The Old Camp

On the old farm on top of the hill,
overgrown, neglected and abandoned,
nature repossessing what once was her own,
'midst the wildly growing flowers,
where I once loved Edith,
both of us children,
filled with passion and desire,
on some hot, humid night,
with the crickets chirping
and the world all ablaze with beauty,
and light and ecstasy,
heavy breath and heart pounding,
and dreams, God, what dreams,
the locket I gave her jingling, jingling...
does she still have the locket, my picture?
the whispering of the wind,
with her voice - gently, gently,
- nothing ever like this,
nothing ever like this;
and my children:
Dad, Dad, you look lost,
what are you thinking about?
- oh, nothing, nothing,
just someone I knew
long, long ago.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz

Yesteryears

Sometimes I dream of yesteryears,
Forgotten joys, forgotten tears,
When youth's fresh flush
Boldened my heart,
First love's sweet joy gave me a start,
And in its bloom I felt life's force,
Tasted the fountain at its source.

Where are they now, those splendid days,
When color reigned, not dark and grays,
And all was vivid, fresh and bright,
My world, so sunny, filled with light.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz

Yesteryears

Sometimes I dream of yesteryears,
Forgotten joys, forgotten tears,
When youth's fresh flush
Boldened my heart,
First love's sweet joy gave me a start,
And in its bloom I felt life's force,
Tasted the fountain at its source.

Where are they now, those splendid days,
When color reigned, not dark and grays,
And all was vivid, fresh and bright,
My world, so sunny, filled with light.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz

Enigma

It's but the twist of nature's irony,
That casts men's molds in vari-colored sizes,
In all the shapes and forms and peculiarities
Which one surmises.

Me thinks, at times, I meet a man,
Whose nature seems to me so well defined,
But upon closer scrutiny,
His very being seems a different kind.

Men are like icebergs,
A fraction on the top is visible and clear,
But underneath the waterline there is so much
That to the naked eye does not appear.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz

Israel

Lift your heads my tired children,
Cast your eyes upon the skies,
There's a strange and new beginning
Answering your age-old sighs.

There's a land of milk and honey
Waiting at the rainbow's bend
To receive the weary travelers
Coming to their journey's end.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2005 Alfred Charasz

Wandering Jew

I am the wandering Jew,
The son of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
Through the burning deserts I have traveled,
With parched lips,
From Ur to Haran into Canaan,
I have waded through the blood of my brethren
In my temple in Jerusalem,
And seen the Romans defile
My most holy of holies - my Torah,
I lived through the inquisition of Spain
And the pogroms of Russia,
I have smelled the burning flesh of my children
In the ovens of Buchenwald and Auschwitz,
I have heard the old Chasid
In his Kaftan stained crimson by German bayonets
Utter his death cry "Shema Isroel",
But I prayed to Jehovah
And dreamt of green pastures and quiet streams,
And God has heard my prayers
And led me to a land of milk and honey,
Where a man walks erect and keeps his head high.
As I sit in my garden under the weeping willows,
Where the gentle evening breeze
Carries the intoxicating fragrance
Of sweet flowers to my nostrils,
And I listen to the innocent laughter of my children,
I thank my Lord, and yet,
In the innermost recesses of my soul,
Where one dares not to look too often,
I ask myself,
When shall I have to leave all this,
For I am the wandering Jew.

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2003 Alfred Charasz

Pale Flower

My sweet pale flower,
So young and vibrant in the spring,
Your scent and colors
Did delight my very soul,
Why have you wilted early,
Long before the fall,
And all my loving care
Has been for naught,
Wish I could give
My life and breath to you,
To see you in full bloom again,
For beauty wilted early on
Does brake my heart......

Alfred Charasz
Copyright 2004 Alfred Charasz