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VOICES OF THE HOLOCAUST

At night, they come to me, speaking softly at first,
sometimes in a whisper, as they reach out across
Time and Space, searching for a loving soul who
remembers.

Buried in the darkness of unfathomable dreams,
in a wooden coffin of my own creation, I listen
to the voices of the Holocaust.

“Why?” the bewildered voices ask me in unison.
I imagine the phantom faces, dark wounded eyes
mounted on bony flesh peering at me from the
other side of the shattered universe, and I can’t
utter one word of comfort.

The ghosts are still trapped and wandering in the
death camps, I think. Lost souls of Yesterday
seeking peace of mind.

“I’m trying to understand,” I confess.
“We all are. Yet no one knows.
The Holocaust is incomprehensible.
It’s the reason I lost my faith.
And yet, it is why I search for
Hashem.

“Someday, perhaps, we will understand.
Until then, I will listen to your voices
at night and inhale your anguished
souls.

“And we shall be one.”

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 08.06.10)

THE ULTIMATE NOTHINGNESS

Before Space and Time, and Existence,
Before Darkness and Light,
Before.

Before Creation and Life, Before the
Cosmic Breath,
Before.

Before the Holy Breath, the Sacred
Inhalation and Exhalation,
Before.

Before the Invisible and Visible
Void, Before the Macro
Universe and Micro
Universe,
Before.

Before the Motionless Void and
Rhythmic Void, Before the
Frozen Void and
Fiery Void,
Before.

Before the Still Void and
Dancing Void,
Before.

Before Expansion and
Contraction, Before
The Big Bang,
Before.

Before Creation and the
Bleak dreamscape,
Before.
Before Creation and the
Barren Waste Land,

Before.

Before Creation and the
Garden of Eden,
Before.

Before Creation and the
First Living Creature,
Before.

Before Creation and the
Laws of Nature,
Before.

Before Creation and the
First Atom and First
Electron and other
Microscopic
Particles,
Before.

Before the Void of the
Universe containing
Life and Death,
Before.

Before the Void that is
Not a Void,
Before.

Before Space and Time,
And Existence, Before
Darkness and Light,
Before.

Before Life and Human
Consciousness, and
Death, Human
Nothingness,
Whirling,
Swirling,
Dust.

Before the Nothingness of Life
And Death,
Before.

Before Existence is the
Ultimate Nothingness,
The Without End.

Beyond Logic and Science is a
Supernatural Truth, the
Ultimate Miracle,
Creation from
Nothingness,
Before.

Because of this Ancient Miracle,
I grab and cling to my faith,
I search for my G-d,
Hashem. I shall
Never stop
Until I
Find
Him.

Now, I pray silently. I leap into
The Void. Darkness covers
Me. One with Hashem,
My G-d, I return
Home.

- Mel Waldman

(added 08.06.10)

CREATION
 
Before Creation, the Creator performed tzimtzum.
 
In the mystical process of tzimtzum, Hashem,
my G-d, contracted, shrank, and withdrew
into No Space, in preparation
for the Creation.
 
In the divine process of tzimtzum, Hashem,
my G-d, made life possible, setting
the holy stage for existence.
 
In the metaphysical process of tzimtzum,
Hashem, my G-d, concealed Himself
in No Space, allowing space
for the creation of
the universe.
 
The Creator performed
the original Tzimtzum,
in preparation for
the Creation. 
 
Hashem, my G-d, created an empty space
for the universe, and there,
His  reshimu (residue)
remained.
  
Thus, there was the Void where
Hashem’s reshimu hid.  And
this sacred empty space
was surrounded by
the Creator. 
 
-

Hashem allowed a small ray of light
to pass through the divine veil.
 
But this holy light, called kav, was
fierce and blinding. Through the
mystical process of
minor tzimtzum,
 
the dazzling light contracted
and became a tiny stream.
And Hashem blessed
the Void He created
with the holy
beam of
light.
 
From this holy light,
the universe
was born.
 
The Creator sent the holy light
into the empty space, the
dark Void He created.
 
And this sacred light was also
the original man named
Adam Kedmon,
 
a holy container of all
Hashem’s beautiful
traits.
 
