THE BUNKER POEMS
These poems are the result of years of study and is based on historical sources. These poems examine what happened during the last days of Hitler. They do not, in any way, endorse or champion Nazi ideology. Although I have studied this era in-depth, I support the dictum that the Holocaust and the Second World War were atrocities for which Hitler bears greatest responsibility. My heroes are Winston Churchill, Franklin Roosevelt, and Eisenhower, not Hitler, Mussolini, Goring or Himmler. These poems try to explain the evil that occurred during this time period, not to justify the evil that occurred. Thank you for your interest, and please feel free to message me with any questions or comments.
These poems are dedicated to the victims of terror and oppression throughout history, and those still suffering around the world today.
Berlin Doesn't Care
Der Fuehrer is back from the frontlines:
Berlin doesn't care. It continues in its somber and steadfast
march towards extinction.
The crowds that once greeted
are hidden in the rubble.
The capital greets its leader with a silent moan,
not a cheer.
Der Fuehrer is back from the frontlines;
Berlin doesn't care.
The bitter rhetoric of Queen Margaret is heard in the wind:
Where be the bending peers that flattered thee?
Where be the thronging soldiers that followed thee?
Where is the city that glorified thee?
Can it be found in the rubble?
Hitler doesn't care.
Valet in tow, Wolf retreats to his secret lair,
Down the concrete steps to his tomb.
Alone, betrayed, and without hope,
rambling to anyone who will listen,
screaming away opposition,
sobbing to his pillow.
Wolf slinks underground
hoping the Russian tanks might
forget him in their bloody advance.
As he paces his spartan quarters,
a sharp longing for Berchestagen erupts
in his chest, a longing to see the mountains
and beauty of Bavaria.
Yet he confides to no one
as he shuffles down the steps
to his mausoleum,
to his hell.
"Send for that bloody doctor."
There must be a pill
to dull such pain.
Someone Loves Me
Adi was glowing,
the burden on his shoulder lightened
for a brief, idyllic spell.
His eyes glisten with tears as
he walks round the bunker with his trophy,
presenting her to all….the one who had
returned for him.
The trophy blushes modestly, as befits a Munich handmaiden.
His voice lightens, that of a bird
in spring rather than the deep rasp
of a growling Wolf.
It seemed to say:
Goebbels has Magda,
Goering has Emmy,
Himmler has his Frauchen
Keitel has his…
But somebody loves me too!
A change from all these false,
who buzz around him like flies.
This woman was his and no one else's;
as he looks at her smiling and
chatting with the fleas and maggots of his tomb
he feels the stirrings of something within him…
The Wolf devours it and savours the
Adi's trophy shines brighter than any in
Goodbye Doctor, says Hitler to Morrell:
Your pills served me well, but it's over now,
There is no place for a quack in my tomb.
You had better flee…
The Russian's have cages for people like you;
they have a golden one with silver bars for me…
They want to parade me naked through Moscow,
have Stalin come down the Kremlin steps and spit on me
and laugh his deep, peasant laugh.
Goodbye Doctor, says Hitler to Morrell.
There is no pill for me now,
as the cards all collapse
and I am crushed beneath.
Aspirin or morphine won't do at all,
cyanide is all that's left for me..
A capsule and a bullet
will cure all.
Goodbye Doctor, says Hitler to Morrell.
It's time you were on your way,
Goebbels is coming and he needs
a room and you are in his way!
I hope you find the American zone,
they will treat you far better, I'm told.
Like a ghost Hitler walks the underground labyrinth of his tomb
slouching, one leg trailing, graying, old and decaying.
His eyes speak the language of death,
no more strength left in his broken body.
He is left alone with his thoughts
to wander the corridors of his coffin.
What hell is this?
From feared and respected tyrant to a decaying spirit,
who might fade into the Prussian walls.
half-alive with only the strength to keep walking
endlessly…each step one closer to the end.
He, who conquered the country.
he, who almost conquered all of Europe.
muses Fräulein Braun.
