Through the Glaze

Through the framed glaze,

False landscape.

Inside looking out.


Deceived bird;

You cannot enter

My glass house.

You cannot fly through

The reflection of your transparent

Sensual world.


I watch from inside,

Unsure your fate

Lying numbed and silent; dazed.

A twitch...

You fly away.

I open the window to cheer you on.

The breeze is cool,

Spruce scented.

We are free.

-Ron Crete, MN

The Secret Language

My grandfather thought the language
that tied him to the "old country"
was the vernacular of his oppression.

Our youthful tongues
accepted the offered English eagerly
without thinking to inquire about traditional speech.

Later I longed to be inside the mystery
of that language but it was not allowed.
Except for a few afternoons of coffee,
rye bread and secret lessons.

A few phrases were all I learned,
" How are you?" "I am fine!"
and a little song are all I remember.

His culture, translucent as smoke,
vanished over two generations
disappeared into the fire of assimilation
leaving its empty echoes in the back of my throat.

-Maralee Gerke
Oregon, USA