“Withered Fields”

September 23, 2020

Withered Fields

Winter brings withered fields,

Hoar-frost covers stalks of grain,

And leaves a brittle hollow

Leached of color to a pale dun

A shade of nothingness,

Now snapped and dried twigs

Just to be called stubble,


Pale, thin air conspires in this withering

To starve the landscape surrounding,

A drawing of air not enough for life,

Too shallow for lungs, just a whistling down

brittle tubes of grain,

The ghostly sound of pipes,

A frozen Pan of the fields.

The north wind a

Howling scream, sweeping

The land before it

And only those far under ground

Are spared its crippling caress.

This withering of landscape

reflects within.

Age, infirmities,  bring the cold inside

Where no amount of warm fire, wool,

Feet propped against a blazing fire

Can stem the ravages of what

Is happening outside

As it swirls under doors and through

Shut and shuttered windows.

Hands grow thin and clawed

Bones reluctant of movement,

Skin dry , itching —

A monk’s hair shirt

A penitence unbidden

But ours for the sin of growing old.

There is little to do

But crawl to the fire,

Wrap ourselves in solitude

And hope these withered fields

Will obey the cycle of seasons

And fertility reclaimed with patience.

Jane Kohut-Bartels


“A Dish of Skylarks”

September 17, 2020


A dish of skylarks

Fell from the blue

into my lap,

And I, ravenous with

A multitude of hungers-

Ate them.

Between burps

one did escape,

shook himself,


And offered a feather.

I thought it gracious

Considering what I had done

To his neighbors.

The grace of life

Elegant, sublime, stirring

Uplift the soul.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2017


September 11, 2020


That beautiful morning–

Teasing taste of early Autumn

The unthinkable happened

And our world stopped turning

I saw the plane, I saw the fire

I saw the smoke descend like

A blanket of blinding grief

Too late to spare those on the ground

The sight of Armageddon.

Mortar-grey people transformed

Into gritty moving statues,

Holding hands, blinded by smoke,

Move down streets where

Paper, bricks, metal, glass rained down

Like the Devil’s Ticket Parade,

Walked in silence towards the bridges,

Barely a moan heard,

An Exodus unexpected on this

Morning of such seasonal promise.

I saw worse.

I saw people jump

From the ledges, holding hands,

Some with briefcases

And all I could do

Was howl:

“I will catch you!

Jump into my arms

I will not drop you.

Do not be afraid,

Aim for my embracing arms,

With the last of my life—

I will catch you.”

That day of fire and ash,

Inexplicable funeral pyre,

Of brave souls rushing in

And frightened souls rushing out

And the ash, the ash, the ash,

Covered everything like a silent September snow.

Seventeen years later

Grieving when this day approaches,

I hear the words swell up in me:

“We will catch you!

Jump into our arms,

We will not drop you.

You will not be forgotten,

With the last of our breath–

We will catch you.”

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 9-11-2011-2016, (This poem, “9-11” was published in “Pitcher of Moon”, and can be purchased at Amazon.com. Published, 2014)

Bhava Yoga

September 3, 2020

Bhava Yoga

Morning’s roseate sky

Has been blasted away,

Branches now whirligigs

Swirl with a fierce southern wind

As windows rattle in frames.

A tattered umbrella

Shades from a relentless sun.

I listen to  Bhava Yoga

The vibration of Love,

Where imagination meets

Memory in the dark.

Yet surrounding these soothing tones

The world outside this music

Conspires to disrupt, sweep away

All thought, reflection.

The fierce wind gets my attention.

I can not deny its primal force.

Still, the pulse of Bhava Yoga

Draws me within,

Feeds imagination with memory,

Calls forth something as enduring as the fury outside,

And I feel the pulse of the infinite.


We are like birds,

Clinging with dulled claws to

The swaying branches of life.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Air Hawk…..gets you around.

September 2, 2020

I broke my left femor recently in a stupid accident, andnow am suffering the results. It will pass and I will be back kicking people at least with one leg. LOL.

“You’re All I Have”….poem of my husband.

July 26, 2020

via “You’re All I Have”….poem of my husband.

“You’re All I Have”….poem of my husband.

July 26, 2020


“You’re all I have”

Heard in the dark

Heart almost stopping

In an inattentive breast.


I dare not look at him

Too bald a sentiment

And too true to bear

A light, comforting answer.


What would occasion

Such a piteous sentiment?


When one has lived

Within another’s hours, days, years,

The fabric of this making

Can be forgotten.


The warp and weave, the very thread

That appears as if out of air

(and it does…)

becomes substantial,

it covers and clothes more than the body

and the life blood of sentiment,


Becomes the river within, unending,

Even transcending the pulse of life.


“You’re all I have,”

A whispered refrain

That echoes in the heart

And burrows deep.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2020

In this age of uncertainly, hold tight to those who truly love.  They can disappear like a mist over a river.

“The Children of Aleppo”

July 20, 2020

via “The Children of Aleppo”

“The Children of Aleppo”

July 20, 2020


0403Whe-R01-016The Children of Aleppo


There is no childhood in Aleppo.

There are little martyrs-in-the-making

Where 5 year olds and 8 year olds

Wish for a ‘family death’

Where they can die together

With their parents,

Where they live in peace in Heaven

Never tasting the fruits of peace on Earth.


There is no childhood in Aleppo.

The children haunt the abandoned houses

Of friends who have fled the city.

There they find abandoned teddy bears

While looking for guns for the rebels, their fathers.


A dead canary in his cage

Abandoned by its owners

In the face of daily death.

The sight of this bird

Evokes a child’s sorrow.

The gunfire outside continues

(They are used to the noise)

And huddle in the pockmarked

Halls until safe to scatter.



The children of Aleppo

Have no teachers, doctors.

These have fled the cities, schools

But they still pine for ice cream,

For music in the streets,

For curtains not torn by violence,

For books and toys

And gardens and flowers,

For friends that have not died

Innocent blood splattering

The dirty cobble stones

At their feet.


The children of Aleppo

Are free and children again

Only in their dreams,

And perhaps, if you believe so,

After death.


How do you put back the brains

Of a child in the cup of the shattered skull?

How do you soothe the howls of the mothers,

The groans of the grieving fathers?

How do you comfort the siblings?


The children of Aleppo

Have no future as children.

They are the sacrifice of parents

And factions,

And politicians

All with the blood of

20,000 children on their hands.


The beautiful children of Aleppo

Like children everywhere

Still want to chase each other

In the gardens, on playgrounds,

Want to dance in the streets,

Want to pluck flowers for their mothers

And they still pine for ice cream.


Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2019





“High Road”

July 14, 2020

via “High Road”

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