Just click: The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

Greetings from the author,
Charles L. Cingolani

On September 11
when it happened
we had to
think about
our thin brick walls
that kept standing
here
in the heartland
and
only our tears
would not stop
falling.

Butler Pennsylvania XXVII

(September 21)

The news
has reached
us
that
New York
buildings
have started
to get up
early
again
just to feel
the first sunlight
on their faces
and down along
their
sides.

Butler Pennsylvania XXVIII

(September 30)

Late one night
in infamous September
the Court House clock
failed
to strike the hour
and seconds passed
before
a raven
glided down
into the Square
where I, still awaiting
the sound,
watched it circle
and alight upon
a chilled monument
of granite
at eye level
to face me
intently
before lifting off for
the tower turret
whence it had come,
and look down at me
now
as if in triumph.

from: The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

And the figures on the porches
fathers, daughters and sons
who had returned from war
let forgetting happen
as did mothers
who sat in wicker chairs
beside windows
where faded banners hung
with golden stars.

They could only sit there
silent
on glider swings
or those on chains,
some seeking calm
in rocking chairs
mothers had used
to rock them to sleep in
while around them
men spoke of
Marne, Argonne or Verdun.

Now, if at all,
language came
in broken strands
with long silent gaps between,
where those who heard
would mine for meanings.
But nothing formed.
Only the back and forth
of swings on chains, grinding
on hooks overhead.

In time one would rise,
wander out on warped boards
to stare out in fright
at oaks or pines
that turned slowly then
into tender pillars
standing guard
over that safe plot,
my earth, my space,
my hearth.

And the others?
Was it a bell sounding
at Franklin and North
or the light flowing
up the alley
behind Main Street
that brought them back--
or was it
the hammering
at the forging mill
or the sound of trains
at night
making order
in the yards
out beyond the hill?

quote:

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Originally posted by djnic:
Haunting! Very moving. It is also haunting to think of the innocent people dying day by day as the attacks on Afhganistan continue.

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How many mothers
walked down
the sandstone steps
from our hospital
overlooking town
with babies in their arms
singing
silent songs of joy
for what they held
for the sun to see
and all of us unseen
who welcomed
their replenishing-
while not far from there,
were it not for trees,
a black thread of cars
could be seen
inching up the hill
for our quiet field
with the gray
weathering stones.

from:The Butler Pennsylvania Poems http://geocities.com/clcing/

Butlerites write
letters of condolence
when someone dies,
brings food to
back doors
and tramp through
matted grass
in graveyards
looking for friends,
some few of whom
lodged
in pillared manses,
but mostly
others
who lived
in clapboard houses
that still stand
at street corners
like churches.

Greetings to my readers in Egypt and wishing you a good and peaceful New Year.
Charles Cingolani

She would come every day
to visit her son
who had been sent to
the County Prison
for murder.

I am only doing
what a mother does,
she said.

Then she would dream
she saw him
coming home
from school
with books
under his arm
waving to her
at her kitchen
window.

from: The Butler Pennsylvania Poems
click: http://geocities.com/clcing/

Normandy

She was standing
on the porch
that day in June
watching her youngest
coming up the steps
and across the lawn
when it happened
on the sand
where her oldest
lay now
clawing his fingers
deep into the beach
at Omaha
and thought of her
last.

quote:

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Originally posted by cingolani_c:
Butler Pennsylvania 47

Normandy

She was standing
on the porch
that day in June
watching her youngest
coming up the steps
and across the lawn
when it happened
on the sand
where her oldest
lay now
clawing his fingers
deep into the beach
at Omaha
and thought of her
last.

from: The Butler Pennsylvania Poems

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And is this related to visiting Egypt, living in Egypt, or classifieds?

I have read all your poems. Your poetry reminded me on my childhood. Especially the poem "Oak and Pearl.

Thank you Charles.

There is a rusty bridge
over a creek
not far from home
that lies there
in autumn
watching leaves fall
on shallow water
and wait,
before drifting slowly
down around
the bend.