Greta at the UN, by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I’m a fountain of blood in the shape of a girl – Björk

She has left her Scandinavian bed,
her pillow filled with dream feathers.
Her braid is woven with oceans, earth,
skies and trees; it crackles with electricity.
Her eyes are pieces of ice that will not melt,
she is the forest fire in the shape   of a girl.

Greta at the UN (still from video).jpg

pill of purgatory, by Tricia Marcella Cimera

you’ll bite into the cyanide pill,
thinking you beat the crime.
when you awaken, officer,
you’ll be a child in a diaper
filled with shit in a hot room,
wailing for your mother
who never comes and
you’ll know why.  every time
your border buddies pass
you by, another dirty kid,
you’ll know why.  you’ll have
no choice; you’re not god
or            the president.

Write Now, by Tricia Marcella Cimera

If it’s wrong, write.

If it’s right, write.

If it’s big and belligerent
and beats down the weak,
write.  Or — it may be you,
you may need
to exorcise that
inside of you.  So write.

If it’s little or helpless,
bleeding as it weeps,
staring at you, write.
You don’t want its blood
on your knowing hands.
Help it.


dear factory boss, by Tricia Marcella Cimera

boss, try to be less
of what you are
try to be someone who
admits wrong   cap in hand
try to call someone else
right       for a change
let one of the machines
you love so much
pound you down  into dust
like it does the rest of us
then rise
from the factory floor
to face your workers
cry for forgiveness
boss, try to be more

then       we’ll stone you
with rocks
we’ve been gathering
for years   and years

The Good Father by Tricia Marcella Cimera

for Vladimir J. Cimera


My father left this world ten years ago.

He died when the trees were blooming

in late April.  What a world this is now.

The Americans, the Russians, the

Syrians (poor Syrians).  Jesus, all of it.

If my father came back, he’d be surprised

that I should be shocked by any of it.

He let me read The Painted Bird, the

poetry of Tadeusz Różewicz when I was a

kid, he told me all about it, the fuckery,

the terribleness of people, things they do.

The things we do.  He loved books and

gave that to me.  He showed me how to

love this world, despite it all.  God, he was

a good father.

fields of amber by Tricia Marcella Cimera

like every peasant before me

in a despot world

I stand in my silent field

pull my broad-brimmed hat low

search the sky.

my dog whines beside me

while the grasses          wave.

like every peasant before me

I know which way the wind blows

and who stands in its iron path.

Election II by Tricia Marcella Cimera

A poet is one who tries to leave and one who cannot leave, Tadeusz Rózewicz


Poets, stop eating one another!

It’s words that feed us

not each other’s beating hearts.

This new emperor with his

greasy bloated dreams

doesn’t even see us

gathering at his feet.

Sharpen your pens on

this smooth waiting stone.

Poets, we’re about to be fat.


Tricia Marcella Cimera is a Midwestern poet with a worldview.

Election by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I’m Afraid of Americans, David Bowie


A literary magazine recently

published a poem

about a presidential candidate

that started a debate.

Some poets liked it but

some got furious,

shouted with disgust.

They ground that poem

into dust.  Then they

ground that poet

into blood

& bits.


When poets start cutting

each other’s throats —


has won.

My Hand by Tricia Marcella Cimera

One morning I woke up to find my hand

had become the Hand of God; I was overjoyed.

I reached into the sky and grabbed a plane

on a very bad mission and set it down in a field.

No, you must not do that, I said to the pilot.  I

had to say it several more times, sternly, with

other planes —  cars and trucks too.  I plucked

and crushed the guns out of the tiny hands of some

soldiers.  No, don’t shoot guns, I said.  Don’t hurt

your fellow humans.  Don’t kill babies.  Stop it.

I had to do it again, again and again with soldiers

and civilians alike throughout the long and terrible

day.  So much so that I got angry and my Hand

began clenching, clenching but I managed to stop

myself from killing them all — the fucking fools,

the idiots, the whole goddamned world — before

the sun had set.  I prayed to have my hand back

and the next day it was.            ……….All I can do now

is shake my fist.

Horses by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I see Poet Ashraf F.

and think

on Poet A. Akhmatova.

Life under Regime.

Then and Now.

Brutalizers keep crawling

on their low

bellies through the

dirty mud

of Time.

But       Poems

gallop like strong

Horses carrying

messages, their

hooves tearing up

the brown mud.


the ones who wrote

the Poems, can’t

hold them back,

pull their manes,

rein them in.

They run           and run. . .

