Poems by: David Louis Firestone Feinberg

AS STOLID SOLDIERS OFF TO WAR


As stolid soldiers off to war
March silently the years —
Forever ready to record
The regimen of tears.

And who can call them from their fight?
And who can send them back?
Not one will pale before his plight —
Nor halt his vain attack.


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I WRITE TO YOU MY OLDEST FRIEND
I write to You my oldest friend —
Although Your address haven’t got —
And so — my letter — where to send?
How know I if received or not?
Expect — regardless — post returned
To sender — here — in earthly jail —
Or might not be reply — if — earned —
Arrive — then — by celestial mail?


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COME FREQUENTLY IN DREAM THE DEAD

Come frequently in dream the dead —

To wander Now as if they Were —

Surprising not — though — resurrect —

Ignition light of sleep occur;



But when the morning — strange they seem —

Of empire other land their ilk —

And by the sunrise fly their dream —

As bird or bee or thread of silk.

FIRESTONE FEINBERG

FIRESTONE FEINBERG 

David Firestone, age 60, was born in New York and has lived here all his life.  he is the father of two grown children.  A retired music teacher, Mr 

FEINBERG 

has spent a lifetime in the arts: music, painting, and poetry.  he is a poet, a painter, and also musician. He is a living wonder of art. His poetry comes from the depth of the mind. Often he has written about his own experience, although some inspiration arises from his imagination — as he thinks about life and society.  His mind is always alive with artistic and creative ideas.  He has a nice and innocent nature, and a heartfelt way of expressing his feelings. We feel proud to publish his poems in this newspaper.(Jatinder Aulakh, Email: poetaulakh@gmail.com)

I AM SICK OF THINKING
I am sick of thinking.


About is a cave —


Older,


Colder


Than stolid star — blinking —


Winking at sold slave;


A bolder


Stone would to save


Soldier


Sinking —
  








I REMEMBER YOUR QUEER STORY ABOUT CURTAINS


I remember your queer story about curtains —
But I don’t know why it has stayed in my mind.
Maybe it’s like something you happen to find
In some closet you might open now and then —
Something — you-are — suddenly — here. Again.
And — for no particular reason. Defined
It a place and time long-ago. Designed
So as to be vague — veiled; certainly no friend.


Yet neither dread enemy this dusty
Memento from a When — I’d not have had —
Yet still stab barely as then dull and pointless knife.
Now drawn now brandished now ready: MIND YOU! rusty
Gut bare-laid brain — here — pain... still-in-vain... still sad...
Still uncertain still gush purple blood life —






THE TRUTH IS THAT THERE IS NOTHING TO SAY


The truth is that there is nothing to say.
Regardless, we say. Silence frightens us.
Quiet itself is disquieting. Thus
We steel ourselves against it — pretense play.
The truth is that we scare ourselves away.
Much better that than face the emptiness
That lays itself upon our consciousness
Like winds upon the desert sand-dunes lay.


When by ourselves we can do many things
Like write a letter or read a book or
Sing our favorite song or fall fast-asleep.
When among others, conversation brings
Commercial-costume cast-iron armor 
Marketplace-masquerade mist blanket deep.