From this divine light-
primordial man-
emerged the
sacred
 
emanations, the
sefirot of
Hashem.
 
- 
 
And the sefirot, the Creator’s divine
attributes, sailed through the Void
and merged, and in an ineffable
 
metamorphosis,
the universe
was born.
 
Divine light flowed into the Void
and the universe was coming
into being.
 
The emanations of Hashem,
primordial waves of light,
penetrated the empty
space, and came
together, and
the universe
was coming
into being.
 
Divine emanations, the sefirot
of  Hashem, merged and
united and were
separate too,
contained in
holy shells
called
kelipot.
 
The pure light of each emanation
or sefira was poured into a
sacred shell.
 
Thus, the sefirot flowed through the
kelipot into the Void.
 
But the omnipotent light of Hashem,
too powerful for the holy vessels,
shattered the sacred shells
in an accident called the
shevirat ha-kelim,
“the breaking of
the vessels.”
 
Divine sparks, netzutzot, sailed across
the Void, and they were scattered
and hidden in the new universe.
 
With the shattering of the kelipot,
Hashem created the world.
 
In the broken universe, human beings
exist to perform tikkun olam,
repair of the world.
 
Hashem blessed mankind with the
mission of mending the
splintered universe.
 
Hashem blessed humanity with the
gift of redemption, allowing
humans to help the Creator
heal the fragmented
universe
 
by finding and freeing the holy
sparks hidden in the kelipot
of the physical world.
 
Humans are empowered to
release the sacred sparks
trapped in material
husks.
 
And they are responsible
for restoring the
scattered sparks
to the Creator.
 
Enlightened by prayer
and acts of love,
humans can
redeem and
raise the
holy
 
- 
 
sparks that fell
during the
shevirat
ha-kelim.
 
Aware of and connected
to the holiness of all
G-d’s creations,
humans can
unify and
reunite
 
the divine sparks
with Hashem. 
 
In the end, humans can
help the Creator heal
the shattered
universe
 
and perhaps,
Creation
too.

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 05.16.10)

DO YOU REMEMBER THE NIGHT OF BROKEN GLASS, KRISTALLNACHT?

November 9/10 1938

Do you remember the Night of Broken Glass, Kristallnacht?
On that endless night of evil, broken glass and broken Jewish
souls, scattered across the dark streets of Germany and Austria,
shattered or strengthened our faith, proved or disproved the
existence of Hashem, our loving G-d.

The interpretations of evil and heinous crimes against humanity
destroy or recreate us. Shall we submit to sin or struggle to
repair our shattered faith, our shattered universe?

We must bear witness to the darkness of our past, and smother
evil with each act of kindness, each miraculous moment of
love.

Tikkun olam! We shall repair the world one mitzvah-one
divine commandment at a time.

Thank You, Hashem, for allowing us to assist You in the
healing of our broken universe, our broken people.
Thank You, Hashem.

- Mel Waldman

(added 05.16.10)

RETURN TO AUSCHWITZ

The survivors of Auschwitz are dying. Who will tell the dark stories of
Auschwitz and the horrific Holocaust when they have passed on, buried
forever in the barren earth?

Who will return to Auschwitz to bear witness and testify about the
unspeakable evil committed by the Nazis?
Who will speak out?
Who will return?

When all are dead,
who will speak
the truth?
Who?

At Treblinka and Sobibor and Belzec, no one survived. Close your eyes
and imagine only train tracks and gas chambers. You travel deep into
the forests, to the death camps nestled within these woods of
eastern Poland, and you face extermination.
Who will speak for you?
Who?

Visitors who are not survivors of Auschwitz cannot speak for the dead.
Nor can they bear witness or testify. Yet they can learn about the
mass murder-the incomprehensible evil.

Perhaps, once all the survivors have left the world of humans, only ghosts
will return to Auschwitz. Only ghosts. And they will speak to us.
They will tell the dark stories of Auschwitz and the horrific
Holocaust. But will we hear their mournful voices?

