about the images of buildings lying
flat on top of people, of survivors
sleeping in the streets because
roofs no longer symbolize safety;
about those who sit snugly in
studios and speak for God with
ungodly arrogance and ignorance,
and those who are helping quietly;
about the helplessness that haunts
my heart on nights like this, when
the best I can do is write and wonder
why that’s the best I can do.
Peace,
Milton
P. S. — There are new recipes here and here.
(o)
I’m with you, Milton. I’m really struggling with many aspects of this, not least my wish that Pat Robertson would just be taken straight to hell. But yes, the helplessness–I’ve given money and I’m praying constantly, and how else can we be with those poor people whom God loves?
This HURTS. Incredibly written. I’m over from HCB today; just wanted to leave a comment for you here. Very powerful poem.
This poem exactly relates what I’ve been feeling. Thanks for writing it–your best is definitely needed and admired. Even by total strangers.