The picture that bothers me

On my desktop, I’ve been in the habit of saving thousands of pictures from the internet.  I have loaded them into a screensaver so that each one dissolves into the next, after a few seconds.  Most of them have been collected because they elicit some kind of emotional response from the viewer, or at least from me.

They may be beautiful, awe inspiring, humorous, sexy, cute, etc.

One is particularly horrific, but for some reason I saved it, and have left it on there.  Out of the thousands of images in this screensaver, it seems to show up like a bad penny when I have left the computer running for any length of time.

It is apparently from World War Two, and I remember reading some of the background behind it.

Fuzzy, and in black & white, we are shown a large pit piled with dozens of dead bodies.  On the rim of the pit kneels a man in a shabby overcoat, hands tied behind his back.  An SS Officer stands over him and holds a gun to his head.  The most disturbing things for me about this image?  The man’s face at the moment of his death.  You would expect a countenance contorted with fear, but what you see is him looking at the camera with a blank expression, seeming to ask “Why?” Then there is the cold and sneering face of his executioner that reminds us of what we, as a species, are capable of.

Someone had to have taken that picture, and that leads to another disturbing thought.  Why was it taken?  As a trophy?  As a proof of body count?  As a warning?  In those days, there were no cellphones, so it couldn’t have been taken covertly.

Why have I kept it?  If it was through prurience, please forgive me.  But, I do not think so.  I was not searching for something of this nature, and it shocked me on first viewing.  I keep it as a reminder of our baser instincts, and of the need to be personally more kind to those around us.  I have seen a soul about to be lost, and the emptiness within its eyes.

The Seventh stairway

Furtive and troubling, the rustling of things,
Imagined, perhaps, in the dark.
And close now, the flapping of leathery wings,
And the hounds are beginning to bark.

Some thing keeps them at bay, at least for the while,
As I gather my breath near the top
Of the seventh of stairways, to the narrowest aisle.
I dare not consider to stop.

I know not the agent that’s let me go free
From the poisonous pits down below.
Perhaps entertainment, for somebody’s glee-
Is the hope I’m beginning to know.

There was a faint glow on the steps further up,
But now it is bleeding away.
The guttural growls are without interrupt,
And the bats are denying the day.

How much life I have left in these limbs to go on
Is in doubt, as I climb once again.
To such dizzying heights, trying to make it to dawn,
And the Order of everyday men.

With a desperate run up the last of the stairs,
There’s a light I see glowing once more.
Through a portal there’s flowing the sweetest of airs,
But a Presence is guarding the door.

Its radiant blackness, its absence of eyes,
Its telepathy shrivels the spirit.
Its figure of nearly impossible size
Says that doom is upon those who near it.

“Ah, me!” did I cry, to a nebulous Savior
That I always had held in such doubt.
My faithlessness; all of my wretched behavior,
Had brought this misfortune about.

Wake me up!  Wake me up!  Let me out!


Image credit to:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/arthakker/8720100528

abstinence is more fun

me and me buddy
we are twenty one
we have freckles like Alfred E. Neuman
we are atop a kids’ slide
we climbed the long long long ladder
with the knurled steel steps
it’s a double we are excited
we grip the railings stand up
look almost straight down
upon the gleaming tin
heat waves rise from it
we see at the bottom through clouds
perfect miniature villages and farmland
we turn toward each other eyes wide
i’ll race you we say
and down we go
helter skelter
Godzilla and Rodan
god, we are so high

me and me little brother
inside a mile long china shop
locked in and vacant
it’s darkling outside
all the walls ceiling floors
are just cabinets and drawers
we cry a little we wanna go home
strange knocking sounds strange sweeping sounds
a grotesque shadow moves rapidly around
floor ceiling walls
it scares us before we even know what it is
we try the drawers
we open cabinets, trash the china
find the cabinet has a back door
Narnia? or escape?
we go through, feet first
we’re in another long room, empty concrete, one candle
at its end a door with sunlight and green plants
we look back through the glass cabinet
and there’s the face
black robed black hat
slowly sweeping
it is the Season of the Witch.