SAL'S POEMS OF 9/11:
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
09/11/2001
FOR THE VICTIMS OF SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
beneath the rubble and debris
down the shafts of steel and concrete
far from autos yet abandoned
past grey clouds of soot and dust
below the boots of feet still shuffling
crushed against the tumbled walls
only God can hear the moaning
see the souls drift to the light
someone calls out to an old friend
but the old friend can't reply
and the day grows old to nightfall
all the weary trudge on home
but down beneath the broken sidewalk
in the darkness of ground zero
only God can hear the moaning
see the souls drift to the light
one by one He guides them upward
past the billows of thick smoke
one by one they say, "Forgive them,"
and like night birds fly to freedom
fly these souls above the city
to a heaven celebrating
someone calls out to an old friend
to an old friend recognized
oh, the joy of souls rejoicing
as they dance in God's Good Light.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
___________________________________________________
SAVED
How blessed you are to have found God again!
Eighty-four stories high in what was once
the World Trade Center. Outside your window
pulverized stone hailed down from clouds blazing
red-blue on a Tuesday morning, and slabs
of concrete falling from the upper floors
you learned later were trapped workers
who would not wait for death
hand in hand plunging from fiery windows.
For the first time in years you said your prayers,
called God's name, prayed away your fears
of perishing there, then with the others
calmly took to the stairs down towards
ground-level freedom. Through the smoke and dust
you imagined you saw angels, ghostly
white, ascending the stairs towards you,
but they were firefighters crowned with
sooty helmets, oxygen tanks strapped on
their backs like wings-- heroes racing to their deaths
in a desperate futile rush to save lost lives.
You don't say much in your mourning.
Memories are painful to express.
It will take time before you walk
those New York streets again,
but in all your quiet moments
safe at home, you thank the God
Who saved you. You pray. You pray.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
__________________________________________________________
THE RESCUERS
Go home." Don't shake your heads convinced
we won't find a living soul beneath
this man-made hell. We will go on
passing buckets hand to hand.
We will not leave the wounded buried here.
With all our strength we'll go on digging.
Underneath the surface of the street
lost in a tall heap of collapsed floors
tower victims are waiting to be saved.
They hear our shovels clang against
the glass and steel of tumbled walls.
They're holding on; they know we're near.
With all our faith we won't stop digging.
Don't say how we sacrifice our time
and sweat sifting through the rubble
as if we, not these buried, were true heroes.
We do not dig because we are brave;
we dig because we are afraid
to walk away. At night in sleep
we hear their pleas and we tremble.
There are people still alive here.
Don't hold your breath that we will quit.
With all we've got we'll stand our ground;
we'll go on digging
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
__________________________________________________________
IN REMEMBRANCE HOUSE
In a room dark as cobalt blue
Lady Sorrow will sit
with the gentleman Grief.
From the same deep cup
(inconsolably)
they'll sip with quivering mouths
the bitter tea of loss and longing.
"My heart breaks again,"
Sorrow will say to her love,
but Grief will not reply.
With trembling hand he'll toss
away a waste of words;
he'll remind here where they are.
How misfortune sealed their love.
Then into the empty cup he'll pour again.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
________________________________________________________
HOW PROUD WE ARE
America, how proud we are
to be counted among your children!
Mother and father to us all,
you have nurtured us since birth.
When we fall, you raise us up,
tend to our scrapings, teach us right
from wrong, make us unafraid.
America, how glad we are
to be your loving sons and daughters!
In history's darkest hours
you have placed upon our shoulders
the stars and stripes forever.
Like a shawl against the elements,
your flag has kept us warm and brave.
America, how blessed we are
to walk the streets of this great land!
Protector of your citizens,
you turn back the brandished swords
upon those who try to steal our freedom.
Sweet America, angel mine,
under your wing, keep us free from harm.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
_________________________________________________________
THAT TUESDAY
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A neighbor cries easily now.
He tells us, "I cannot leave
my brothers resting there.
I will pick my way past
jagged steel and listen
for their whispers climbing
from the ruins."
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A little girl kisses
the framed picture of
her smiling father.
She and her brother
want to know,
"When is Daddy coming home?"
In the other room Mommy gags
her tears into a handkerchief.
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A survivor races
from the fallen tower
like a grey statue come to life,
then races back to save
a stranger. "She was lying there,
dazed and bleeding," he says.
"I carried her out but
she died in my arms."
A flag in the window,
some candles on the step.
A Tuesday-morning moment
changes our lives forever.
Now we question our own laughter,
we own up to our mortality,
and while the TV flashes
scenes from hell, you and I hold hands
to keep from feeling lonely.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
_______________________________________________________________
BIN LADEN'S BEEN HIDING
Osama bin Laden,
where are you hiding?
The bombs we've been dropping
you've managed to flee.
Osama bin Laden,
where are you hiding?
The war won't be stopping
till the whole world is free.
