David Lukashok

lukashokk@ig.com.br

I'm an American living in Brazil for 30 yrs. I've written about 100 and
something poems in English, my native language, submitted about two dozen,
had none accepted. I speak Portuguese as my second languge (not brilliantly
but I get by) and am beginning to study Spanish for reasons I won't go into
now. By chance or karma, I came across you on the Internet and hope you
won't mind if I send you 3 poems for your opinion.

PUERTO DE LOS VIEJOS (en Portañol)

Yo voy al Puerto de los Viejos,
esperar la travesía final,
donde los navíos encuentron
la marea sombría en el canal.

En los últimos momentos queria
un abrigo del mundo cruel
en una provincia perdida,
pintada con suave pincel.

Una luna clara y blanca,
y -- todas las noches -- llena;
y yo voy' andar por la playa
contigo n'esta vida amena.

Y la brisa del mar recita
este canto muy antiguo:
Yo soy el puerto de los viejos,
el puerto de los sueños perdidos.


GORK

The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.
The night is coming;
this could be Jurassic Park.
     The night is coming;
     the day was short.
     I'm just a ship
     in any port.
The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.

The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.
The night is coming;
I feel as small as a quark.
     The night is coming;
     the day was short.
     My home is my castle,
     but it ain't no fort.
The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.

The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.
The night is coming;
I need a dog who can bark.
     The night is coming;
     the day was short.
     The frogs, they are gorking:
     GORK GORK GORK.
The night is coming;
I'm all alone in the dark.
GORK.


HALF LIGHT, HALF DARK

Play me a song on your harp --
   half light, half dark.

Play me a song of love and fate,
   of passion I still reciprocate,

a melody, sincere and sad,
   the kind they used to play, my lad.

Play me a song, and when you sing
   perhaps a tear or two will sting.

perhaps for the memory of a place,
   perhaps for the vision of a face...

Sing in a language long forgot,
   or in a language that still is not

and ear and heart will listen until
   the notes fade away and the night is still,

and the silent song that then ensues
   tells its own story. Don't refuse.

Play me a song, lad, on your harp --
   half light, half dark.

IF ONLY THERE WERE PEACE

I've always loved the patter
of a rain in spring and fall;
it really doesn't matter
the month -- I love them all.
I love to see the sprinkling
of colors in the spring,
and the red and yellow wrinkling
of leaves that autumns bring.
I stand in awe and wonder
of an open starry sky
and love to hear the thunder
of a storm that's coming nigh --
and feel as one who's spellbound
when I come back to the sea
after wand'ring ages inland,
and I see it suddenly.
No there is no end of wonders;
I could rave without surcease;
but then I'd have to stop and add:
"If only there were peace!"

I could celebrate the cities,
the villages and towns,
and sing in simple ditties
of all that here abounds,
of the hillsides that are sprinkled
with a thousand yellow lights
where so often I have mingled
to pass my mortal nights.
I could tell of love's enchantments
and all they've meant to me
and the faces I have worshipped
as God's own poetry,
and you'll know I've only hinted
at the wonders of this earth,
the sadness and the splendor,
the rubbish and the worth!
Oh yes, I'd sing its praises
though "short is summer's lease" --
but then I'd have to stop and add:
"If only there were peace!"


OMAGH

Oh Irish poets,
where's your song
to tell about
this monstrous wrong?
The Evil One
has won again.
When will these troubles
have their end?
There is no island
on this earth
as green and fair,
so full of worth:
he looked around,
the Evil One,
so many things
still to be done,
so many tears
still to be shed,
so many dear ones
to be dead,
so many mothers
still to mourn,
and souls to die
before they're born.
And then he saw
what he would seek:
some souls as small
as they were weak,
easy marks
to infiltrate,
whose only joy
it was to hate.
And then the Evil One
came down
like a black cloud
on Omagh-town.
It was a lovely
Saturday,
a time to shop,
to work, to play,
a time to love,
a time to sigh,
but not a time
to bleed and die.
The summer never was
so green
with hopes of peace
so brightly seen.
But zombies walked
the bustling street
with hearts of hate
and matching feet
whose ears were deaf
to all appeal
except the Devil's
hideous deal...

And now there's
  nothing left
but mourn
the living dead,
the dead unborn,
to go about
the old routine,
try and forget
the ugly scene;
habits of old
come back so fast --
for some
the holocaust is past.

Oh Irish poets,
can you sing
about so villainous
  a thing
as happened
on a Saturday
in Omagh-town --
what could you say?
The Evil One
has won again.
When will these troubles
have their end?
He infiltrates
the hearts of those
like weeds in soil
where nothing grows...
in Oklahoma,
in Iraque,
East Africa,
a mountain shack,
Bosnia,
the Holy Land,
can we begin
to understand?
Who is the enemy?
the friend?
When will
these troubles
have an end?


JERUSALEM

And all my deepest prayers, were they ignored?
to make the Holy City of the Lord,
Jerusalem, a place of unity,
of peace, and not the symbol of the sword?

And those who hate, they say they hate for love,
and pray like you and me to one above,
and what He answers them I do not know,
or if He answers both the hawk and dove.

And in the anguish of our hate and fear,
life and death are mirrored in each tear,
and men kill one another for mere stone,
and like that stone can neither feel nor hear.

And what will happen next no one can say:
Some draw a line and vow "It's here I'll stay!"
Some say "This stone is yours, this stone in mine."
Some say "Thou shalt not kill -- but martyrs may."

Some live in darkness that cannot be known;
some believe that history's something they can own;
some guard salvation in a holy shrine --
to which the key is theirs, and theirs alone.

Yet if you cannot learn to live and share,
what have you learned, O Pilgrim, for your care?
For when tomorrow comes you'll realize
that yesterday you had no time to spare.

And then I saw a vision like the sun,
a golden city, and I asked which one:
"This is the City of Eternal Peace,
Jerusalem. See what the Lord hath done?"