UMBILICAL CORD

There is a memory before the year when I was born,
There is a dream beyond the night I fall to sleep
There is a land distant the land outside my door
This is the ancient tie to Lietuva I keep.

Far from this century of din and aimless haste
Into the bosom of an ancient sea
The seabirds plunge where amber stones lie deep
Within the swells of Baltic memory

Forests of fir and shaded glades of oak reply
With intense perfume of wild strawberry 
Filling the azure air under the sky
Still resonant with ancient melodies.

Though miles have come between and days pass by
The bond was made before my birth.
The tie to Lietuva remains...
As strong as gravity to earth.


* * *

"Children, today we will have a lesson on beauty appreciation..."

This is a masterpiece of song,
And this a major work of art. This poem
By Milton is his best, so let's all learn 
This poem by heart."

     Within the space of my own soul
     Are yearnings that unanswered lie,
     To seek my singular masterpiece
     In winter's wind or summer's sky.


MORE LESSONS FOR CONFORMITY

"Can you name something more beautiful than a butterfly?"
"A rock?"
"What's the matter, idiot, anyone can tell
That a butterfly is way more beautiful than a rock!"
"Oh, excuse me, guess I just didn't understand the question".

How deceptive... death... birth.
Different sides of the same coin.
Essentially unchanged for the turn-about.
Like two dots on the same axis
With existence as the line between.


LOVESONG

Soft as your breast
Is tender night...... and dark
As ebony the colour of your eyes...
Limitless stars in every pattern, measure and design
Float gently o'er the hemisphere.
The moon, a golden globe of permanence
Reflects your fickle love.
I'll sleep upon the lap of night and dream
Of cruelty and you.


VIETNAM

Ere any man risk dying for a cause
To carry justice like a bloody flag
And give full well a score of years and more
To this bright nation in a far off land,
Bridging angry thoughts and diverse politics
With valorous, fatal deeds,

Each one of us must take the war to heart
So all may bleed if any bleed at all.
A personal fray fought on a private front,
Each heart must listen to their conscience call.
 
Before allegiance can be asked
To power or state,
The nation owes one debt to man.
For he who grants his life to fate
Must be assured we'll understand.


GENESIS

When I was Eve a hundred million years ago
You laughed
That same laugh,
Tolerant, and amused, delighted I was Woman
Pleased at my frailties, yet confused by each,
You bit into a peach and smiled
That same smile. Grey eyes caressing 
The primeval world, and me.
Oh, I was jubilant to be alive that newborn day!
Still...I remember
One faint darkening cloud 
On the horizon
That first afternoon.


ON GETTING OLDER

I haven't found that I could turn
My eyes unto the sun an instant more today, this year
As was when I was young.

Nor do I feel the love I lost is easier to forget,
My tears fall down as they did then, with passionate regret.

In having lived some million moments past my childhood's edge
The difference to me years supply won't quite fill up this page.


ELEGY

When unremarkably we die
And from the dawn of that sun's rising
Hidden from all eyes we sleep.
Our crystal tears insensate of the night,
Our wasted promise and lost mind, helpless to further gain,
Our hands gone numb and useless like the mouth
That once was sweet and talked of many dreams.
Our curving path has met itself again
And coming once around is not more finished 
Than it is begun.

Our death is not the end
For death is longer and more constant than a life 

As for myself, I'll greet death when he comes
And hold his hand and walk a while with him
Into the shadows where there is no sun.
And cordially we'll visit like old friends,
I know familiar beings in his realm 
The souls of those I've loved and who loved me.
We'll reunite and roam the universe,
At dizzying heights we'll scale the stars
And leave our footprints on the wind, our breath
The mist on every flower,
We'll dance inside earth's violent hurricanes and frolic
With the unabated storm. Then gentle
Like a summer cloud we'll drift 
Into the jaws of dreaming sharks.

     Come walk with me a mile of dreams
     Between the icicles of doom,
     Devoid of sadness face the sun
     That never rises and that never sets...

Prepare my last and lonely bed,
For I am come
To claim my final resting place,
My right inheritance
My life now finally complete,
The circle done.


