Poems by Jodi M. Kucera

The wind is beneath me, and I've taken flight,
As I gently fall from the sky.

Side to side I begin to sway, all around me only gray.
Thick like heavy snow, blanketing the ground below.

Each of us free at last,
From the suffering at their hands.

Each one of our stories would leave you aghast,
But they need to be told as to not repeat the past.

That morning was cold and one I'll never forget.
It was the day the ash began to fall, and we would learn their intent.

Our family torn asunder, as the train rolled in like thunder.
Where they were taking us, I did not know, and time just seemed to slow.

When the doors swung open, the sun was bright; it was hard to take in the sight.
The fire was stoked and flames filled the sky, the fear within began to rise.

The air was that of fetid breath, the wretched smell of death.

We were counted and stripped;
the humiliation something I cannot depict.

They took the crown upon my head,
while tears welled up that I dare not shed.

Tattooed and forced to live a life of servitude.

The apogee a march of death,
To a chamber to steal my breath.

To be known by a number and no longer a name,
All because hate fanned the flame.

You look at me and only see the cracks,
Fractured, like a piece of glass.

Some are shallow and straight,
Created by silently carrying so much weight.

Others are round and splayed like stars,
Words, a solar system of scars.

Some are deep and cut to my core,
From trials I thought I could no longer endure.

Some hold tightly to splintering shards that still cut,
A painful reminder every time they are touched.

Others are jagged and worn,
And some are occupied with scorn.

Some of them are lessons,
Regretfully brought on by my own transgressions.

All of them create an intricate mosaic of intertwined lines,
Reminders of the things I’ve survived.

A prismatic display of beauty and strength;
Though I am fractured, I did not break.

There's a shelf where many bottles sit,
Each with names in perfectly written print.

My fingers danced among the bottles as I walked the length of the shelf,
When I stumbled upon my name and a man who introduced himself.

A caretaker, carefully tending to each bottle with profound emotion in his eyes,
Told me he was the collector of all the tears that have ever been cried.

He took my bottle from the shelf and clutched it to his chest.
He said, "I collected these in moments that were your worst and your best."

He opened the lid and began to pull them out one by one
And held them gently in the cradle of his palm.

He began to explain what each tear represents
And the memories they held as he took a moment to reflect.

He said, "These tears started my collection at the beginning of your life,"
And with tenderness in his voice he said, "Though I knew many more would be cried.

"These tears were joyous and filled with celebration at accomplishments you made,
While these ones were filled with uncertainty while you quietly hoped and prayed.

"These tears were laden in wordless groans in the struggles that took you to your knees,
But even in those moments, I heard your heart's every plea.

"These tears, well these ones are many, and I held you close as I collected them carefully,
These tears are heavy with grief when loved ones closed their eyes and awoke in eternity.

"You see, though many have been cried, I have collected them all,
For each of them matter to me, no matter how big or how small.

"So I keep them safely on my shelf as I know there are more to collect,
Until the day there is no sorrow and no more tears to be wept."

I've been hunted by the enemy and held my breath,
I've listened to it playing all around me, the melody of death.

Silence is the prelude, but it won't last long.
That's when you know things are about to go wrong.

As the sound of gunfire begins to play,
I know it's meant for me; if you will, a sort of serenade

To draw me out of the shadows and into the fight,
But I already have the enemy in sight.

The percussion joins in with explosions going off all around,
Showing no signs of backing down.

The ground tremors with the humming of the tanks,
The .90-millimeter main guns don't care about rank.

I've dodged bullets that were dancing all around.
Some weren't as lucky, and they fell to the ground.

The cries of young soldiers are not shadowed by the sounds of war;
They are the sounds that haunt you forevermore.

They all played in sync in this melodic song.
Some of us left, but our memories have never gone.

A sound or a movement is all it takes,
And I'm right back there in that God-forsaken place.

So please take a moment and try to understand.
Soldiers never come back the same man.

We're haunted by the melody that plays in our minds,
Because the song never changes; it only rewinds.