Archive | January 2014

Pictures (from the Holocaust) part 4

They light thousands of candles,

a tiny flickering of flames.

Symbolic of lives extinguished

in an agonising nightmare.

In remembrance for each life,

they weep six million tears.


Taken in persecution,

stripped bare of their dignity.

In a mountain of white,

along side mattresses of

human hair, teeth remain.

Their possessions lie there still.


Telling stories of bigotry and hate.

A stark reminder of a loss,

still not fully understood.

They paint a horrific picture,

which must not be forgotten.



©Jacqui Slade

Pictures (from the Holocaust) Part 3

They huddle together tattooed.

Bitter and frigid, their hearts

hanging lonely in grey flannel.

Void of warmth, as winter shakes.

Each day becomes bleaker,

killing spirits, already broken.


Insanity grips them slowly,

weakening their skeletal

forms, lying wasted in hunger,

for word of their loved ones.

Indifferent to loss, starvation

speculates a gaunt ending.


Walking spindly in wooden souls

of shoes made from Jew skins.

Scouring for nourishment in a

place where the stars don’t shine.

Strength is to be cherished,

and smiles are forgotten.



©Jacqui Slade

October Morning

Upon skirted knee she wept and sprawled,

in desolation she lay and called.

Over and over her lovers name,

her anguished heart could not be tamed.

In October leaf she grappled dirt,

trying to dig away the hurt.

Oblivious to the cold night chill,

the moonlight shone, the darkness still.

Her hair hung over her tear stained cheek,

in her distress she was so weak.

She clawed and shrieked too much to bear,

her sorrow filled the frosty air.

To be with him her only notion,

from her skirts she pulled a potion.

Her eyes fell heavy towards the moon,

she knew she would be with him soon.

With all his love he held her head,

and wiped away the tears she’d shed.

He reached deep down into his pocket,

placed in her hand a silver locket.

Of their love it was a token,

given before their hearts were broken.

She clutched it hard in disbelief,

a whispered breath dispelled her grief.

Walking in October mourning,

with his dog an old man yawning.

He saw her huddled, too late to save,

clinging in death to her lovers grave.

Her lips were blue gone was her pain,

in her frozen hand a silver chain.

In the churchyard spirits embracing,

under the old Yew tree  south facing.

Spectres now in moonlight nocturnal,

in October, their love is eternal.

©Jacqui Slade


The lethargic grey
hangs transiently,
in confused trails
of ethereal silver.
Its somnolent shadow
eclipses my heart,
my bleary chimera
an ominous shroud.
Effulgence ruptures
in resplendent bursts,
effusively glittering
on my opaque dreams.
The fragmented clouds
clear and nothing can
spoil the sound of
the birds singing.

©Jacqui Slade