WISDOM

"Young man," I asked, "what do you know of love?"
So he replied, in idioms and sighs, in countless words
(And many fancy lies) the why, the how of it, 
The joy, the sorrow.
Yet unconvinced, I asked another still.
I said, "Old man, what do you know of love?"
But he just answered. "It's too soon to tell,
But if you wish, ask me again. Tomorrow."


THE PATTERN

The heart is constant in its travels,
The roadway old and well traversed,
Familiar and predictable.
No solitary turn remains but has
Been walked before, no bend or curve
But has been rambled over
That "once upon a time"
And with a fairy lover.


PREMONITION

I thought that I had barred the door
Securely, as I hurried in, 
And that the flaws of time and tide
Were prisoners on the other side.

I quite remember feeling glad
To be no part of storm or sea,
To be no cell of claw or wing.
Sequestered. Safe from everything...

Insensate to the glare and gloom
Beyond the stronghold of my room,
Above the tear, beyond the curse,
Indifferent to the universe.

Yet even then, I was aware
A silhouette hovering by the stair,
One vague an momentary cloud
No roof, nor heart, could shutter out...


ALZHEIMER

I must have been away too soon, too long,
To gaze with plastic lamentation at years
Gone by like frost of glimmered morning,
Evanescent, luminously pale.

And where, brave rider, are your epaulets?
Held fast and rusty under weight of years?
You've only once remembered, insincerely,
With breakfast tea and sausage.

Where are they now,
My children of another time?
Decaying shadows warp my mirrored doom
Bringing faint promises from a cruel world. 
I see them.
Still courting tomorrow from steelwalled cities,
Trading her this, for that,
My flagellating heretics
Of a doomed age. 
My sacrificial victims of these ultimate times.
Why does it strike me as so ironic?
Maybe there's something left of me in them,
But I can't say. I've been away too long.


LOGIC 

So much a realist have I become
That if you even breathe the word "idealism" to me
I'll unbelieving slam the door and leave, 
To breathe night's air and walk under true stars.

Cherish the thing you are, but be secure
In knowing that it is a wisp of smoke,
Like atmosphere... or gossamer 
Fainter than a dream.

Do not declare to me, "Oh, I am definitely this."
As if convinced that you're an imprint brief and clear
And finished, to the last degree.

Each one is what he is just for a breath,
The second one lies in repose
He blends and flows into another self,
Again without finality or hope of ever being done
With change or growth.
As each man meets another on the way
There are no certainties, each is in flux.

(Because of this, when questioned yesterday
If I loved you
I did not lie when I said yes.
Whereas today I'd answer "no" and be
Less fickle to myself than you.
Who, though you swear undying love,
Sound hypocritical instead of true.)


SHE WOKE UP DEAD ONE MORNING

She woke up dead one morning
Reflected, then began
A most laborious inquiry 
Into the state of man.
     She followed babes from labor
     Just barely from the womb
     About their journey's windings
     Into the common tomb.
She visited the heroes
The wealthy and devout.
Though many were rushed to their graves
Yet not a one rushed out.
     The monuments and castles
     The houses and the lands,
     Were left to waste or to decay
     Or fell to other hands.
And of a love eternal
And of a heart bereft
Eventually remained no trace,
Not e'en a tear was left.
     And of all great and various things
     That cheered the man alive,
     Though priceless while the body lived,
     Were worthless when he died.
The only constant thing she found
The only truth to see:
The price of life is suffering.
With one reward.
To Be.


STARSHIPS

We are all prisoners of our mortal bones
Reluctant captives of our temporal minds
For good or evil we are thus confined,
Allotted just those days from birth till death.
Within these boundaries we're free to roam
And wander back and forth between the years,
Along the seas, the hemispheres, along
The distance of our given universe...

We chafe... earth will not hold us long.
For we shall emigrate, cloud-floating
Through the nether galaxies, the searing suns...
We will be nomads of the teeming stars.

When life is spent
We'll nurse the breast of centuries,
And tremble at the legends of our past.


EXPERIENCE

I have loved others, ere I was aware
Of your sweet mouth, the blueness of your eyes,
The pliant smoothness of your parted hair.
(As first I walked, before my heart could fly.)

And I have lain in arms, all languorous with love,
With careless kisses kept the night away.
As in another life, another time
I scratched and cried before I learned to play.

