Ashlee Peth

see Ashlee's web page on E. E. Cummings

see Ashlee's web links on E. E. Cummings

Assimilation

The fifth grade—
teacher says, find your heritage.
So, I ask my daddy.
A short and quick reply:
Polish and German.

Polish and German.
I don't know what that means.
Is it a sausage, a war, a Nazi?
Dancing polkas and drinking beer to celebrate a marriage?
This is all I have ever known.
What have I done to be Polish and German?

I remember hearing no German,
just the engines of planes as they pass over my rooftop.
I remember no Lutheran service,
just a church filled with dress blues and greens.
I remember no happy Feast of Greenery,
just saying goodbye to my father as he leaves again.

Nothing in Germany fills me with pride
Like my red, white, and blue.
No polka music gives me as much hope
As the sound that begins a baseball game.
No men in Germany will fight for my freedom
Like the men in my family.

Ancestors plowed German and Polish land,
But not me.
I am not German.
I am not Polish.
I am the daughter of one who served for freedom.
I am an American.

Tender Hands

An alarm in the twilight;
the woman wakes and dons the
monotone uniform of her chosen profession.
She leaves in the dark of the night.

Tender, caring hands stroke the brows of those
society has wanted to forget,
those pushed behind the veil of age.
She gives medicine with practiced care,
knowing a smile here, a touch there, keeps so many
from sliding into the abyss.

As dawn approaches, weary, tired, and sore,
she shuffles up the walk to her home.
Inside, those same tender, caring hands caress the faces
of her first loves, gently laying kisses on their cheeks
as they leave for school.
She sinks into her mattress, grateful for a few hours sleep
before she rises again, this time to fulfill her true calling,
her one true passion...
mother.

Daddy

Climbing, pushing, reaching,
screaming, straining, grasping--
All to get to the top,
to win the prize,
to be the best.
All to hear, "I love you,"
instead of the constant droning of re-runs
on an old TV.

The Great Wall

Time
Ages and ages of time
Stretching out as far as the eye can see.
Cold, unforgiving stone made warm by light of day.
Climbing walls, climbing history,
being weighed down by generations of men who fought here,
who died here.
Ancient battles, an ancient people seep into the soul.
The dignity, the strength, rolling hundreds of miles over mountains,
protecting this proud race.
Now all strength is gone,
the shouts of soldiers replaced with the gibberish of tourists,
the dignity of battle replaced with screaming, spoiled children,
the honor of death replaced with the greed for money.
And sadness replaces awe,
this mighty place desecrated, and reduced to an old wall.

Choices

Stay grounded,
Stay focused.
                    I want to fly.
Go to school.
Get a fat job.
                    Then I can fly, then I can soar.
Marry well.
Have a nice family.
                    I had a dream. I wanted to fly.
Buy expensive toys.
Achieve what the world says to achieve.
                    What about what I wanted to achieve?
                    What about wanting to soar?
Retire early.
Reminisce on a front porch, rocking your last years away.
                    Too old to fly, too old to soar.
No more dreams.
So many unfulfilled desires.
So many regrets.
                    Never flying.
                    Never soaring.
                    A waste of life.

Tall, proud, sturdy,
I stand, as I have stood for generations,
in a garden that is my home.
This garden on a hill.

I have seen myriad things in my life:
Children play under my branches,
Elders find rest in my solitude,
Lovers embrace in my peaceful shade.
But tonight, I see anew.

A man came to rest under my arms,
his tears watered my roots.
His cries reached me, touched me,
his pleadings lifting to the heavens.

"Take this cup from me, but not what I will, what you will."

And then the men.
The torches, the glints and flashes of silver in the amber light.
A betrayer's kiss, blood spilled on my ground,
and they were gone.

I wonder in this,
wonder about the man.
What pain could be so great
as to water my roots with his tears?

And then, that new feeling,
men, biting me, biting into me,
men that could not hear my cries
above the chop-chop they made.

They stripped me, stripped me bare,
taking my leaves, my branches, my roots,
my dignity.
Leaving nothing but trunk,
of which they made me twins.

I was lashed together, perfect
to a "t".
and waited, on my side,
in my pain, my shame,
now nothing but bare.

And there he was.
That man, whose tears I knew,
whose shame I understood.
He was awash in his own blood,
and brambles circled his scalp.

They placed me on his back,
and I heard his groan as
I increased his pain.
Then us two, both naked, both shamed,
continued the Via Dolarosa.

Through the scorn of the crowd we plunged,
now finally arriving.
I felt no more pain, save his cries,
when steel drove his hands and feet.

And we two were one.
And we stood there.
And his suffering was greater than mine,
for He felt all pain.

And a tear fell from heaven.
"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"
The sky rumbled, the curtain tore.
"It is finished."

Oh, what an honor to be,
The Savior of the World nailed to me.

A single pebble
is nothing next to
the mighty mountain.

Yet you know both the same.

I am nothing but a speck in the universe,
nothing next to all Your wonders.

And yet, you love me more.

Thank you.