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Salvatore Buttaci
THE STREETS OF AMSTERDAM
A cardboard sun whitewashed of yellow
hung dismally in the Amsterdam sky.
Everywhere, deserted streets echoed
cleating boot steps of Nazi soldiers,
and like most nightmares, no children
laughed or played or sang nursery rhymes.
Once tulips lining the boulevards enticed
in color splashes all those pedestrians
on after-dinner walks; now only errant
breezes touched their petals, and the tulips,
like head-bowed rabbins at the Wailing Wall
keened to and fro as if in Kaddish prayer.
Where are the precious children? The little
ones in whose hands we placed tomorrow's
promises! Torn from their mothers' arms,
they are where in this world gone mad?
"The trains came and took them away,"
said the tulips. "They are gone," spoke the sun.
Horrific nightmares witnessed by the open eyes of
these innocents –– Who could have imagined
it would come to this! All these empty streets!
"When will we play outside again, Mama?
Will we go back to school someday?"
But everything is grey and hope is fleeting.
"I will remember the children's laughter forever,"
swore the sun. "We will relive their gentle touch
in all our seasons," said the flowers bending in
the ill wind of Amsterdam streets.
"Don't stray too far, my children," Grandmother
warned them. "Soon it will be time again for joy."
BEING
INVISIBLE
it's a sandwich board down the front of me
big block letters saying who I am
but truth be told it's not me at all
it tells them the other me, what I'm not about,
and why I walk these crowded streets alone
but it's a frontal mask I hide behind
I wear this huge wooden card down my front
to cover up the stains across my chest
but the name is wrong: it doesn't matter
it's being invisible for sure
passersby shake their heads at one more fool
though I ignore them, no way to annoy them
I am empty in this suit is what I tell myself,
that behind this shirt, this tie, is nothing
to the eye: something to escape suspicion
you see my walk, a hat bobbing in air,
everything in sartorial order
what a joke! my socks, my shoes empty
my face smirking unnoticed, laughter
no one hears, and weeping invisible tears
unheard, mistaken for afternoon rain
like being incognito, like "The Shadow"
or Hugo Wells' favorite youcan'tseeme
hero in the bowler hat or an angel or demon
I let the world roll off my new blue suit
others look my way a bit confused
but I march the city streets an empty man
filled with city air, breezes, words from
passing mouths, the whoosh of pigeons,
invisible, not here or there to the eye
free in my suit, dashing in my bloodred tie,
a walking paradox of nothing/no one walking
being invisible, thinking what I feel,
feeling what I think.
MY SISTER EMILY
winter dons a thin coat of white pain
and hobbles pedestrians unsurefooted
overcautious plodding through the snow
it's times like this I remember you
your hair stranding like silver spokes
even your eyelids iced over doll eyes
in a rosecomplected face, teeth
chattering how the cold would kill you
one day but you said it laughingly
slipping and falling, rising and sliding
along the salted walk still slick with ice
your body deadweighting on my shoulder
then racing me towards the back door
of home –– how foolish we must have looked
all the neighbors shaking their heads
muttering under warm livingroom breaths
you loud crazy kids next door
wait till we see your dad tonight
once inside we'd fight for first nibs
at the ovaltine, pushing each other
from the cupboard and the stove
fighting each other single-handedly
while freeing ourselves from coats
and gloves and scarfs and galoshes
then Mom would yell about the wet floor
our tracking in the snow and mud
from the backyard garden
finally we'd make peace, sit by the stove
blow warm air into our hands, start to thaw
and plan our next excursion to that same outdoors
now years later winter comes and winter goes
the coats she wears I hardly notice anymore
it's not the same without you, Emily
when I see the children frolicking out there
as once we did when we shared our winters
somehow the two of us alive again in their laughter
join them on this snowy afternoon
and to myself I wonder which is more painful
remembering those childhood winters now,
Emily, with you gone so many years
or coming upon a winter hard-pressed
to recall the two of us ever out there
how we'd dive into the snow drifts
against old McIver's house and lie still as death
first one to break free would lose
you always won because you said death
did not frighten you nor snow nor winter ice
and in the end with childhood behind us
one December winter came and took you
from a world we thought was ours forever
and now every time winter brings on snow
in every flake I see you tumble
playfully outside my window
in every flake your laughter comforts me
© Copyright, 2014, Salvatore
Buttaci. |