And every woman that has loved before
Shall recognize the common truth I say,
That, though the night be sweet, itself.
Its purpose is to complement the day.

As every lover I have claimed as mine.
Has only served to make you more divine.


THE ODD COUPLE

spirit of the spirit, of the spirit of the mind 
with reluctant bodies we play games 
weaving bewildering lies
building bridges, walls, constructing  facades 
of what we represent.
i, you,
you, i,
with faithful intent we play, so onwards day
upon day, upon dayuponday, uponnight,
striving for precise honesty, our layered egos
peel and fall till we crouch, left
in primitive array, weaponless,
emphatic
this is me
and that is you.
but we're not over yet, 
so we love, beyond the love,
beyondthelove,beyondthewords. we smile.
we chafe, we struggle, we recall we once felt more,
remembered more, and tasted more 
in cartoon-colored fantasies. uneasy in the mind
we drift, while we live by what we live, by
whatweusedtomean. 

still when the dark arrives, when winter comes,
we seek close comforts for the pain, and shelter from 
connubial fears, ultimately different, but occasionally confined...
we merge,
...then wonder why.


ARGUMENT

I slammed the door and stormed away last night
Driving to see a friend, I said.
Again I felt betrayed.
I was serenely suicidal and contentedly insane
With easy grief and passionate control...
You used to be my all, you know, my everything.
You used to share each thought, each feeling
Every mood. Each day.
What acid ate our love and left us flinging words,
Like saucers at a fray?
Though we return to the same house and room
And must repair the break, alleviate the pain,
Or once more fall away... the strongest rope must give,
Eventually,
Under perpetual strain.


HOPELESS LOVE

An idiot savant once said
That unrequited love is like
An ocean pounding on a cliff.
I guess that's true, you're like my cliff.
So like that ocean I could wear you down...in time.
But, still, I'd rather flow into a bay which welcomes me.
So since I cannot love you, I'll withdraw.
And leave you at low tide,
With just a stranded eel or two... for company.


SEASHORE

I shall forget the city for the shore
Forsaking bricks and stones for an edifice
Of salty sand and clay and colored shells.
For scent of windswept harbors and 
The sea-gulls cry.
I'll trade these asphalt streets
For quiet paths 
Into the fairyland of trees and long green grass,
Where bright white clouds float by like sailing ships and
Hours pass wherein none other footstep falls,
Save mine...
And where the womb that birthed
The universe, shall cradle me,
Like a contented child.


OLD AGE

Where are you my children?
I've named you a star,
And set you a table with jar upon jar
Of quinces and pineapples, lemongrass, rue,
Where are you my children?
I'm waiting for you.

Where are you my children?
Daylight has fled, the doors
That were opened of old now stand shut.
My furnishings fade in the withering light
Where are you my children?
I'm scared of the night.

Where are you my children?
The lilies have grown,
The clumps need dividing
Since last you were home,
One apple tree blooms,
While the other brings rot,
Where are you my children?
Have I been forgot?


WHO KILLED THE CHILDREN

**In 1995, 5,285 youths under 19 died as result of gunshot 
wounds in the United States, compared to 153 in Canada, 109 in 
France, 19 in Britain and none in Japan, according to statistics 
on ABC's "Nightline." (And now once more the world is stunned 
the families numbed, communities stand shocked.)


"Who killed the children?" 
People asked, "Who drew the deadly gun?"
And witnesses to terror spoke
As if they were benumbed
"The killer was another child!
Not even grown enough to vote,
This child of loving parents, or of those 
Who didn't care, was of our school, our street,
And our community. An ordinary kid he was, 
Who laughed and cried, and played at games
Like normal children."  (But who studied rage
At home, knew hate as friend.
From infancy had lessons drilled that
Guns meant power, weapons were a right.
"Guns don't shoot people," he was told,
"Bad people do!" and daddy wouldn't lie,
He liked his weapons as did Uncle too.
And though their guns were hidden, he knew where
To get the armory if he had need
To solve a problem in heroic style.
This kid learned well and did his best to please
All the adults who taught him guns were cool.

