Joe Dolce: ‘The Ballad of True and False Singing’, ‘Daddy Plus One’ and ‘Empty Strollers’

The Ballad of True and False Singing
(anonymous—translated from the Italian)

When a tiny quail huddled beneath the wall,
proclaims quiet poetry in her call,
I cannot hear louder songs at all,
for singing big is not always how the singing’s measured,
but often by the soul that’s still and true,
Maestro-singers reveal treasured
declamations of God’s perfect view.
Few possess it young but all become Masters yet
in verse, ballad or canzonet.

Ah! a world of Maestros of every grace—
the poor student can barely find a place.

Joe Dolce

Daddy Plus One
for Blaise van Hecke (1968–2022)

Not my birth daughter, she was the sun,
a loss her mother can hardly bear,
she said I was her daddy plus one.

No warning, no illness, a sharp stun,
she was taken from us, so unfair,
not my birth daughter, she was the sun.

She left behind her first love, two sons,
two brothers, a sister in despair,
she said I was her daddy plus one.

We comfort each other but she’s gone,
for what’s broken, there is no repair,
not my birth daughter, she was the sun.

Days stagger by, my heart is so numb,
her soft photographs are everywhere,
she said I was her daddy plus one.

No one can replace her, there is none,
how can we live without her sweet care?
Not my birth daughter, she was the sun,
she said I was her daddy plus one.

Joe Dolce

Empty Strollers

Standing on Przemyśl platform
seven quiet empty strollers,
remote from the Russian war-storm,
left for Ukrainian mothers,

fleeing the fight with small children,
at the border crossing between
Ukraine and Poland, seven prams
filled with blankets and warm clothing,

by Polish parents’ donation,
refusing to bear mind-blindness,
left at Przemyśl Station,
spurring the world to choose kindness.

*

One hundred and nine dead strollers,
in Lviv, placed in Rynok mall,
a message to Russian mothers—
remember your children when small,

in neat rows, one for each child killed
empty prams never to be filled.

*

One hundred wet empty pushers,
in San Francisco’s Chrissy Field,
protesting the babies butchered,
in the Russian invasion, killed.

In sympathy, left on the field
in that rainy weekend downpour,
remembering, and unconcealed,
the shameful artifacts of war.

Joe Dolce