(Another poem inspired by the criminal hell in Ukraine. As these days drag me back to the Cold War world of my youth. And the cycles of hate, hubris, and inhumanity that make up history.)
The Iron Curtain
The fence
was a short road trip
from that quaint
German town
of our visit.
The coffee
and chocolate kuchen
of the afternoon
had charged us
with renewed spirit.
Tante Ella
drove us
through forested hills,
and pastures
of white flowers.
The air
was crisp with Spring
as we climbed
from the warm
leather seats.
The fence
was black and tall,
its lattice of steel
thick and dark -
unbending.
It’s signs
said do not touch
or approach -
verboten -
in many languages.
Wide fields
of no man’s land
were mown to bare
like a shaved body
on an operating table.
Blank-faced guards
with grim weaponry
aimed from towers
bristling with antennae
like nightmare monsters.
A scattering
of standing headstones
marked the expiration
of those who dared escape
but failed.
We drove
back to life
as Tante Ella grimly
cried for family
on both sides.