She is fiercely protective of her man;
he sips apple peel tea
slumped in his chair,
Not exactly a Teutonic Knight,
but mine, and mine alone.
In this castle of concrete
we unite for eternity.
and then I shall throw myself
on his funeral pyre.
He, who conquered the world
Der Fuehrer Doesn't Like Girls Who Smoke
She stood in the cratered courtyard
inhaling smoke and burnt flesh,
listening to the rumbling advance,
cigarette in hand,
coolly puffing away.
A shadow emerges from the grave,
face and heart carved,
a skull on his breast.
He sees her smoking calmly
unnerved by his presence.
He puffs up
like a cornered feline
ready to pounce.
"Der Fuehrer doesn't like girls who smoke."
"Der Fuehrer isn't here," she responds with quiet defiance.
He goes on and on
like a sermonizing priest,
talking of defiling a sacred
temple of German blood
with impure substances.
All the time she continues
A thunderstorm of shells
interrupts his harangue
and then he strides away
with purpose and contempt,
leaving her, content to puff
away on her cigarette.
The Bunker Rat
At lunch with Fräulein Braun and the secretaries
Wolf is in fine form,
recalling his own days as a soldier.
During the day he fought men;
at night he hunted trench rats,
who, big as cats, would crawl amongst
the men, steal their food and chew on their toes.
He would the rodents with his spear and
Fuschl would join in the battle, leaping on the beasts
tearing them to bits, then lay the mangled corpses at his master's feet as a gift
Fräulein Braun, though faking horror as a simple Bavarian girl ought,
wished she had a spear so she could stab a rat.
One with a big nose who was everywhere at all times,
who slinked through corridors without a sound,
whose bite could kill,
whose eyes shone in the dark, terrifying all by their
Yes, thought Fräulein Braun,
stabbing Borman with a spear
and laying him at dear Adolf's feet
would be most satisfying.
Her little contribution to the war!
with target practice,
maybe she could kill a Cossack.
they're all gone to sleep.
Alone with his thoughts.
Adi gets into bed,
not tired, but what can one do?
He closes his eyes for a moment,
he hears someone breathing hard,
there is the smell of whisky…
The man has found him.
After all these years of running and
he has finally been caught by HIM!
"Who is there?" Doferl rasps,
though he knows damn well who it is.
"Leave me alone!" he screams.
He has conquered Europe but
nothing can save him now.
There is a shadow approaching
A man with a whip in his hand
Reality pinpricks the dream,
he is saved.
His soldier-nurse holds him
shaking all over,
crying in the dark.
Klara, Klara, Klara
Adolf had two possessions: portraits,
one of Frederick the Great and one of his mother.
Frederick and Klara.
He would look at his hands and compare them
to those of the Prussian King
and then he would look at his mother.
A saint. His loving mother,
butchered by a Jewish doctor.
He was her Doferl, her dear Adi,
Klara's favorite, above all the others.
He remembered how she would give him
extra servings at dinner,
how she would favor him with a smile
and when HE was gone, she would
take her dear Doferl into bed with her
and touch him, and call him her sweet
Adi, her dearest child, her little man.
Discovered…the cry of rage,
the pain, the horrible pain, the screams,
How he messed on the bed, the pain was so bad.
Shouting, screams, pain…
her eyes still haunted him.
Man and bitch
walk in the courtyard,
followed by their
The rumbling grows closer…
but these two don't pay
walks in the mountains,
in the swamps of Rastenburg.
Blondi and Adi
walk in circles in this
cemetery of hopes and dreams.
Adolf is slumping; he doesn't
have any tricks to teach his friend,
no games to play.
With his Alsatian bitch he can
be himself; no speeches for Blondi.
Wolf sniffed to himself;
isn't it sad to think my only friend
is a dog?
Happy Birthday Mein Fuhrer
Like ants, the Nazi elite scurry underground
to pay homage to their sovereign.
They eat slices of chocolate cake,
fawning over their leader;
even in his tomb they seek
honey words from their leader.
