Until the Wind Blows Again to Frankfurt

I wear a cross of red fury broken.
No Messerschmitt roar can ever drown out,
Nor songs of over all and praise spoken,
This blitz terror wailing in my cold heart.
Random ack-ack has found its mark no doubt;
On tragic stage, the Nibelungen part.

An eagle never again taken nest,
No martyr’s wreath on Brandenburg to pass,
I had a dream before my fiery rest,
To hail just one more dawn on growing grass,
To work, or walk, or waltz, of jackboots freed,
No care where the father’s footsteps lead,
No epics more to curse my wretched creed -
A cause for which so many nations bleed.

If ever again my name is token
Of bold and brazen goose steps beating ground,
And zeppelin parades on earth now broken,
(Forgotten bones beneath some Norman mound)
Know the current carried me against my will.
No honor or Teutonic glory may
Grant eternal peace, nor make my soul still.
Memory barred, then let lips of truth say:

Hanukkah candles shall not sing my praise.
Beneath this foreign soil there is no rest,
But wandering until the end of days,
And pain pillowed against an iron breast.
Until the wind blows again to Frankfurt,
Bringing fair gods to redress my hurt,
With olive branch, the vanguard point I’ll roam,
Till wings of doves shall bear me swiftly home.

 ~ Daniel F Mitchell

A hideous clamor of abuse,
A hot kettle of fish sort of spat
With no possibility of truce,
A war head-to-head, cat against cat.

And I, having a stake in the brawl,
An earnest wish to end the debate,
Howled forth my fiercest tom caterwaul,
In hopes one side would capitulate.

~ Daniel F Mitchell

Shame on all you damned old men,
Reigning totalitarians,
Who herd the sheep into a pen
To feast on vegetarians. 

You spread your lies like poison spores,
Empowering all your wretched whores
To lick your boots submissively,
And champion human misery.

You gather glowing lives to drown,
Forcing all who smile to frown,
Cracking down on stalwart cheer,
Binding tongues up tight with fear.

You stomp the life from every flower,
Extending power another hour,
To taint all sweet, and make it sour.
From the very hint of bliss you cower.

Yet, this late in your evil game,
What’s the purpose of your breath?
When all below await your death,
What then is your final aim?

When young wolves steal away your fame,
When innocent children curse your name,
When common folk dare call you knave,
And earnestly piss upon your grave,

When your vile existence finds an end,
And worms and maggots call you friend,
When your flesh is gone without a trace,
How then shall you save your face?

~ Daniel F Mitchell