Now, human remains or objects that belonged to the prisoners reveal the
obscene and heinous acts of Hitler’s men. We see almost two tons
of prisoners’ hair behind glass cases. Mounds of hair are piled
high and will decay over time. Shoes are also on display
and staff members struggle to restore tens of thousands
of shabby shoes.

Listen with your soul and you may hear the howling and ululations of the
prisoner-ghosts or learn the secrets of Auschwitz. Just listen with your soul.

- Mel Waldman

(added 05.16.10)

THE SHRINK OF TRAUMA CITY 
 
We come from darkness, and like the lost sparks
of creation, once contained in holy shells
called kelipot that shattered during
shevirat ha-kelim, “the
breaking of the
vessels,”
 
we are scattered across the
antediluvian
city.
 
We search for meaning.
We collect and gather
the sacred sparks
of divine
light.
 
We search for redemption.
In the midst of urban
violence and
atavistic
evil,
 
we pray to our mysterious G-d,
Hashem.   Sometimes He is
silent.  We lose faith.
Still, we need
help. 
 
Lost in the wilderness of
New York City, we
search for and
find a secular
healer.
 
We go to a shrink.
 
I am a healer.  I am a shrink.
 
 
You come from darkness and travel from the
ghetto to my underground, primordial
office, a dimly lit circular room
with an analytic couch, a
leather recliner and
one leather
armchair
 
facing it and a circle of eight leather
armchairs.  Periodically, the
round room is bathed
in soothing white,
yellow, or
gold
 
light.  In this surreal sanctuary,
you peel off the false
layers of your
psyches
 
and tell your New York
stories of trauma.
 
 
You were physically, sexually, and/or
emotionally abused.   Beaten,
battered, molested, and
violated by phallic
intrusions into
your minds,
bodies,
 
and souls, you were stripped of hope
and severed from G-d.  Your
souls were butchered and
you became ghost
ships floating
in a sea of
 
darkness.
 
 
 
Now, you are shattered vessels, almost
soulless, drifting in the pitch-black
Void.  And you sail into my
subterranean universe,
perhaps by chance
or destiny,
or both,
 
seeking salvation, saturated and impregnated
with brain-cells flooded with suffering
flowing incessantly assaulting
bombarding imploding
exploding
 
obliterating your sacred centers
and you are dying;
all of you are
dying.
 
 
And so you come from the South Bronx
and Harlem; Bedford-Stuyvesant,
Brownsville, and Bushwick;
East Flatbush and East
New York; Red
Hook and
Sunset
Park.  
 
You come from darkness and travel
from the ghetto.  But darkness
is everywhere and you
come from
 
Bensonhurst, Borough Park, and
Crown Heights; Midwood,
Mill Basin, and Park
Slope; Sea Gate,
Sheepshead
Bay and
 
Williamsburg. 
 
 
 
 
You come from Coney Island after
dancing on the cold empty
beach or in the barren
streets of winter or
after jogging
on the
 
Boardwalk during
a snowstorm.
The stark
reality
 
strips you naked.
 
You come from any neighborhood
in Brooklyn and from all the
five boroughs, upstate
New York and
Long Island.
 
You come to me.  You confess.
You shed your masks and
reveal the dark,
murky
 
secrets of your obsessive-
compulsive lives, the
self-defeating
patterns;
 
the endless chains of self-destruction,
brutal concatenations followed
by insatiable cravings for
magical change,
 
sudden metamorphoses,
instant vibrant life
or a swift
demise.
 
But after the mindless cycles of
civil war, you discover
something else-
 
 
 
inside the broken mirrors
hanging on your
walls or in
 
your fractured souls,
lie dumb beasts
longing for
and
 
addicted to pain.
 
And so you come to me and tell
Your New York stories
of trauma.
 
 
I am a healer.  I am a shrink,
the shrink of Trauma City. 
 
You come to me from the darkness
and carry the city’s noxious
air with you.  And
when you
exhale,
 
I inhale the ferocious miasma from
above.  One by one, you expel
the rage and hatred and
multiple New York
traumas
 
in psychoanalytic exorcisms,
shooting the emotional
toxins into the
broken
 
vessel of my soul.  I heal
you, but the poisons
of Trauma City
shatter my
spirit.
 