They celebrate his fifty-sixth
year of hellish life
that has sunk Europe
knee deep in blood, rubble and destruction.
A man whose rule has destroyed a nation,
whose crusade to purify Europe has brought
misery to the entire continent.
The Nazi insects dance their perverse last
death throes and, as doom closes in,
they touch antennas with their king.
Enter the Children
The lie-maker, Goebbels brings his family to throw
on the funeral pyre.
unsuspecting they follow their mother underground
To their concrete tomb.
One carries a teddy bear, another a book, another
a spinning top.
The children's' laughter seems out-of-place
in Hitler's home.
People grasp it desperately
trying to distract themselves
from the darkness that surrounds them
The children are like sugar
in a bitter tea.
A guard sees them pass and salutes them:
these angels from heaven who have descended into hell.
He sits and broods.
Before him lies a model of Berlin,
the Reich's First city.
Even as all collapses he does not abandon his dream,
his yearning, artistic vision of a new Berlin.
He shuffles buildings, makes new streets, new monuments,
as if he was a God presiding over an imaginary land.
His art has already devastated his country;
his vision has already ravaged a continent.
He sits before his city,
playing the architect deity as millions die
for him and because of him.
The artist of death.
The landscaper of rubble.
The architect of destruction.
The builder of hate, murder, and hellish monstrosity.
The Eminence Grise
Martin Borman, Hitler's faithful flunky
melts into the grey concrete walls,
Hitler's Richelieu, his Wolsey.
This cardinal of death,
power-broker and manipulator.
Even in the end will he will
eat the meat of the corpses that
The Children Play
Hedda, Heidi, Helga, Helmut, Holde, Hilde
play; Uncle Hitler is with his generals.
On the stairs one can hear laughter.
"Here let you be a Russian and me be a German." speaks Helmut to Heidi
"I want to be a German!" Heidi pouts.
Such fantasies are not left to children.
Down below Hitler dreams of armies that shall deliver him,
"Where is Steiner?!" Hitler screams.
"Ok Heidi you can be a German. Holde and I will be Russians."
While Hitler broods and tries to wake from his nightmare;
the children are care-free; laughter and fantasies are the order of the day.
Below, Hitler too languishes in a dream world as he moves armies
around on the map.
The games continue.
Hitler screams wildly, veins standing out on his neck.
He plays the part of a Caesar,
stabbed to death by his senators,
though his wounds are merely ones of pride.
Two Brutuses, Himmler and Goering
have cut him to the quick.
"Treachery!" accompanies Borman
Eager to tear more flesh from the decaying empire.
Hitler shaking, turns away and muses,
"Even Jesus was betrayed the night before his death!"
Such messianic quotes are some comfort:
the foundation crumbles…
How he would act if he were not in this tomb!
Memories return to the bomb plot of the generals,
how he had hung the traitors from meat hooks.
Now all he can do is send telegrams like a spider
desperately trying to build a web to trap his flies.
"My Reich, my Reich." sobs Hitler.
All is truly lost.
This last dance of death.
"Till death do us part"
swear Hitler and his bride.
Braun sheds tears;
he is hers for a day,
her polka dot dress, his favorite, is the perfect for
their funeral pyre.
Wine is sipped, congratulations exchanged,
The artillery accompanies the wedding dance,
fitting for the wedding of Europe's tyrant.
Hitler at Rest
Late in the night Hitler finally joins his bride of a day.
They lie together in silence
listening to the music of the Russian artillery closing in.
Adolf twitches irritably,
as if trying to chase away this horrific nightmare.
He tries to think of better days,
days when Europe trembled at his feet,
when the continent had been almost his!
How did it all collapse on him like
a hollow pack of cards?
He wants to weep, but will not.
Eva is here.
She will not see him cry, he asserts control over his emotions.
He lies back again and listened to the artillery drawing closer,
one night left in this symphony of madness.
Viewing the Troops
The band of soldiers stand at attention;
the Führer emerges to inspect them,
his last public service.
Wolf emerges from his lair for one last time,
he moves down the line shaking hands
with mere boys.
