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| Open Poetry #40 |
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Steamer Trunk |
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Huan Yi Member Ascendant
since 2004-10-12
Posts 6688Waukegan 
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. Even then Upon opening The stale— musty Dusty smell— of being old Childhood Beside a small Attic window With its dead flies Spider webs Yet in the only light The curled Yellowed photographs Of those who never came Or would ever be seen alive They stood Still Their hair In the fashions of the time With no Or nervous smiles Unconsciously Suspicious perhaps Uncertain of what it was The camera With that single Indifferent eye Would take and have Once the shutter snapped . |
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| © Copyright 2007 John Pawlik - All Rights Reserved | |||
Marge Tindal 
since 1999-11-06
Posts 42384Florida's Foreverly Shores |
John~ Time marches on until the magic of the camera commands HALT ... then time stands still so that the generations to come will know us as we were~ I happen to have a passion for old photographs ... often buying them from antique shops ... I greatly enjoy the stately elegant manner of the older poses~ Thanks for this ..~ *Huglets*  ~*Marge*~ ~*The sound of a kiss is not as strong as that of a cannon, but it's echo endures much longer*~ |
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secondhanddreampoet Member Ascendant
since 2006-11-07
Posts 6394a 'Universalist' ! |
simply superb! [I believe this is the 'write' of which I am most fond... from all of that which I have read by this very interesting and talented author!] MUCH (long sustained) applause!! |
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Midnitesun
since 2001-05-18
Posts 28647Gaia |
Again, you've captured the essence of photography, a self-portrait of timelessness which traverses the boundaries of then and now. Well done, John. |
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Drauntz Member Elite
since 2007-03-16
Posts 2905Los Angeles California |
Lanthanoid!!! |
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Drauntz Member Elite
since 2007-03-16
Posts 2905Los Angeles California |
Steamer on Vistula or Mississippi? BAYONETS READY When they come to set your house on fire, The one in which you live - Poland, When they hurl at you thunder, and kindle the pyre Of iron-clad monsters of war, And they stand before your gate at night, And their rifle butts pound on your door, Rouse yourself from sleep - fight. Stem the flood. Bayonets ready! There is need for blood. There are accounts of wrongs in our land Not to be erased by a foreign hand. But none share spare his blood; We shall draw it from our hearts and song. No matter that our prison bread Not once did have a bitter taste. For this hand now over Poland raised A bullet in the head! O Firemaster of words and hearts, O poet, the song is not your only stand. Today the poem is a soldier�s trench, A shout and a command: "Bayonets ready! Bayonets ready!" And should we die with our swords, We shall recall what Cambronne said. And on the Vistula repeat his words. http://www.raster.art.pl/gallery/broniewski.html |
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