion uniforms and battle ribbons
can repay the losses and gifts of their lives
in the remnant of glory of that war, the sad pictures
of battle corpses on the beach, the smoldering planes
and tanks with broken human remains
in iron coffins their spirits lost inside
not to fight another day.

that sixty year-old propaganda film
of the fall of france and i held my love
in my arms of her own struggle to then
become my own for a short time;
her dark skin and my light skin
to know just a bit of insidious hate, of those
who would strike and fight and steal our lives
because we walked in our quest
for freedom and equality; of two races
to live together as one in a divided society...

to honor those that hung from trees
and beaten in the night
firebombs killing innocent children
in southern church and urbane college
light toned students hosed and threatened
murdered and maimed at the hands
of the hateful we must call our own...

these lessons are not lost
i lived them again in a new way
to look over a shoulder and wonder if to see
the beauty of the next pink and pristine sunset
rather to watch for the retribution
of those who cannot accept
love beyond the scope
of one colour or one belief
or demand that the supreme be called
by a single name.

i will to our children
all of our children
not merely of my loin and love
but of all the innocents;
all of the innocence yet to be taken
as knowledge will yet steal that wide-eyed
cherubic sweetness;
a gift of my own i am not big enough
to fully give
yet that knowledge who demands to be carried
to those yet to come

of glory of committment to a cause
that cause we all know
the same struggles that made peoples
under threat of guns trained,
try to climb barbwire barriers in berlin
to seek a new homeland in palistine
whether arab or jew
the african-american forced immigrants to homestead
the south after the american war
of brother versus brother
of those who then and yet today
cannot safely walk down certain streets
or certain country roads without
the hateful seeking to oppress to terrorize
in compliance
the old ways of separation and division

i cannot in my heart know
of any conflict true, but of my own...
the lessons of sad knowledge
of the evil ones who can will upon one another
for reasons too simple to be understood
or by the reasonable accepted...

i do not seek to preach to you
what i have in struggle learned
yet words are my weapon;
ink and paper and pen my sword.

the battles long fought and distant won
rage on a new battlefield
in each realm and corner
with names unspeakable by those
not of that each specific place

but you know, you who have read and spoken
to the soldiers still standing in the
wake of the fight, in the throes of hate
now in the requiems stand for the fallen
beside who have fought with in these
our own little wars against the forces
who judge or resist who would themselves
fight to the death against the civil peace;
for the love of one or the love of all
without question or challenge of what they might be
or the who of the predecessors;
what tone or hue of their skin
or by the name of their ''G-d''

do not take lightly
the gifts of these passed generations
these warriors whether in uniform
or button down shirts with narrow ties
from a fifties retrospective
these battles in our own enlightened land
continue in the names of victims we hear again
today as the black man dragged to death
down backroads as what would have
happened a hundred years ago on horseback

i cannot make you sense
the sacrifice of life and liberty
of our greatest generation,
that of my parents, i hear in their tales
beansoup and makework programs
and returning home from wars from faraway
and those who did not so luckily return
but i still live as they in later years still breath
knowing all the battles are not yet won
all the conflict not yet gone
all the hate still pent up
that thrives in the darkness within
of hearts not yet themselves free

my ink and paper and pen my sword
not to cut men's flesh, rather to open
their eyes to the light;
to the greater glory of when
we, the all of we, can stand together
under one sun under each nation's banner
to sing that song of peace
and freedom; together
to gather all in our one place
in the spirit together
yes, the spirit together...

poetpj amended 10282005 1238