Osama bin Laden
been hiding,
been killing,
been kidding yourself.
You will pay for your crimes.
Osama bin Laden,
where are you hiding?
No soul will be resting
till justice is done.
Osama bin Laden,
where are you hiding?
Our freedom you're testing
but you cannot run.
Osama bin Laden
been hiding,
been killing,
been kidding yourself.
You will pay for your crimes.
Osama bin Laden,
tell us, where are you hiding?
a snake in the grass,
a snake under rock?
Osama bin Laden,
your days are all numbered.
Your clock's running out.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
____________________________________________________________________
IN THE MADNESS OF A MORNING
I will remember you
for as long as I live
though your footsteps
are silent now
once I could know you
by the sound of your walking
I could expect soon
there would be laughter
who would've believed
our world would change
that in the madness of a morning
I would lose you
in the clearing of smoke
in the smoldering ashes
the small voice of hope
says only this: Life goes on
I will remember you
for as long as I live
though your photographs
are all I have
who would've thought
death could force itself
upon our joy
hush forever the kindest heart
the patter of footsteps
laughter loud as song
echo down the twists and turns
of my courage
I will never forget you
I will live on
though I walk alone
I will be strong
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
______________________________________________________________-
THE WOMEN OF AFGHANISTAN
We pity your women, Afghanistan!
Slaves everyone of the Taliban.
Whatever they do is considered a sin.
What a dilemma your women are in!
Covered all over from head to feet,
never permitted alone on the street,
feeling like strangers in their own land.
We pity your women, Afghanistan!
Where is Bin Laden, Afghanistan?
Where's the Big Gun of the Taliban?
Wherever he hides he will be found.
And he'll die like a rabbit in the fangs of a hound.
A coward, a killer, a man of the sword.
A beast without conscience, a monger of war.
This devil Osama, an excuse for a man.
Where is Bin Laden, Afghanistan?
He must be punished, Afghanistan.
The dark bearded hero of the Taliban.
Taking his life would prove much too kind.
Here's a suggestion the world wouldn't mind.
We capture Osama and rush him to Sweden
where doctors perform a sex change on the heathen.
Then we ship him back no longer a man
but a woman slave of the Taliban.
#
© 2001 Salvatore Buttaci
_______________________________________________________________
09/11/2002
ON THE BRINK OF WAR
Orion’s bow
Taut in the late
Winter sky
Projects a pathway
Of curving stars.
The hunter’s arrow
Poised for flight
Dazzles at
Orion’s fingertips.
Who will quake
The January sky
And loosen his tight hand?
Who will set
The worlds on fire?
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
____________________________________________________________-
THE AFTERMATH OF WAR
Tomorrow we will laugh again,
Look up and not anticipate
Skies disturbed by smoke and fire.
Tomorrow only the sun will burn.
Late-evening stars will acknowledge
The good wishes of all people
In a blinking code of starfire.
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
_______________________________________________________________
LOOKING BACK ON THE ELEVENTH
When September fell
heroes of autumn came
to excavate buried voices
pleading from the rubble
Feint breaths of ashen lips
whispered prayers of farewell
until so many were silenced
in a jigsaw tumble of rocks
Steel beams crisscrossed
like a random toss of straws
and above tons of debris
high in a smoke-crazed sky
hovering angels called forth
freed spirits of the dead
then led them one by one
A bevy of the newly-winged
past a New York September
towards the eternal spring of Heaven.
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
______________________________________________________
HISTORY CAN REPEAT ITSELF
A madman swept through the busy streets.
Death trains pulled in and all were lost.
By twisting four ends of a cross,
This madman crucified upon its wood
As many millions as he could.
Horrific days-- so many died;
Millions of yellow stars filled the sky.
A madman shook his fist at God.
The world stood silent when he spoke.
The victims died and never woke.
If only someone brave enough
Back then could have called his bluff!
Instead the world chose to be blind.
Will it close its eyes again this time?
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
_____________________________________________________________
IF EACH OF US REACHED OUT
We cannot bring them back.
They are gone. Only shadows
Of their memories darken
our neighborhood streets.
When we speak of them
our words are old as yesterday.
But wouldn’t it be grand
If each of us reached out
and saved one life,
pulled someone out of danger,
tried to mend a broken heart,
took the time to turn a life around,
cared enough to make a child feel loved,
stopped the senseless pain of loneliness,
gave someone the gift of laughter,
offered the hopeless a sunny day?
We cannot bring them back.
The victims of last September are gone.
But if three thousand of us
Pledged today to save a life
We could fill the spaces left behind,
We could each hold a neighbor’s hand
In an unbroken ring of solidarity.
We could celebrate new miracles.
We could stop the weeping.
We could learn to be unafraid.
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
________________________________________________________
SOLDIERS
Trying on courage
we are soldiers
trying not to die.
