The Auschwitz SS on a picnic 

Sam was an amazing enthusiast. He loved my early art work (most of which was ... can't find the adjective, but early) wanted to show it to all the top drawers... (wish he could show it now...

Ted, who worked with Sam over the twentieth century decades, told a story how he was walking with Sam and he, Ted, is going to tell him about a script, a story he's working on, he says, "It's about this boy and this girl," and Sam says, enthusiasticly, "I love! I love it!" ....

However, the story here is really about Marilyn and Arthur. Google it!

also, see various stages of composition
of my piece

It's a matter of happenstance
and the deal
and the grave
The deal God made with the devil

Do you remember the train
in that old black and white film
roaring through the night?
And that same old movie
the calendar's daily pages
falling like leaves
The flickering days blown in the wind?

Our lives like leaves
our memories
Cleopatra on the Nile
I saw her in the distance
before Vesuvius blew me away
through the clash of swords down the ages
or a rape
which side was I on?

Time
that was the deal the devil laid
time and space
and all of this
impressions

Put the paint back in the box
it's Sunday morning
rest

Jim Lanthier wrote a poem, Aachen,
with holocaust boxcars,
at the siding at Aachen

whispered in his ear, the familiar story kept him warm
the story was of the past summer and birds waving to the sun
but before its end
his father's voice slowed and went silent
he didn't speak again.
the train grew colder.

they discarded his father at a siding
about an hour before aachen's east marshalling yards.

when the train doors opened
they demanded the dead.
the guards were tall and heavy
but they dropped his father.
he saw his head bounce, just once, on the gravel.

then a fast train passed
with careless confident soldiers
waving from smeared windows.
they smoked and smiled and gestured.
some of them were singing.
but he couldn't hear the words

now in the attic dust he shuts his eyes.
the birds are still there
spinning over silenced waters
he kneels before his memories
feels the gravel in his hands
hears, as if from a distant room,
the soldiers' song
the shouting of the guards
and the weeping,
hoarse and muffled
as the train doors close.

and I'm going to add my holocaust poem "ashes"

(which is for Ezra's mother)

ashes
(everyone is afraid of letting go of the holocaust)

ten thousand tears
haven't cooled the phoenix
she's still smoldering
beating her wings
fearing to remember
trying to believe the sky

beautiful

which aspect
which facet
will chase i

oh
it was the coils
of her hair

Alysia is young
is still shy
doesn't yet know
that she is the sky

Ezra was, is, my yoga teacher
(an amazing experience, thank you Ez)

so read my poesy "The Ezra Cycle"
and look at my Ez picture page
and Collective!

... A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower,
And Agamemnon dead

Yeats: Leda and the Swan

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower[20]
And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

Yeats

some of the work can be purchased
phone me 416 928 9272 or email to arrange this.