Salvo for Aleppo

O’ Khalpe, Hadad, Beroea, Alep,¹
You have suffered, are weary White² Friend,
O’ Ancient City where the Silk Road ends
Where White Helmets³ search scree for signs of breath;

Ahmed and Anya⁴ have been laid to rest, 

Admiral Grigorovich⁵ leaves the Black Sea,
Trump declares National Security,
Your state of being, is the next test;

From the Citadel the battle cry blares,
The soks⁶ are rubble, the walls caved to dust,
There are no safety zones, no peace in mosques,
Those who stay, bury, cloaked in grief and prayers:

No child of God should suffer this horror,⁷
Remaining souls drift, exist as shadows,
Soaking rags to thwart a menace they know,⁸
Where, Alep, is your balm, your tomorrow?

(Written April 2017)

^1.  The various names that Aleppo has been called through the ages.
^2. Aleppo is known as the White One because of its marble deposits.
^3. Some who search the rubble for survivors don white helmets.
^4. Names of the two babies found among the dead – the result of a gas attack on Syria in April 2017.
^5. Admiral Grigorovich is the name of a U.S. destroyer.
^6. Soks are the popular market stalls.
⁷ Part of Trump’s speech as validation for his retaliatory strike on Syrian forces.
^8. This is what Syrians did to try to defend against another gas attack.

Winter's Farewell - A Poem

Snow lines the sill.

I wait
for the bees
to greet
the petite, purple asters
beside my worn, white fence.

I sense
the aching
of the dormant trees.

Once sticky pinecones
lay crushed
beneath the evergreen's
brittle, burdened limbs.


By Mary E Lohan

Grown - A Poem

Years,
blocks of seconds,
minutes, days,

You were born
perfectly timed,

I found a cause
in those newborn eyes

that tracked mine steadily,
with smiles sublime

and to think -- your age
was just days.

Now, you stand
years later

without reaching
for my hand

I'm in awe ...
Every day I'm inspired by

what you know,
what you love,

I used to hold you close to me
constantly

especially
when you were sad

now you come to me,
circle your arms about me

when my smile doesn't surface
readily,

Boy, how you've grown.

By Mary E Lohan
For My Boys

December Ocean - A Poem

Don't be fooled

even oceans
so vast and
limitless

have tempo,
character,

On the drive
to the beach

sunbathers gone
only lone fishermen

the ocean
beneath the bridge

to the island
is serene, flat

like blue glass
save for a ripple,

How many times
did I travel

this same passage
to spy an ocean

tumultuous,
jaunty,
prankish,

Yet today, she
is slow,
sluggish

the waves breaking
lazily,

the large waves
pushing forth

then spilling softly
into rolls,

Way out in the distance
boats ride her
foraging,

It's an easy day
on the placid water

as gulls dive and bask
under a blue
sun-strewn sky

their wings taking them
far into the horizon,

then landing feet first
onto the giant's sleeping belly.

Un-Becoming - A Poem

How not to become
an un-

a prefix sans sun

listless
mythless

undone.

By Mary E. Lohan

Train of Thought - A Poem

It becomes you

The gelatinous translucence
spurs debate
which prompts silence
    outwardly,
inwardly the gears turn
and the engines
    churn

We cannot escape ourselves
regardless of the category,
generation

We have consumed
the fallacy
of what our lives should mean
as we go from tangent to tangent,
then back again

It becomes you,
the longer you think about it.

By Mary E. Lohan 

Forward - A Poem

Sometimes steps forward
appear backward
as if walking on hands
over an arched back

and sometimes Forward
is stationary and yet
apocalyptic

to our human eyes,
we move as sloths
weighed down by
Consequence

and yet to the Universe
we are but twinkles
of a star.

By Mary E. Lohan

These Storms -- A Poem

I feel for storms

that deep rumbling, dischord

that quickly sweeps and cloaks

all that is bright and light

until they break --

releasing the torrent, 

        the black torment

in a swirl of din, 

                            wind, 

                                        and sway

until all that was pent
is spent

and

washed away.

By Mary E. Lohan 

To the Weary Self - A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

It's not over
although you're tired
and your bones conspire
to retire
      rise

Even when
they cheat you
work furiously to defeat you
refuse to meet you -- even halfway
     rise

There'll come an hour
if you stand and do not sour
when you shall reclaim your power
ten-fold -- I bid you,
    rise.



By Mary E. Lohan 

Sine of Life - A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

Life is a sine curve --
slide and climb,
never constant
never satisfied
never fulfilled
always leading
to a "turn"
that makes you
feel something,
life breathing soft
upon your pores,
fingertips to lips,
prompting sensation
elation --
intoxication
is the end
only to want
to start again
fall over the
edge and die
waiting for
the next tide.

By Mary E. Lohan

Thoughts on the Steps of Butler Library - A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

And you couldn't have known me,
couldn't have loved me
like I thought you did
even though your kiss
was a gift each time
upon my brow

and now,
I think upon those times,
      how much of that rush
was me
reading between the lines
of our affection?