"Who saw the children die?" detectives asked,
"Who heard the threats, who saw the glaze
Of hatred or despair in those young eyes?"
(Who still appear too innocent 
to do this heinous crime)
A group of youngsters stood by solemnly
Struck by the hideous smell of guts and blood 
And cruel reality, no, not cartoons these were,
Nor video games. Dying was real,
And 'reset' didn't work. Oh, yes, some knew
And heard the threatening words, they'd seen 
Torment and pain in their young friend 
Heard secrets too, but didn't comprehend, didn't believe.
"Friends just don't rat on friends, do they?" they softly asked,
"His silly threats?
He often talked like that,
He was my friend. He was real nice.
But when we saw the other children fall, shot dead, 
We thought it was a play."

"Who made eternal rest their shroud?"
The mourners sobbed in earnest loss.
"It wasn't us!" the movies wept, "Nor me," howled the t.v.
"Nor us!" the music makers rapped, "We just reflect a sick society,
We fill a need to blow off steam, it's just pretend.
We can't command or teach. One must be twisted
At the start, genetically, emotionally. The parents 
Are accountable, they were neglectful, didn't care
They just weren't there for him, they should've
Supervised the junk he watched, our garbage music and
Our gruesome shows. Our mindless killing
Airing day by day, has no aim to affect
Nor power to change the child who's whole and loved.
You really can't blame us. Besides there is no proof!"

"Who'll dig their grave?" 
The parents cried in terror and in tears,
"Who'll bury their small bones?"
"Not I, "the judge replied, 
"I'm swamped with technicalities
Of trials and appeals.
Killings are little crimes,
And given a few years the meanest criminal
Can join society again,
And learn to function amiably as the best.
While rehabilitation fails, prisons fill up.
We have more murderers than cells.
What can I do?  I'm just a civil servant like the rest.
All evil deeds must wait
For the apocalypse and a more righteous judge.
And if you grieve, let me explain that
Laws are made for criminals who must provide us work.
I and the lawyers and our kin
Will see that jails are fun
And punishments are but a joke,
This takes much money, energy and time, 
Excuse me, now I've got to run and try
An interesting case of inmates wanting
Playboy channel on t.v."

"Who'll bring them flowers?"
Asked psychiatrists. "We're sure that
Violent death has some adverse effects. 
And if there are no lilies at their tomb
It would be more grave cause for maladjusted acts.
Impulsive children can't be traumatized by facts!
We can't have certainties like black and white
Like right and wrong, like good and evil acts!
For, well, we can't be sure, and everything
Is relative, obscure.
Morality can be interpreted too many ways. And so
Why teach the child accountability?
And why should blame or dull responsibility ensue
To pander to society's civil needs. For 
When the child does violence, experts agree
That generally it is the mother's fault 
Rarely the father's too. 
And we're the only cure. Trust in authorities
Like us, you can't go wrong that way, we're sure." 

"Who'll be the parson?"
Wailed the waiting crowd.
"Who'll give a eulogy of heartfelt grief?"
"Well, why not me?" our culture asked,
"Some families teach no great respect
For the Creator nor give thanks to God.
While I've been childhood's moral guide for years
I served them like a priest and gave
'Communion' too, through playthings, saw they had no lack
But were raised greedy, never satisfied
Of need for newer objects, toys for every whim.
Deep empathy and tolerance can't compare
To new seductive games for youthful minds 
Things teach to disconnect! People don't care. 
Possessions take the place of families
Who aren't there, or barely there, 
Who cannot hug a child except on quality time.
To buy that giant t.v. both parents work.
Each child must be amused and entertained,
Taught immorality by jaded minds.
From earliest cartoons to horror tales
Culture shapes masses, and the children learn
The lessons that we're teaching now. They'll see
You have a problem... violence on t.v.
Can vent that angry need! We'll show you how 
To do the deed with step by step instructions!
(Ask your friends. Now everybody knows you have
The right to have things your own way). No need to wait
For things you want, you have the right... right now.
Just act. Just do it. Now!"

"Who'll be the mourners?"
Asked the city's poor, "Who'll cry?
We might've done it, but get someone else.
We're behind rent. It's sad and all
But we have problems too. So don't you see we can't
Do anything. We're poor, unschooled, and unemployed
And though we may attempt to end this violence, we're powerless. 
Hey, we're all victims too. We need our arsenals of guns 
For self-defense. Our streets blaze up in war  
Riots, and crime, so though we'd like to help
Cry for us too. It's all your fault, you know
Now that you've doomed us all to drugs to failure and despair.
Don't be surprised if gunshots fill the air
And children hide. If you were poor you'd understand.
Look at these houses, windows broke, and who's gonna fix that?
It's not my fault, I didn't break 'em. 
And it's noon, my soaps are on, I gotta go."

