Unknowns, Paris, 1985
Despite gridlock, shoppers
brave the narrow streets
to join a line waiting
to buy chickens freshly killed.
Birds stacked in stinking
wood cages plead against
stronger palates for pardons.
Patisseries galore, bagels available.
Outside a falafel house, a bent
old man reads his prayers
through a magnifying glass.
In front of a deli bombed by terrorists
a father helps his son
piss in the gutter.
In a gallery, a painting of a grain field,
intersecting gray clouds rolling
appeals but much too pricey.
At the Unknown Jewish Martyr Memorial
a ceremony is in progress, drums
and bugles, gendarmes saluting.
We visit the Slaughtered
and Deported site, walk down
stairs into a square hole
reminiscent of a dungeon or prison.
An offshoot brings to mind a cell row.
Another section houses
an Eternal Flame.
The maze-like walls are filled
with photos of victims and quotes
from people like Sartre.
The silence accuses the powerful
who sucked the silence
is golden cliché.
This acute quiet mutes whispers,
footsteps and camera noise.
Teenage girls take photos
of each other in fashion
model poses, braids
of sunny, wheat tassels.
No one reprimands
or takes offense for
they are so skeletal they fit
here under the gray
intersecting clouds
approaching.
Valley Forge
Mouth harps, flutes, whistles,
playing cards from France
they forgot to put
naked women on.
Pressed paper dice,
sometimes ivory.
No matter.
We owe each other
our land and savings
even the grinning teeth
we are lying through.
Marbles, pretty fired clay,
remind no one of colors
on mother’s
calico cat.
They just click
like flintlocks that failed.
None of these is allowed
after dark but you can hear
the buzzer work.
The musket ball pounded flat,
two holes pricked for a string
to loop a finger on each hand.
Twist tightly, pull, release
spin a whirring calm.
Dream an empty ammo pouch;
the ball to save
your combat life a toy.
No nightmare.
No trade for this.
This lovely sleep.
About Thomas M. McDade
Thomas M. McDade is a former plumbing industry computer programmer / analyst residing in Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.
He is married, no kids, no pets.
He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.
McDade did two tours of duty in the U. S. Navy, serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center and at sea on the USS Mullinnix DD-944 and USS Miller DE/FF 1091.
Despite gridlock, shoppers
brave the narrow streets
to join a line waiting
to buy chickens freshly killed.
Birds stacked in stinking
wood cages plead against
stronger palates for pardons.
Patisseries galore, bagels available.
Outside a falafel house, a bent
old man reads his prayers
through a magnifying glass.
In front of a deli bombed by terrorists
a father helps his son
piss in the gutter.
In a gallery, a painting of a grain field,
intersecting gray clouds rolling
appeals but much too pricey.
At the Unknown Jewish Martyr Memorial
a ceremony is in progress, drums
and bugles, gendarmes saluting.
We visit the Slaughtered
and Deported site, walk down
stairs into a square hole
reminiscent of a dungeon or prison.
An offshoot brings to mind a cell row.
Another section houses
an Eternal Flame.
The maze-like walls are filled
with photos of victims and quotes
from people like Sartre.
The silence accuses the powerful
who sucked the silence
is golden cliché.
This acute quiet mutes whispers,
footsteps and camera noise.
Teenage girls take photos
of each other in fashion
model poses, braids
of sunny, wheat tassels.
No one reprimands
or takes offense for
they are so skeletal they fit
here under the gray
intersecting clouds
approaching.
Valley Forge
Mouth harps, flutes, whistles,
playing cards from France
they forgot to put
naked women on.
Pressed paper dice,
sometimes ivory.
No matter.
We owe each other
our land and savings
even the grinning teeth
we are lying through.
Marbles, pretty fired clay,
remind no one of colors
on mother’s
calico cat.
They just click
like flintlocks that failed.
None of these is allowed
after dark but you can hear
the buzzer work.
The musket ball pounded flat,
two holes pricked for a string
to loop a finger on each hand.
Twist tightly, pull, release
spin a whirring calm.
Dream an empty ammo pouch;
the ball to save
your combat life a toy.
No nightmare.
No trade for this.
This lovely sleep.
About Thomas M. McDade
Thomas M. McDade is a former plumbing industry computer programmer / analyst residing in Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.
He is married, no kids, no pets.
He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.
McDade did two tours of duty in the U. S. Navy, serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training Center and at sea on the USS Mullinnix DD-944 and USS Miller DE/FF 1091.