Poetry

By Albert Schlaht
 

Ipatiev: Place of Special Purpose
 
I see blood on the cellar floor,
bullet holes in the wall;
a cry,
'mama, mama,'
as a girl lays upon her side,
stretching forth to reach
a body limp on a chair.
Another body in another chair,
slouches---
bullet hole in its temple.
'Mama, mama,'
cries another girl,
attempting to cover her bloody body,
but there are too many bullets,
too many holes to conceal.
She also stretches to reach the chair,
only to quickly withdraw to pat her dress.
A boy on the floor by a chair,
moans.
Two other girls cry, 'mama.'
They glance at their little brother
and reach for their mother, 'mama.'
Four others lay before the wall,
strangers to most,
friends to the girls and boy.
Bolshevik bayonets pierce bodies,
rifle butts crash into skulls.
A gun is placed to the ear of the boy---
trigger pulled.
'Mama,' all four sisters cry,
reaching out arms.
I, also cry, "mama.
Papa.
Maria.
Tatiana.
Olga.
Anastasia.
Alexei."
The bodies vanish,
one after another,
sisters bellowing, 'mama,'
the boy moaning,
mama and papa silent.
 
 
All is Fair in War
 
Did the maddened Praetor
dip his knife into the poison,
but fail to stab his emperor?
Nay, I say.
 
Do you think the Viking
waited for the priest to drop his bible
before he smote him across the nape?
Nay, I say.
 
Believe the Grand Inquisitor
pray to his God for forgiveness
after torturing Cathar villagers?
Nay, I say.
 
Did the Castilian grenadier
think twice about launching his bombs
into the sleeping French camp?
Nay, I say.
 
Doubt the NKVD agent
disobeyed orders to
execute the German kulak?
Nay, I say.
 
You think too, I, your loyal consort,
could restrain himself from squeezing
such an exquisitely thin neck?
Nay, I say.

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Albert resides in the Rocky Mountains of western Montana where he enjoys hiking and fishing the many creeks and writing poetry. He has recently completed his first manuscript of poems.