"Who'll be the pallbearers?"
Snarled the sullen gang decked in bandannas and in baggy garb,
Their concealed weapons over hardened hearts.
"Yeah, streets are violent," they casually remarked,
"But, that's the way it is.
Don't dis me, man, or else I'll chill on ya!
Our gang is family, you're the enemy.
Oh, yeah sure, we do drugs, and steal and deal.
But hey, that's not our fault.
We need the hip-hop clothes, the fancy cars  
To be in style, be young and cool and tough,
And money's short, and schools are dumb,
And, like, work sucks, you know. My uncle says 
That crime pays better, brings more fame. It's cool!
After we pay respects, we'll do what we all gotta do,
We'll get revenge!" 

"Who'll sing the hymns?"
The teachers asked. The neighbors answered back,
"We could, but we have yards to mow, grass to keep green,
Yeah, it's too bad, today there's rotten kids,
What can we do? Why can't the parents or society take charge?
It's not our business to teach tolerance, schools do that.
Give cheerful words of friendship to a child
That's not our own? Why should we care? (I mind my own kids,
And you should mind yours.) Besides, you're not our kind,
Your kids are trouble. I can tell. They're not like mine.
My kids would never do a crime. I taught them that, for heaven's sake, 
Not like you other folk. And that's a shame.
I did my best. If you and all the rest weren't here
No violence could happen in my school, or neighborhood, or home.
And that's the truth!"

The crowds were quiet now
They'd had their say.
And everything was like before,
Except the loss and pain. 
When will the killing stop?
When will we learn?
Get used to grief, America,  
There will be many more 
Young lives cut short 
Before they understand
What common miracle existence is, 
The wondrous possibilities
Inside a span of sacred, mortal life.
Though guns proliferate and 
Politicians drift to doubtful theories that
Will prompt review, and further studies; spawning
'Til minds numb, the endless talk-show trivia on radio, 
While statesmen tend to discourse, children die.
Like cattle slaughtered in the streets, they fall.
In schools, and homes, by guns in small soft hands
They fall... in epidemic bloody death, they fall. The cause?
Not one.
Who'll toll the bells for them... for us ?

"We'll toll the bells "
The angels said, "for every innocent who dies."
Since all who grieve will ask 'What can I do?'
Words now can wait, while action makes amends.
We're charged, each one of us, to stop
These acts of senseless death!
To rear each human child as future's heir
First...you must deeply care to mentor, and to aid  
And for each hurt your constant love's the cure;
The monitor and help for any lack in this society.
Wise parenting will call for effort from us ALL in kind.
We MUST aid those who raise posterity!

Who'll raise the headstone? Take the blame? 
Who killed the children?
Maybe you and I. 

Ina Kontvainytė (aka Angelina Thomas) was born in Šiauliai, Lithuania in 1941. Her parents left Lithuania when she was only 3, fleeing just days before they were to be banished to Siberia. After some years in Germany and Belgium they arrived in America in 1950. She has since lived in various cities, Omaha, Los Angeles, and San Francisco among many others. Now she lives in the Spokane, Washington area. Kontvainytė started writing poetry when she was about 11. Her first poems were published at 15. "I've destroyed most of my poems as I tend to write feelings and impressions in a personal vein. I have difficulty writing 'modern' poetry, and mine tends to be more classically crafted," she says. Having only "some college" as education, she has found that travel and experience are truly the best teachers. Enrolled, through marriage, in an Indian tribe she lives and works with a family of American Indians. Currently divorced, she has a wonderful son who is attending law school. She is also in the process of adopting an Indian boy she has raised. She is self-employed in sales and manufacture of craft items and travels constantly. She is a voracious reader, computer-hobbyist, talented at various crafts, and is working on a novel at this time. Kontvainytė has visited Lithuania several times, and even been privileged to meet Mrs. Landsbergis personally. She still has many relatives in Lithuania.