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Stille Nacht<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n On the night In Coventry, in Dresden, In Auschwitz-Birkenau, heilige nacht\u201d. \u00a0Their voices He never spoke and he killed **<\/p>\n In Horton Kirby, fields froze and cycled sideways, and scarred by thorns and gravel, \u201cBeen in the wars?\u201d she asked. ** A cruciform against the sky, Outside Budapest three men Sasha struck a match Extra vodka, extra cigarettes, **<\/p>\n The blackouts drawn, Our siren voices Through tears our parents And as our voices <\/p>\n In addition to thirty-five years of teaching drama in progressive schools, Dick Jones<\/strong> has been an avid musician all his life, playing bass guitar in rock, blues, and folk bands. He lives outside London with his wife and children, and blogs at: Dick Jones\u2019 Patteran Pages.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nthat I was born,
\nthe bells rang out
\nacross the world.<\/p>\n
\nthe cathedral bones sheltered
\nworshippers with candles,
\nwitnessing the ruins.<\/p>\n
\nthe story goes,
\nthe death\u2019s-head guards
\nsang, \u201cStille nacht,<\/p>\n
\nslid across the Polish snow.
\nThe sweetest tenor was Ukrainian,
\nthe man they called Peter the Silent.<\/p>\n
\nwith a lead-filled stick.
\nIn the Union Factory, packing shells,
\nthey dreamed of Moses.<\/p>\n
\nand ice deadlocked the lanes.
\nMy father rose in the cold
\nblue-before-dawn light<\/p>\n
\nwreathed in silver mist,
\nto the hospital. \u00a0Each turn
\nof the track betrayed him<\/p>\n
\nhe bled by our bedside.
\nMy mother laughed, she remembers,
\nas the nurse administered.<\/p>\n
\nOutside, across the Weald,
\nfrom out of a cloudless dawn
\nthe buzz bombs crumpled London.<\/p>\n
\nOutside a town in the Ardennes
\nPrivate Taunitz hung
\nlike a crippled kite
\nhigh in a tree.<\/p>\n
\nhe seemed to run forever
\nthrough the branches,
\nrunning home for the new year.<\/p>\n
\ndiced for roubles
\nin the shelter of a tank.
\nFitful rain, a moonless night.<\/p>\n
\nacross the red star
\non his helmet, the red star
\nthat led them to this place.<\/p>\n
\na rabbit stewed,
\nthe tolling of artillery
\nto celebrate the day.<\/p>\n
\nDecember light invaded.
\nWe awoke, slapped hard
\nby the early world.<\/p>\n
\nclimbed into the morning,
\na choir of outrage,
\ninsect-thin but passionate.<\/p>\n
\nsmiled: within the song
\nof our despair they heard
\na different tune.<\/p>\n
\nsucked the air, swallowing
\nthe grumble of the bombs,
\nonly the bells survived.<\/p>\n