Under this vast sky
of deepest blue
amidst the flocked
cry of starlings
from atop these majestic
columns
I am moved

moved by what
this deep blue sky
this flock of birds
these wispy white clouds
can do to me

and yet,
is it not I
who makes them 'moving'
lest everyone should stop,
gape and sigh
at this night's wonderful gifts

as I debate
whether there was love
and not just lust,
between the sheets
of you and I.

By Mary E. Lohan

Mother - A Poem (from "Four Folded Corners")

She strings me words,
     gifts like pearls,
which I keep tucked away
     for special occasions.

By Mary E. Lohan

What are They ... - A Poem (From "Four Folded Corners")

Photo by Shack in the Swamp Photography

What are they these Rubenesque drifters
that layer, like skin, this stratified sky,
     impartial to none, to above nor below,
but do cry

they that sit upon Heaven's shelf
     that cradle the daystar with their faith
and metamorphose into resplendent pillows
     where retired halos lay

they that melt, blending smooth as cream into dusk
     or fluff, like whipped thick egg whites
to be brushed in masses between the amethyst
     cadmium, lapis splashes of eventide,

can you decide?
 

By Mary E. Lohan

Progress - A poem

Charts,
points of
flux:

     high, low,
     plateau

we plot for
progress

itch for
growth.

By Mary E. Lohan

Nothing is Constant - Poem (From "Two of Cups")

Nothing is constant -
today's strength
is tomorrow's weakness
and the point,
forever shifting.

I have seen storms
that could drown
even you

yet, in my weakest moment
I draw strength
as a sail would
and fly,

if it were not you I'd be gone,
but I cannot just leave,
I will linger as clouds do
before they are swept
or blown away.

By Mary E. Lohan

Our December (1994) (From "Four Folded Corners")

This New York snow
freezes cold
and all you do is pace
and flay,
say whatever comes to tongue
each gutteral flung
from your mouth
like blackened snow
under-
tire,
   
     I lean against a parked car
under fire,
afraid to blow a sigh
into this ice-picked wind
that might sling back

     and yet, my silence
brings a death
worse than dying,

I too
have learned to fall from heights
so quiet.

By Mary E. Lohan

MOMA - A Poem (From "Speaking to the Darkness")

Cezanne - Still Life with Apples

The sun
kindles the sky

I dodge the New
York suits
the anthill scramble
of lunchtime,

pay the speckled lady
in the white, wide lobby
to broach the mazes
of these boxed halls,

the din of school kids
directionless
    spins then falls,

Gauguin - Still Life with Three Puppies

up the aligned
escalators we go,
lovers and others,
like me, alone, stroll

at the top, Marina
Abramovic --
B&W films roll
suspended,

within a few steps
post-war tension

jiggling breasts
one feminine
face, aghast
     upended

mid-scream
     extended --

Picasso's Wives & Lovers

I retreat to spaces
less impeding --
the calm and familiar
floors beneath:

Still Life with Apples,
Cezanne,
stippled, deep landscapes,
Renoir,
plumes of color,
Matisse,
Still Life with Three Pupplies,
Gauguin,
     But
why does Picasso's
Wives and Lovers
sadden me so?

I leave burdened
by their loss
of color, their heavy
lined faces
that have yet
to grieve

Until she bids me
stay --

The Girl Behind 
a Mirror with her
bright gestured
wave

with so much to say

like Christina 
from her World*
reaching, reaching,
     Come back for me...

I cannot leave
     yet
with one still to see,
Roulin**,

a tourist
videotapes
him, spright,
proud,
always a
showman

his beard
blaring from
behind the glass

What a precocious
     fellow:
Always a flirt.


By Mary E. Lohan


*Christina's World - Wyeth
**Portrait of Joseph Roulin - Van Gogh

MOMA - Museum of Modern Art

Halo - A poem (From "Four Folded Corners"

you are not dead
     although that might not seem as bad

four screws

with shaking hands
he drives them
     one by one
     into your skull
building
an erector set
of metal rods

a bone anchored
helmet
so heavy
you are unable to
lie down
without assistance

consider yourself
paralyzed  or
the host
of a tumor
to receive this honor

you don't cry
     not until
he bolts
your head to
the table
slides your body
into an MRI
     so narrow
your elbows
     rub its insides

how do you keep
your sanity
     when its about
      to leave you?

r-e-s-t-r-a-i-n-t

wiggling your toes
     you count and cry
pray you will not
     regurgitate and die

1, 2, 3, 4, 5.....

By Mary E. Lohan

Mary E. Lohan ~ Poetry: LIC (Long Island City), New York - A Poem (2015)

Mary E. Lohan ~ Poetry: LIC (Long Island City), New York - A Poem (2015): It is as it was We move along the suspended track, winding through smokestacks, edifices without proper faces toward the banking towe...

LIC (Long Island City), New York - A Poem (2015)

It is as it was

We move along the suspended
track, winding through
smokestacks, edifices
without proper faces
toward the banking tower
the lone citadel of this
trash-strewn region

I have returned to
the borough of my youth
not out of want
but necessity
as this Barack era
has further stripped
the city of meaningful
work with benefits

It is as it was --
plentitude and barrenness
exchange greetings

I climb the stairs
to the office.

By Mary E. Lohan