#SomethingDifferent # 14 – Another The Chocolate Lady poem! – Chocolate Ladies Book Review Blog

Somewhere deep in my # LetsDiscuss2020 #DiscussionSunday post about my mode and impulse posting, I asked if anyone thought I might have fun posting my poetry here on my blog. Well, a couple of people were interested, and I appreciate that. As for the rest of you, you are welcome simply click or scroll down if you’re not a poetry person (I promise, I won’t offend you in the slightest)!

Also … recently there was a National Poetry Day somewhere, and it looks like I missed it. Well, better late than never, right?

It was written in 2000!

As you know, I live in Israel, where a call is mandatory for everyone (boys and girls). I wrote this poem when my sister’s son went out into the army.

Part I – Departure

His handbag is very full
with carefully folded
khaki mixed emotions,
and wrinkled fears
placed with caution
back to parents shelves.

Mismatched pairs
free brewery
and used macho
are stuffed, with full force
to narrow spaces
where has just been removed forever
and reluctantly hung up
his shrunken old suit
freshly washed youth.

Part II. – Oath

Marching khaki rows
starch accuracy;
imitation of many
abandoned toy figures
that now gathers
hand dust.
The joking clown smiles
cleaned of fresh faces
in boring solemn portraits of fidelity.
Weapons that were once wrapped in liquid waves
engage in synchronized greetings.

Then, like the last echoes
their promise falls stiffly
on hard asphalt
uniforms err and scream
nodding in remembrance
packed in cardboard boxes
in which building blocks are stored
their collective youth.

Part III – His mother

With green eyes
as his military suit
she collects still life
moments in sagging piles.

She caresses paper hair curls
golden buttons of his dress uniform,
and shadows of frozen tears
shining like his polished weapon.

Semi-smile pages like a curve
like a beret on a severed head
falls between her weak fingers
with echoes of his laughter
and discarded jokes.

His telegraph calls
filled with his warranty holes
just add to the awkward pile
that falls behind the shelves
her fragile desires.

Standing at the door
in his abandoned room,
she sighed
against a solid frame.
The strings of his guitar are tilted
vibrate her discord.

© Davida Chazan, 2000. Part I of this poem, along with two other poems, was first published in the (now obsolete) online journal Quasar Review. The other two parts have ever been released.

Photo: Curtsy from Pixabay: eye

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