Where were the days when legions of men
had marched past him?
Tear well in his eyes as he sees the solemn children's faces,
no older than Goebbels' brats.
He pats one little boy on the cheek,
trying to draw strength from their firm, idealistic youth,
the last soldiers of his Reich.
The Last Supper
He eats slowly, hands shaking.
His last meal.
A simple pasta and salad,
attended by two secretaries.
who have vowed to die with him.
What thoughts go through his mind?
A somber last formal function,
he stays detached, almost not present.
Whatever his thoughts, he does not speak.
Sleep and eating are just bodily functions for him.
They have long ceased to bring him any pleasure.
Simple light-hearted chatter goes on around him.
He does not process it anymore.
He does not speak for once.
His days of oration are over.
The last supper of a tyrant thus passes without event.
And though he does not eat meat,
he is a carnivore who devoured a country, a continent,
and choked, retching venom and bile everywhere.
The last supper.
Eva's Last Moments
He slumps on the sofa,
rubbing his fingers together,
his glazed eyes stare ahead lifelessly.
She is in the bathroom running water.
She emerges and comes over to the couch,
stands beside it for a moment, her hands trembling,
before sitting down close enough to inhale his musty odor.
She glances in his direction
then furtively looks away.
There is nothing to say now.
But then there has never been much to say.
He was always the one who talked,
and now he has nothing left to lecture on :
we are defeated, almost everyone else has betrayed him.
Everything he has built has crashed down around him:
his party, his nation, his empire.
Without looking at her, he takes her hand in his
limp grip and pats it with indifferent affection.
They both try to ignore the thunderous crashes above them,
ominously hinting at what is approaching.
She tries to drink in this last moment.
At last he is hers after all these years,
but it is an empty triumph and one that is short-lived.
They are waiting outside the door,
they are waiting above,
they are waiting around the world.
She chose this, there is no escape now.
So they sit in silence,
waiting for nothing but the momentum
to end it all.
The Shot Rang Out
The shot rang out.
The tyrant is dead.
Slumped dead on a couch, wife at his side.
The funeral pyre of the Führer
will be just one of many around Europe.
Corpses lie throughout the continent;
at Auschwitz, Treblinka and Dachau;
at Stalingrad, Normandy and Berlin.
The blood oozing from his temple is but a drop
in an ocean of blood;
arms, legs, torsos lie scattered throughout the land.
Adolf Hitler is dead!
And Europe, still engrossed in his war,
adds one more body to the continent's funeral pyre.
Father Goebbels says goodnight children.
Magda tucks them in,
not before giving them a bedtime treat of chocolate,
a magic chocolate that brings eternal sleep.
Tears well in her eyes as she puts each babe to sleep,
a kiss on each forehead.
"Will you kiss bear too, Mama?" one asks.
Magda kisses Bear.
Father Goebbels slinks in some dark corner, smoking furiously.
Women are stronger;
Himmler had told him that once in a lecture about Nazi breeding programs.
So Magda was left to put her babes to sleep:
Goodnight children, sleep forever more,
rise angels, rise from this hellish nightmare!
As the living dead wander the corridors,
they try not to remember
the sound of children's laughter
that once echoed through Hitler's hellish mausoleum.
The zombies prepare their own deaths,
while the living await deliverance
The Funeral Pyre
The tyrant and his one day bride; corpses side by side
in a crater filled courtyard.
Shells falling announcing the rumbling approach of the Cossacks.
Someone throws a match and the bodies alight in hellish flame,
The party salutes and stands in silence as the angry
fire devours the bodies with a vengeance,
taking on a spirit of its own, an angry demon that will have no mercy.
The party stands at attention.
The Fuhrer is dead.
The Reich is dead
The pyre shines brightly as a promise for the future.
A man is dead.
His horrific dream is dead.
His bloodthirsty rule, like the hungry flame devoured Europe, scorched the continent
with his angry hate, killed millions to feed his monstrous dream.
The Fuhrer is dead.
The Reich is dead.
An era is over.