Leroy Carter

© Leroy Carter 2005

Midsummer Days

Midsummer days; Warm black snow falls

Gently landing on the shrunken bodies of cold kills

Dark flakes alight on open eyes; shattered face of an old mother

The Alsatian-ripped mouth accuses the world of murder

No life penetrates the wire; Jews and guards all dead

The latter morally; Former Sons of David slowly gassed

Humane conventions bear no weight; Madness and fear rule

Twisted caricatures of life wait to die, officers fulfil their role

Beneath watch towers, bones poke through earth; dead frail

Cold red earth blankets corpses, soil drowns out shrill

Wailing of the souls; Jerusalem heralds a migration.

Out of death and misery a flower grows; In spite of oppression.

Deadly Silence

More imagined than seen,

More sensed than felt,

More a whisper than a shout,

Silent death dealt.

With a force and a passion,

Honed through past years,

A violent, brutal mind,

Culminates in others tears.

A master of her craft,

The spirit flits by,

Sun becomes shade,

Light becomes dark.

Intent darkens quickly,

Silk for steel,

The shuriken fly,

And the damned feel.

Swift stroke of the sword,

Amidst a strangled cry,

The thirst is unquenched,

Many more must die.

With the clash of steel,

Blood spouts forth,

The severed head falls,

The ninja moves onward,

Beware one and all.

Sweet Lord, I Grow Weary

The smell of the meat is tormenting my senses.

I must not think of this juicy calf but merely the fish gruel God has been kind enough to place in front of us each day.

Brother Christian says I must turn the meat continuously whilst giving praise to God to ensure that the Abbots table is blessed once more.

Does, perchance, Brother Christian know how long it takes to cook a whole cow?

I think not…. Monks know of only prayer and words, not the tedious act of roasting a large animal over a raging inferno whilst your head aches and your life sweats away. And for what?........The Lord’s thanks and a bowl of sour fish gruel.

The desperate lepers and orphan children who beg at the gates would turn their dirty noses up at such rank fare, perhaps on reflection, not the lepers as none of them have any noses to turn up.

My God, this heat is most taxing on the body and soul.

This is my punishment as passed down by the Bishop.

One day a novice monk the next a scullery whelp.

The Abbot said it is evil to think below the stomach; I shall have to work in this kitchen until I have atoned for my sin.

Sweet Lord, I grow weary.

Thankfully Brother Marcel has not the power or inclination to hear my blasphemous thoughts or I would be roasting over the flames of hell.

I am going to work until the day I die just for admittance to heaven.

Pray heaven is not full of Bishops and Abbots for I fear I would prefer hell; being flailed and whipped by Lucifer and his demonic minions holds more appeal than cooking for the Masters.

My head is aching from the relentless heat and my heart is heavy.

I must have water.

AAARRRGGGHHH!!!!

Dear God what is that pain in my breast?

Oh Merciful God forgive my blasphemy and self indulgence, cease my suffering!

I am falling, gods, I cannot stand.

Brother Marcel looks concerned as he stoops over my body.

He vexes over who should turn the Abbots roast, no doubt.

He moves his lips but no words flow. I am shouting at him but my lips do not move. What is wrong, what is he doing?

Stop it! Stop making the sign of the cross over my body.

Where am I?

Where is the Abbey kitchen and Brother Marcel?

The pain in my breast is no more.

Am I dead?

Is this the heaven that the monks and the bible tell of?

Speak Satan, damn you.

What trickery or witchcraft goes on?

I must keep calm lest the pain in my heart returns.

This can be no place in the Abbey, of that I am sure.

My surroundings are most curious, most perplexing.

My eyes deceive me surely; the room is so white it is as if it were fashioned from virgin snow.

This cannot be, the tables are made of solid silver.

Even Kings do not dine as such.

Another aspect of this beguiling place troubles me.

Why do the candles and flames not act as nature intends?

The light is too uniform and bright and they cast little shadow.

They flicker or gutter not as I pass.

My passing is strange also.

I see my feet and the ground but yet have no sensation of walking, 'tis as if I glide on ice.

Aahh! Voices herald help perchance. Perhaps they are Nobles….. Ye Gods, women! They know nothing of Heaven and Hell or the sins of blasphemy!

Do you mock me God?

Why are they dressed as white nuns, I have heard of no such thing.

Perhaps if the monks were here they could enlighten me, but alas these nuns will have to suffice.

Why can they not hear me?

I shout till my lungs ache and yet they respond not.

Damn you nuns, look at me. Can you not see my suffering?

 It is no good, I am cursed, for they neither see nor hear me.

My hand passes through them like smoke yet they start not.

Is this my penance for blasphemy, Oh Lord?

 Answer me damn you! Do you hear me? Speak to me!