After you leave, I pray to Hashem,
my G-d, and ask Him:
 
 
Who shall heal the healer?
 
Who will shrink my
head and make
me whole?
 
Where do I go?
 
Alone, in the vast silence, beneath
the soothing lights of the
round room, I speak
softly and tell
my
 
New York stories of trauma.
 
I whisper into the Void
until my soul-vessel
explodes, and I
vanish in
 
the eternal night of creation,
during shevirat ha-kelim,
“the breaking of the
vessels.”
 
And I am one with Hashem.

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 02.06.10)

TZIMTZUM
 
CONTRACTION INTO NO SPACE
 
Before Creation, Hashem, my G-d, contracted.
I do not understand how.
 
Before Creation, Hashem, my G-d, concealed
Himself.  I do not understand why.
 
My Creator is beyond Time and Space.  And yet
He created the universe by contracting into
No Space.
 
My Creator is unknowable and yet I crave to be
close to Him-the Holy Presence who permeates
all life, hidden in all that is.
 
Before Creation, He shrank into No Space,
making room for the universe.
 
Before Creation, He withdrew into No Space,
allowing the universe to come into being, and
creating space for good and evil.
 
Inside the Void, the empty space that G-d created
by the mystical process of tzimtzum, a residue of
the Creator remained, the reshimu of Hashem.
 
Inside the Void, the empty space that Hashem
created, the universe would exist, with
the Holy Presence hidden and concealed.
 
Thus, Hashem, my G-d, contracted, shrank,
withdrew, and concealed Himself in the
incomprehensible process of tzimtzum.
 
It remains a holy mystery, almost as mysterious
as Hashem, my unknowable G-d, who hides in
the flowing universe, revealing sacred truths to
all who search the Void.

- Mel Waldman

(added 02.06.10)

THE BLUE BUTTERFLY
 
An old man remembers the Jewish ghettos in
Vienna and throughout Austria and Germany,
on November 9/10 1938,
 
Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass
(Crystal Night), when the Nazis smashed
store windows and shattered bodies and
souls.
 
 
At night, he lies in bed for hours, and when he
sleeps, he falls into an abyss of savage moments.
Inside the secret caverns of his mind, he travels
through a dark labyrinth of trauma and he listens
to the beating and fluttering of night wings.
 
What are these strange creatures that surround him?
 
Suddenly, he sees a small sphere of light in the
distance.  When the light expands, a blue butterfly
miraculously appears.  The old man wakes up, sees
a gold sun rising, and a blue butterfly fluttering on
the windowsill.
 
“Where do you come from?” he whispers.  “You are
beautiful, my friend.  Even the evil deeds of men
cannot erase your grandeur.”
 
The old man gazes at the blue butterfly that soothes
his shattered soul, and he falls asleep again, dreaming
beautiful dreams at last, even after Kristallnacht  and
the Holocaust.

- Mel Waldman

(added 02.06.10)

AUTUMN VOICES

Autumn speaks to me in multicolored voices. First, it whispers hope in majestic gold words of new beginnings, caressing my soft skin with celestial zephyrs and a cosmic kiss from my G-d, Hashem. This is the autumn of my youth, my innocent childhood that beckons me with endless longing and nostalgia, without violence or malice, without the masks of sin. Autumn’s first voice feeds me hope, an antediluvian feeling that all is good.

Autumn shrieks orange-yellow-and-red sacrifice, the holy voices of faith. And I remember the biblical story of G-d and Abraham. The omnipotent Almighty commanded Abraham to kill his son Isaac. In an act of faith, Abraham took Isaac to Mount Moriah. There, he bound his son. As he lifted his knife to sacrifice Isaac, an angel cried out and stopped Abraham from killing his son. Abraham freed Isaac and slaughtered a ram instead. Now, autumn’s loud, potent voice of mercy reminds me that on Rosh Hashanah, a holy man blows the ram’s horn, the shofar. In my adolescence, I used to listen to the holy explosions. And the beautiful hypnotic blasts moved my soul, launching me on a journey to G-d. Today, autumn’s second voice feeds me faith. And I trust Hashem, my G-d, all-loving and omnipotent.

