Selected Poems by Mitchell Waldman

poems2go (March 2016):


Scarlet Leaf Review (March 2016):


The Machinery -- A Literary Collection (March 2016):


The Bond Street Review (March 2016):


Writing Raw (January 2016):

A Heart Song for You


I Will Never Know Their Names

box car

Awaiting the Wolves




The Piker Press:

June 2012:

Street of Dreams

May 2012:

I Will Never Know Their Names

March 2012:


Moronic Ox Literary and Cultural Journal (November 2011):

Blue Ships Magazine (June 2011):
 Moronic Ox Literary and Cultural Journal:

Greatest Lakes Review:
Sea Dream (September, 2010)

Snow  (June, 2010)    
box car  (May, 2010)  

First Literary Review (May 2010):


The Poet's Haven:         
The Sunrise and You  (also appeared in Mobius)



And check out these publications, including some of my poetry:  
63 Channels (2010 Summer issue)  

America Remembered (Virgogray Press)


                                                                                                              More poems...



A man called
(I think it was a man)
he said:
Happy Holocaust you
hook nosed bloodsucking
Jew worm.
All I could think to say
was Hi right back.
And he replied:
May your children's children
rot in the cold earth like you
you slimy carcass carrion
you diseased treachorous vermin.
You have a nice day too, I said,
and hung up the phone gently
refreshed by such a meaningful communication
with an intelligent
sensitive member of
our genus species time.
Yes dear God, he's ours
and yours forever.
Let the wind whip a chill
down heaven's spine.

(previously appeared in Innisfree and Beyond Lament: Poets of the World Bearing Witness to the Holocaust (Northwestern University Press, 1998))


You Are

You are the sunshine
when I open my eyes
and I snuggle up beside you
never wanting to let go.
You are my heat when I’m cold
my strength when I’m weak
my voice when I’m mute.
You are the lavender scent of
a new spring day
the breeze that cools
on a hot summer day.

And you are what I need
every day
for the rest of my life.
I love you, Diana.



When there ain't
nowhere to run
where do you run?
Into arms
you never left --
warm arms
dark arms.
You begin to lean
and they're gone
never been
just needle tracks
footprints in the dust
in the road
leading to a swamp
hounds hot on your trail
where do you run
come across shacks
knocking on doors
rubbing your arms in the chill night
nobody answers the knocks
the shadows behind which
someone has arms
if only they'd open.


The Sky Today

It's always like this
the day after the Horror:
sky endless rolling blue
not a cloud in sight
breeze slight
fluttering oak leaves and maple
birds chirping unseen, all around

but yesterday
my father's mother--
light snatched from her eyes--
was led by a steel gray robot
to her last shower

and yesterday
Sylvia Plath turned on the gas

and yesterday
a girl I knew
who hid behind a Cheshire grin
did her Sylvia imitation
smile sparkling
before dissolving into air.

So how do I explain today
the sun high
in a cloudless sky
birds chirping
as if nothing's come to pass
before this day
this sky?
How do I explain the sky's deception
turning my insides out
making me want to touch
to feel
to dance
when beneath its cloak of blue
the unseen faces lie hidden

(originally appeared in Poetpourri)


 farewell to a friend

it was raining on the pavement as
he shaved it off
the room was cold
cutting hair by hair
the fuzzy balls floating to the floor
cutting Samson's strength
left naked to the blade
a clean start
and an end
the stripped hairs
were tears
coating the floor
clogging the sink
they fell and fell

air breathing through
sun warming a new face
broiling the cement
soaking up the rain --
a hair or two remained.

The Cold Swing

Swinging on a cold swing
the moon an icy cuticle
through bare branches
the cold air night
a rebirth of blemish-free childhood
sky so clear
like long ago Illinois nights
cold cutting
the moon a sickle sweeping
striking ears cheeks limbs
but honest--
you could drive for miles and miles
through frigid rows of faceless cornstalks
it was somehow simpler there then
every immediate challenge immediate
a whitewashed cross of hardwood
hurdled easily
without strain
legs still yearning
for the next soaring flight--
and now
now straining muscles fail against bulging burdens
fog and clouds the normal color of New York skies
except for this moment:
the moon hanging crystal clear
the muscles babyborn new
dark cornfields surround you again
and you soar
swinging on a cold swing. 

(originally appeared in The Advocate)  




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