At night in foxholes
we pray to dark skies and
wrapped in fatigue
we dream ourselves
back home but wake up here
cheeks wet and cold
We are soldiers
praying for still
another sunrise
hoping this will not be
that dreaded day
life’s promise will be broken
We are soldiers
our rifles leading us farther
from home
who will remember
these lonely nights
if we are left here to sleep?
who will say of us
we wore our courage
like heavy coats against cold wind?
who will honor us
with kind words and say
we are the flag?
who will say
not a list of names
but an army of soldiers?
#
© 2002 Salvatore Buttaci
______________________________________________________________________
09/11/2003
TRUE PATRIOTS
In this controversy of war
we Americans find ourselves,
one side insists we must have peace
at any price. The terrorists, they say,
are too numerous to defeat.
while the other side sees beyond Iraq,
considers everyone in the world
a hostage of terror. Who is right?
Who is wrong? On which side
Do we find true patriots?
Those who want peace or
those who want war?
If this war debate is the fence
that divides us, then only in America
Can neighbors talk across that fence
and go on remaining good neighbors
who equally love America
with a fierce patriotism
no one should dare question.
#
© 2003 Salvatore Buttaci
__________________________________________________________________
09/11/2004
REMEMBERING 9/11
when those on the top floors
closest to the heavens
saw their only escape
from the clawing flames
was to leap from their
corporate windows
they lined up two by two
each pair holding hands
and stepped down
into the New York City air
stepped up
into the rescuing arms
of those angelic members
of the celestial department
who carried them home
#
© 2004 Salvatore Buttaci
__________________________________________________________
09/11/2005
WHEN THE PLANES CAME
that Tuesday morning
when the planes came,
the world as we knew it
changed forever.
where were you that day?
when the planes came
and so many perished
in the dust and smoke,
what breakfast on your table
started off your morning?
what petty niggling thoughts
of little consequence
monopolized your thinking,
even while you recited
grace before and after meals,
God's Holy Name on your lips?
that September morning
for too many the world ended
all their future plans. The rest
of us were left behind
to rethink our values,
concentrate on loved ones,
forget the foolishness of
believing we are invincible.
#
© 2005 Salvatore Buttaci
____________________________________________________________
09/11/2006
FIVE YEARS SINCE 9/11
The forecast today
in New York City
promises blue skies
and autumnal coolness
but five years ago
at the Twin Towers
skies were ashen gray
and fires burned brightly
the souls of the dead
have long been at peace
only we the living
need some kind of closure
they were innocent
they did not deserve
to perish like rubble
at the hands of demons
but today these dead
can sleep peacefully
without thoughts of revenge
while we are driven
to search for justice
to make the guilty pay
to send a clear message
we will not be struck again
I envy the dead
in their resignation
how their souls turn from
vengeance to slumber
#
© 2006 Salvatore Buttaci
_____________________________________________________________
09/11/2007
WE STILL REMEMBER
Thick bellowing smoke rose like those pillows
murderers find useful in suffocating
sleep travelers who suddenly wake up
to their deaths, then return to sleep forever.
That's how it seemed to me that Tuesday
as I watched the towers vanish in smoke,
then reappear between the frenzied lashes
of fire that seemed to whip rock and steel.
Who can ever forget that Tuesday morning,
the first in nearly as many thousands of days
as the number of those who perished?
How can we who still mourn find closure?
Though we agree evil must be punished,
justice eludes us as we feed the war
with thousands more casualties––young
American soldiers dying far from home.
#
© 2007 Salvatore Buttaci
_____________________________________________________________________
SOLDIER KILLED IN IRAQ MOURNED
Vincenzo Romeo, the mourners at your grave
remember when you walked and laughed among them,
the excitement of your waving hands when you explained
how you would in your small way change the world.
After graveside prayers, the tossing of roses,
you remain shut away in your sleeping place forever,
blind to the falling sun, the moon in the wings,
your dreams blotted out in a roadside explosion
somewhere in the perilous land where all life began,
where terrorists seem to hope civilization
will end one life at a time. You are gone,
Sargeant Romeo, and the streets of Lodi,
nostalgic for those days gone by,
miss your jaunty footsteps.
#
© 2007 Salvatore Buttaci
______________________________________________________
9/11
when those on the top floors
closest to the heavens
saw their only escape
from the clawing flames
was to leap from their
corporate windows
they lined up two by two
each pair holding hands
and stepped down
into the New York City air
stepped up
into the rescuing arms
of those angelic members
of the celestial department
who carried them home
#
© 2007 Salvatore Buttaci
______________________________________________
TIME ON OUR HANDS
Outside the constraints of time,
you do not succumb to counting
the years that flutter by since
that historic event took
your lives one Tuesday morning.
We the living mark the hour,
we who have time on our hands,
refuse to forget. We who still mourn
your passing search under rocks
for the venomous.
#
© 2007 Salvatore Buttaci
