COMICS
View the glass case,
of doughnuts and baguettes.
Behind the cigarettes,
of my father’s front store,
stood a newsstand,
with two comic types.
English slim ones
Sunny Story booklets.
American ones piled high.
Captain America on front side.
His round shield, weighing a ton.
Red stripes & stars,
blazing like a sun.
Simple paper pictures
entertain Dad’s sons.
America so far away,
would protect everyone.
One summer’s night,
my brothers walked
to a neighbour’s home.
In their dark room
A celluloid strip
on a turning wheel.
A light shining on the wall,
we saw grenadiers tall
marching past a bus.
Shouting with surprise
we made a fuss.
Being so entertained
We turned the wheel
again and again
Tastes and times change.
Years pass away.
Sadly we say goodbye
to comic sales
in cafes and stores.
Farewell comics
pictures side by side.
Even the classics
read with such pride.
Yesterday is gone.
“Comics wonder”
no longer here.
No simple playground
or carousels
or turn-style fairs.
Then new changes arrived.
Those comic characters
managed to survive.
Cartoonists changed their designs
and made the comic characters
smile and speak.
New techniques
Stereoscopic visions, videos,
ETV home shows
Very virtual reality on lit-up screens.
Where a hero wakes
breathes and inspires.
Moves his limbs
somersaults, jumps up
springs alive,
takes a bow.
His kin shout and sing
And happily join in
Ben Krengel
***************************************************************************
ICU – TRUE HEROES OF RAMBAM
A capsule of pain and fear − or an airlock
Waiting for travellers to pass through to a place they’re loath to enter?
Are there those among us who care enough to bring them back?
Jew, Muslim, Christian, some brought low by illness,
Or worse, by bullet, knife or car,
Victims of those weaned on hatred,
Bullied by brutes bereft of − bankrupt of − compassion.
Across the way in a darkened room,
A man struggles to bring his pulse down and his blood pressure up.
A woman whose teary eyes still hold the captured images of visitors,
Lies dying of the illness of old age, an oxygen feed clamped firmly
To her fine Semitic face.
Down the line of serried beds a man cries out incoherently −
It is a high-pitched supplication of dread, pain and pleading. Is he talking to God?
Monitors, the Argus-eyed guardians for the physicians,
Blink codes and messages to those trained to read them.
Through all this, doctors and nursing staff
Meander among the beds performing minor miracles,
Like a team of lifeguards constantly on duty
Ready to pluck a sinking life from the jaws of eternity.
They fight the battle and mostly win,
But there is no triumphant parade with flags waving,
And boastful thumbs stuck in lapels.
There is no time for that − a new patient is wheeled in from OR.
There are lines to set and veins to pierce,
And all focus is on the never-ending stream of humanity
On the road to recovery, if not survival.
.
Rodney Mazinter