Autumn howls in the never-ending moment of mourning, wailing loudly throughout the dark day and night of unbearable sorrow-the timeless day of soul-shattering evil. It wears death and in a grotesque metamorphosis, its enchanting multicolored leaves have turned pitch-black. My soul vanished when the Twin Towers exploded-imploded and human debris sailed to earth in a cloud of toxic dust. Autumn’s third voice eats my hope and faith again and again in perpetual trauma. It is the autumn of my adulthood that eats my lost soul, buried in the catacombs of despair. Yet slowly, I heal, as I listen once more to the autumn voices of my childhood and adolescence.

Autumn whispers hope, shrieks faith, and howls despair. I lost my soul but found it in the autumn voices of my distant past. Long ago, I was close to my G-d, Hashem. Now, He waits for the man to relearn the secrets of the child. Listen! Autumn speaks in multicolored voices, as sweet as the mellifluous colors of hope and faith. The leaves fall, wafting on zephyrs. Time slips away, like ballet dancers pirouetting and whirling into the past. And I travel through the labyrinth of my psyche, past a gifted violinist playing holy music on a Stradivarius and a passionate artist painting the Tree of Life. But if you listen to the vast silence of the Void, you will hear the sound of my tears as I approach Yesterday and Hashem, my G-d. A child once more, I listen to the holy man shriek faith with each blast of the shofar. And the Shem Ha-M’forash (The Ineffable Name) covers me with a blanket of love, breathing soul into my being with a cosmic kiss. Now, I love through the endless day and night of my existence as the leaves fall and autumn voices speak.

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 12.15.09)

SEPTEMBER TRAUMASCAPE

In the labyrinth of my psyche, the August dog days used to contain the seething cauldron of the city. But now, the fires of urban violence are forever trapped in the September traumascape, fiercely burning, melting, and dissolving in our shattered memories-

wounded souls still searching for the lost bones of the beloved dead, buried in hidden catacombs beneath Ground Zero, waiting to be discovered and redeemed, waiting...

- Mel Waldman

(added 12.15.09)

MASKS

They wore masks, multicolored masks for breakfast, lunch, and
dinner, at work and in the home, in the spring, summer, fall, and winter, different faces for different occasions and seasons;

ordinary faces, nondescript, boring faces, barren faces,
dispassionate faces, forgettable faces;

they possessed charming faces, glittering faces, faces of joy
and laughter;

and hypnotic faces too, hiding dark truths and secrets.

Inside Auschwitz, they wore savage faces, twisted faces,
gnarled faces, brittle faces exploding into monstrous rage.

But at Solahutte, a recreation lodge by the Sola River
outside the death camp, SS officers and SS female
auxiliaries (Helferinnen) shed steel masks of sin,

concealing hidden layers of iron hatred and ineffable
evil metastasizing in brain cells devoid of soul.

And they covered their dark faces with gold masks of
joy and laughter.

They wore multicolored masks and now, we struggle to
decipher who they really were.

Some speak of the banality of evil.
Were they ordinary people-good,
civilized folks obedient to authority,

or a volcano of Aryan identity and
madness ready to explode in the
secret innards of Auschwitz?

I see their smiling faces at Solahutte,
unscarred by savage deeds,
and I suspect the latter.

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 10.13.09)

THE AUSCHWITZ ALBUMS

Along the Sola River outside Auschwitz,
at Solahutte, a recreation lodge,  they
obliterate the sins of work, in the
wasteland of the Aryan psyche, and
taste the seductive pleasures of
leisure time.
 
SS female communication specialists,
smile at the omnipotent camera, as
they eat succulent blueberries. One
wears a mask of sham sadness
after finishing her share.  Yet
all reveal frivolous joy, while
concealing the horrific reality
of the death camp. 
 
It is a glorious day for the Nazis.
On this glittering summer day-
July 22, 1944, 150 new
prisoners, bereft of hope,
without a vestige of joy,
their faces buried in
sadness, arrive at
Auschwitz-Birkenau
in cattle cars, leave
the ramp, and most
trudge to the gas
chambers, unaware
of their fate. 
 
