Gain the New Gardens Beauties

Crush the flowers

That fade in our fists

And gain the new gardens

Beauties in our hearts.

How Many Centuries Away?

Nonfunctional activity

Looms in the recesses of the brain.

Aging is the villain

And the blame.

Genes explode in relief.

The genetics in science research

Blooms and already theories give grief;

Are these advances to what end?

Good relations diminish

with the coming of the flame

said to precede the last day.

How many centuries away?

printed in Portals--A Quarterly Showcase for Poets

Spring 1999

Wenatchee, WA

Redrosebush  Press

Shirley Herman Kornberg In Memoriam

As someone who worked several years with Shirley Kornberg and came both to know and love her, no words can adequately express the feelings I experienced upon learning of her death.

Shirley was a very rare person; someone who knew no prejudice and who always gave the other person the benefit of the doubt.  There are very few people who you can say that about.

She looked at the world with a unique understanding and compassion.  She understood the human condition  and the ways that a person's experiences in life affect their personalities.  She was able to take people for what they are and see the pain behind their personality quirks.  And yet she didn't have a degree in social science.  But even without a degree she was in her way a great teacher.

I had the good fortune to work closely with Shirley for several years and to count her among my friends.  Although there were more than thirty years separating our time framework of experience, it never ceased to amaze me that Shirley had a mind that was open to new thoughts and ideas.  She saw beyond the obvious.

She understood the realities of the world and considered a closed mind the greatest crime against humanity.  But even with her intolerance for closed minds, she never learned to lash out blindly at a world that had allowed so many inequities to exist.  Perhaps that was a failing.  She stood defenseless in the midst of so much negativity.  She longed for a world free from hatred, intolerance, and prejudice.  I can remember distinctly the cry in her voice when she looked around herself and saw a world where people starved needlessly.  How many of us can claim such concern or experience so much pain when thinking about how unfortunate others are?  And how many of us can claim that we have treated others with the special understanding that the person we look at is a culmination of forces behind control?

It was that special understanding that enabled Shirley to treat those who worked with her and under her with such compassion.

In a system that breeds negative attitudes, her compassion was a rare thing.  For me, Shirley was a special friend; one I could talk to despite the almost thirty years that separated us.

To everyone at the Consumer Chapter she was a model of what a manager should be; a person with infinite patience and understanding of what makes us unique.  I will miss her as a friend.  We will all miss her as a co-worker and supervisor.

Max E. Verga
printed in Local 1549's Consumer Chapter...Union Affairs Volume 2, Number 2 April 1983

They Can Touch Us

We walk through the fields
the fields of Gettysburg
are under our feet
and our souls feel the life beneath.

What pressure is there
in these graves
of men; or boys, long dead.
We feel their presence
in soul, in head,
in our eyes so wet.
We can still touch them
and they can touch us yet.

Printed in Amateur Writers Journal, July/August 1988

Awakening!

I sought a secret behind closed door:
but light beneath I was prepared to explore
and from bended knees to find even more!

Our bright glowing nights of starlit heavens
    aglow
are not enough to satisfy every sad faced
boy who passes by and worn woman shows
a shame unequaled awakening spirit freed;
you have accepted glory by raising soul's
     pure seed!

printed in Prairie Poet Anthology edited by Stella Craft Tremble
Prairie Press
Charleston, Illinois
1965

Shapelessness of Summer Draining

All swollen streams and filling dreams
Sway the branches from the trees
Drown the fallen leaves with their dying pleas.
The impressionless shadows spilling
And nothing in this forest survives.

No date...

That Smile

Give me, Please
Another look
Just one to recall
That smile I adore.

Past Memories Linger

In my house once loved by us
In all the rooms
Where the children played their games
There stands on their shelves
The figures of their friends in colorful dress
All of them still together as of yesterday
Facing the door. In their eyes
A gleam of expectation of the return.
And I enter often for remembrance
Hearing the laughter in my heart
Filling my being with that joy
And I gently exit hearing their sighs.

Frosts Suggests

This has been hard--unacceptable,
     this life, unreasonable.
This grieving pain, extreme.
  Such measureless rising
over such un-welcoming terrain.
 The crying, the weeping,
a strain unbearable--
and justice fading.
The sorrowing refrains
and the heartless looks.

Printed in Reflect, Winter 2000

W.S. Kennedy, Publisher and Editor
Chesapeake, VA

SEED PULLING ONE

No terror like the terror
of slavery and we are slaves--
our bonds are our limitations
and the visions of saints unperceived.
The dreaming begun by the pure
becomes the distortions of the insecure
and the mouthings of madmen.

printed in Fine Arts Discovery, Fall 1970

Photograph of the poet - 1934

The First Sculptor

I touch gently the limestone
and I gently rub the marble with sandstone
as I move the stone I am moved
and a figure I find beneath my fingers.

She stands upright
in the eerie light
and free she stands with this love I gave
and she speaks to me
every time I worship.

Could I create such a beauty
with my dirty fingers
wet from the first drawn clay?


published in Fine Arts Discovery Magazine
Fall 1970
Shawnee Mission, Kansas

The Challenge!

The silent voice can be heard;
prayers from innocent hearts compel
the greatness of mercy forward,
encamping in the bodies of the dead,
in the souls of the living!  The Lord can
give, break open the graves and sweep the
heavens pure of darkened skies!
Oh the lies that proceed from devils:--
the shame that calls us brothers; for we
deny our image is the face of Peace!


printed in The Guild Anthology
compiled and edited by Helen Gee Woods
The Guild Quarterly Press
Idaho Falls, Idaho
1966

In the Process

This ugliness
cannot continue.
This city once sparkled.
The people rejoiced
among the people
suggesting new life,
in the process of grieving.

1997

In The Vault of the Canterbury

Who gives me this joy?
Is it you, most precious presence?
As I stood where ancient kings
are asleep? I felt such pressures
flowing from the deep.
The tombs about me swelled.
A breathing of a rare kind I felt
in my mind.  As I passed by
with both hands on the coverings of bronze.
Each one I felt, responded.
This joy came to me as I wandered by.

Just Remember

Just remember
I lived here
and I twinkle
over the shadows of the fallen.
Like sparrows
the children fall, calling
to flights of angels unseen.

1997

Good Intentions

Good intentions: spinning shadows,
falling, ever falling: like showers
of leaves upon the open faces
of those we love. Good intentions
often fail to blossom: spawning
nothing but illusory devotions;
our faithfulness in jeopardy.

1997

Along the Path

Deep are the shadows
Along the path I trod
My own markings are limited
Over this Heavenly sod.

Printed in WestWard Quarterly, Summer 2000

About the poet

Martin Kornberg
September 23, 1916 - July 18, 2000

Worker/Poet

Martin Kornberg wrote poetry, plays, and essays after full days working in New York City's garment industry as a laborer. Proud of his union membership, he was a staunch supporter of workers and their causes. He was passionate about history, ancient and American, and often alluded to the past in his works. His last wish was to have his work saved and published...thus this blog.

Poet's own biography as printed in Fine Arts Discovery FALL 1970:

Martin Kornberg was born in the Bronx in 1916, brought up in Nassau County, Long Island. He moved to Manhattan, the Bronx and Brooklyn. He began writing at nineteen, went to college in the service, studying journalism at Brooklyn College. His interests are play writing, and American History in Verse, a work in progress. Martin is married, has one son and two daughters.

Pictured below, Martin and his wife, Shirley.