Dunblane by Tricia Marcella Cimera

O little children of Dunblane

it’s been almost twenty years

since your parents ran

screaming your names.

There was March frost

upon the icy lane,

there was a man with a gun


in Dunblane.

O little children, your names

are on a terrible list

that through the years,

in different places,

has grown and grown —

insane, insane.




The victims of the 1996 Dunblane Primary School massacre in Dunblane, Scotland were:  Victoria Clydesdale, aged 5; Emma Crozier, aged 5; Melissa Currie, aged 5; Charlotte Dunn, aged 5; Kevin Hasell, aged 5; Ross Irvine, aged 5; David Kerr, aged 5; Mhairi McBeath, aged 5; Brett McKinnon, aged 6; Abigail McLennan, aged 5; Emily Morton, aged 5; Sophie North, aged 5; John Petrie, aged 5; Joanna Ross, aged 5; Hannah Scott, aged 5; Megan Turner,aged 5; Teacher Gwenne Mayor, 45.

Plum Tree by Tricia Marcella Cimera

the wan gold moon
shining coldly down
says nothing.

the nine black koi
swimming in their pond
say nothing.

the pink blossoms that
fall in april like tears
say nothing.

they pass no Judgements
on the child suicide
hanging from a low branch

of the japanese plum tree.



Note:  “Last year, suicide was the leading cause of death for Japanese children between the ages of 10 and 19….Other overarching cultural trends, like hikikomori, a form of social withdrawal, augment the problem further.”  The Wilson Quarterly, Stephanie Lu, October 22, 2015


The Swear Poem by Tricia Marcella Cimera

I swear —

I want only to write poetry

about the beauty of the world,

the goodness of its people,

the gentle light of peace,

the kind mercy given

to the small and the weak,

and how the hand of god

reaches down and saves us

from ourselves, again and again,

oh bless us.

But.  Our leaders, our generals,

our presidents, our priests,

our fellow human beings with a

certain grinding power, and the

turn-a blind-eye, glad it’s not me

ones without, but just as bad,


won’t let me —


those Fucking Motherfuckers.

Words — Worte by Tricia Marcella Cimera

Ugly Words —


Entartete Kunst:  Degenerate Art

Munich 1937 art exhibit vilifying modern art and artists


Arbeit Macht Frie:  Work Makes You Free

Sign above gates of several concentration camps


Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer:  One People, One Empire, One Leader

Nazi political slogan


Beautiful Words —


Zeitgeist:  The ideas prevalent in a period and place, particularly

as expressed in literature, philosophy, and religion.


Sehnsucht:   Thoughts and feelings about all facets of life that are

unfinished or imperfect, paired with a yearning for ideal alternative



Weltschmerz: Sadness felt at the imperfect state of the world, especially

at the behavior of human beings.


Words have power.

People have power.

In every country of the world there exists misuse and abuse of Words and People.


We need Poets and Pacifists —

the Götterdämmerung is coming.


*Definitions of Beautiful Words taken from Wikipedia and the Encarta Dictionary

Time is a river without banks by Tricia Marcella Cimera

My Czech father, dead for eight years,

shows up in my dream early this morning.

He touches my hand, tells me to remember

the Village of Lidice,

the Prague Spring,

the Velvet Revolution.

I say I only recall a little about this history.

He raises his eyebrows at me, the way

he did in life, and suggests I look it up.

It’s the past, I yawn in my dream, long over.

My father reminds me that Marc Chagall said

Time is a river without banks

and these things are happening right now,

in different places, events churning up the water,

the water flowing out into the world —

Wake up!

And his voice is so insistent, I open my eyes,

open them wide.  What I see is a river

rushing all around my bed.


Anne Frank’s Window by Tricia Marcella Cimera

(for Anne Frank)

She’s in a place of many windows,

letting in all the light of the universe.

She can lean out and look down

upon all of us, at any time.

She can see the remnants of Auschwitz.

At the house on Prinsengracht 263,

she can see her plaid diary

kept carefully under glass.

She can see her attic room.

She can see school-children

crowding together, their footsteps

echoing on the old wooden floors.

She can hear the teachers asking,

What has Anne taught us?

and hears the many answers.

She’s in a place of no countries,

no policies, no fear, no time.

She sees no difference between

the children of Afghanistan or Syria.

But she sees the boot-prints on their backs,

just as well as you or I can.

She calls down to us, What has changed?

but only hears the wind blowing

through the chestnut trees.

The dark-eyed girl closes her window.