The original Auschwitz Album reveals
the horrors of the death camp where
prisoners were starved, tortured, and
methodically murdered in
unspeakable acts of
genocide.
The new album of Nazi fun suggests
that they behaved like ordinary
people.  But the appearance
of humans relaxing,
wearing smiling
faces, laughing
and joking,
smoking,
singing,
flirting,
and
 
forgetting
evil does
not erase
sin.
 
The albums are a jarring juxtaposition,
contrasting the agony of prisoners,
struggling to keep their vanishing
identities, with the carefree lives
of SS officers.
 
I see the dark, soul-cutting images of
despair and doom, the ghostly faces
of the  victims; I see the smiling
faces of their tormentors too.
 
And I condemn the Nazis.
And I weep for the dead.

- Mel Waldman

(added 10.13.09)

LIBERATION

Leaving Auschwitz, the ghostly prisoners staggered out of the
sinister gates. Only a few human phantoms were still alive,

liberated by the Russian army on January 27, 1945. Some
clung to the arms of Russian soldiers in order to stand up
and trudge through the merciless snow.


All left the death camp behind, hobbling past corpses frozen
in the snow, as they began their long, labyrinthine journey of
freedom.

For the remainder of their lives, they would stumble through a
maze of trauma. But on this day of liberation, they were free,
although the shock and unbearable evil of Auschwitz would
remain inside their wounded souls forever.

Trapped in the private prisons of the psyche, the survivors
would relive and re-experience the horrific reality of Auschwitz
again and again. They would never forget. Neither would we.


I’ve heard soul-cutting stories about the perennial stench coming
from the crematoria at Auschwitz II where bodies were fed into
the ovens and burned.

Speak to the Auschwitz survivors. They still smell the stench of
the burning bodies, for the foul odor of evil never leaves.

- Mel Waldman

(added 10.13.09)

MOURNER’S KADDISH

We do not speak of the dead when we say the Mourner’s Kaddish
& yet, in praising Hashem, in this prayer of life, we remember
them.

When we recite the Mourner’s Kaddish, we do not mention their
names; we pray to Hashem, our G-d, the Holy One, & vanish within
the vast universe of this prayer, becoming the Kaddish, perhaps, and
in this holy union, we remember them.

Holy, holy, holy is life and its mysterious twin, emanating from
Hashem.


Now, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish and praise our G-d for blessing
us with the sacred breath of Being.

After, we breathe deeply, slowly, experiencing memalleh, the filling of
the Void, inhaling His holy presence, fully alive!

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 08.28.09)

A DEATH BEFORE DEATH

Buried in the deep snow, and tasting flakes of non-existence,
as real as the wet, whirling beasts in his vanishing brain cells,
chimeras emerging from the secret storm within,

he suffered a death before death.


Strangers gazed at him and saw a peek-a-boo man, clothed in
a shroud of non-identity, a ghostly veil of human emptiness, a
void of death before dying.

I saw a man named Father.


Helplessly, I watched him vanish into a frozen time capsule,
swaddled in an ancient cloth of random, remote yesterdays,
a straight jacket of unbearable restraint.

Yes, I witnessed his death before death.

He disappeared in front of me, our distant eyes separated at times
only by inches. Yet he was far away, his dark, vacant eyes
revealing the abyss in which he dwelled.

My soul-severed eyes darted and flitted back and forth, between
the lost space that connected us, reaching out to his dying soul,
clinging to and clutching his mutilated spirit.

Yet I could not save him.

-

Before his final death, the snowstorm swept mercilessly across his
private, bare wilderness, until the blizzard buried him deeper in the
pristine snow.

Yet occasionally, he was reborn for a few seconds or minutes,
resurrected, perhaps, by chance neural connections.

We’d say hello. Sometimes, he grew a big fat smile, revealing
his precious gold teeth. His eyes were real until they became
vacant again.

And he died once more.


In his heyday, he was a fierce, ferocious man who did not know
how to love or be loved. We raged against each other. But in
the end, I loved him.

I witnessed his horrific death before death.

Strangers saw a peek-a-boo man.
I saw a man called Father.

