How would we know such evil existed
should we have known such evil existed?
I heard them shout
we must help Ukraine;
I heard them debate
how can we help Ukraine;
I heard them whisper
there is no way to help Ukraine.
20,000 dead in Mariupol
Are we allowed to grieve
how can we mourn; we did not dwell with them
20,000 dead in Mariupol
I had to pay some pennies more
each time I filled up the tank, but
20,000 dead in Mariupol
We arm; we sent aid
we raise our voices in outrage to such a tragedy, but still
20,000 dead in Mariupol
We send rockets; we fly drones
ammunition is abundant, but yet
20,000 dead in Mariupol
They hid in a steel plant with no light of day
Babies and children with moms
Abandoned by dads in war and so
20,000 dead in Mariupol
POEMS
The night they left home
They turned and looked at their home as they closed the door. I can hear the swish and the double-click of the lock.
Best they lock the door that would not be opened again—maybe never—or at least never by this family.
Footsteps are light on the walkway to the main street. Of course, it is silent at 2 am and they are light on their feet.
They have backpacks—even the 4 year old is sporting a new backpack. There is a cartoon character—possibly Spider Man–adorning its zippered pocket. He looks like a little man following his papa and in front of his mama with light footsteps walking between them.
He is excited to be out after midnight but wary of the silence of the night. He was told the family would make a long journey and he imagined it would be an adventure. He has new sneakers with a double knot his mama insisted on tying. She did not want him to be able to take them off.
He would wear them for miles—many many miles.
COLOR
THE DEPARTURE
I awoke one morning to the shadows reflected on the wall from my curtains . . . and then I remembered Ukraine.
They had curtains in their home . . .
Might have been a gingham check of red and white hung on a window looking out at toys in the yard. Satiny curtains in the living room kept it shady for the tomes on the bookshelves. A mahogany china closet held the glassware and china passed down from a grandmother. Adorning the mantel were the photos, so many photos, of all those they loved and revered.
They had curtains in their home . . .
A cool breeze made the curtains blow in while they were eating breakfast, making sandwiches for the children’s lunchboxes, and peeling the carrots for the evening stew.
They had curtains in their home . . .
There were dresses hanging in the closet waiting to be passed on to the younger children—some handmade—others bought from the catalog.
They had curtains in their home . . .
Those red and white gingham check curtains are torn and charred now and frame a window with shattered glass. The toys in the yard are under the stones that fell from the roof when the bombs came. There are no dinners now—grandma’s china is broken in a million pieces that were once the thread that held their family together. The photos, although blackened by fire still remain to document those who had to leave without looking back.
They have no curtains . . . they have no home.
[Published at https://www.smerconish.com/exclusive-content/the-departure/ ]
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