- Mel Waldman

(added 08.28.09)

CELL PHONE

Like zombies roaming mindlessly across the barren earth,
bereft and condemned by a voodoo curse, and possessed
by the Voodoo Priest,

dumb humans wander the streets, clutching toxic cell phones,
prisoners of surreal Super-Companies and Super-Sales-Freaks,
selling Orwellian truths and dreams.

Beware! We’re real creatures in 1984.
Big Brother is watching, listening, and
monitoring our compulsive movements,

aware of our interests, preferences, and
purchases, creating needs and selling us
mindless talk.

Now, face-to-face communication is almost obsolete.

Physical and psychological space are contaminated by
human beasts blasting cacophony into cell phones,
screaming in the streets at no one visible,

like antediluvian schizophrenics screeching in private
dreamscapes, and howling on trains, buses, and planes,
like coyotes in the wilderness.

What possessed humans to eat cell phones 24/7?
How did they become addictively attached to
these little machines?

1984 is here. Unconsciously, humans zoom across a dispassionate
highway, crashing their toy cars and smashing their skulls as they
drive toward Eternity, talking on the cell phone to someone-
not there.

Humans travel on the Super-Highway of Death and cell phones
are their lethal companions. Yet a few have escaped the
inevitable curse and consequences of the tiny monster.

Like Stephen King, I do not own a cell phone. Call me old-fashioned
or simply free.

What about you?

- Mel Waldman

(added 06.28.09)

THE N WORD

What would Martin Luther King, Jr. think if he wandered
across Harlem or the South Bronx or East New York and
heard The N Word reverberating in the miasma?

What would he say to other Blacks or Hispanics or Caucasian
wannabe-Blacks who catapulted The N Word into the
oppressive wasteland they inhabited,

sharing its foul scent of degradation, the raw odors of human
debris-the soul-cutting, gnawing, bone-breaking stench of
vomit, feces, and urine of unknown dead civil rights heroes?

Yes, what would he think or say?

Today, The N Word permeates all the urban streets. It lives and
metastasizes in the ghetto and even the good neighborhoods
buttressed by hypocrisy and lies.

I do not understand.

We fought hard and long for civil rights. We dreamed of racial
equality and non-discrimination. And yet our children annihilate
the triumphs and beauty of our accomplishments.

Beware! Topsy- turvy, upside-down, true-false, inside-outside,
ugly-pretty.

Our children twist, contort, and distort the real meaning of the
gnarled word. They deny its foul, noxious history of violence.
Some older folks believe the lies too.

Believe me! The N Word ain’t pretty. It’s the brittle shell of
Humanity’s ancient hatred.

The N Word is our obliteration and annihilation, the end of
human life we dreamed of and envisioned for our children.

It is the beginning of the end-the apocalypse!

- Mel Waldman

(added 06.28.09)

URBAN VIRUS

Quietly, insidiously, the virus spreads across the urban landscape,
assaulting humans everywhere.

The secret killer flows furiously through the crowded streets, in the
small, enclosed offices of claustrophobic workers, and into the
home, wantonly attacking those who live there, dumb creatures
unaware of the lethal onslaught.

Even after the urban virus has penetrated human flesh and bones,
insinuating itself into the bloodstream and brain, human victims are
oblivious of the silent massacre, the stealthy slaughter of the human
race.

Only love can obliterate hatred, the urban virus that spreads via
emotional contagion. Without this cure, one day the human race
will cease to exist. And the final act of destruction may come
soon, fueled by an urban virus that destroys our minds and souls

first, before annihilation, leaving behind the barren earth without
humans, and death-soaked dust, and beasts that roam the bleak,
surreal dreamscape.

Like a tight noose, the hidden but familiar virus viciously grips
our wounded souls.

Shall we submit to its contagious venom? Or shall we stop the
flow now, confessing to ourselves that hatred hides in the caves
of our private thoughts and emotions, nowhere else. Only then
can we wrestle with it, and cannibals that we are-devour our
Darkness, allowing hatred to be absorbed by love, the light of
the human race .

What shall we choose?

- Mel Waldman

(featured in the poetry forum 06.28.09)

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