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THE WAVE
"We may be through with the past,
but the past is not through with us."
Today I wake and wander,
from sweaty bed to kitchen door
Shuffling round to find
some tiny thing,
Some thing I do not know.
And oh
my friend, my body,
he finds for me the way,
he knows what soon will waken
this thing I cannot say.
(And I, the sleeper watching,
as hands select
with little thought,
first one round disc,
then two, then three.
I slide them in the slot.)
Sweet music slowly fills the air-
This doorway found,
I know goes down.
I turn,
and in my hands can see:
that thing I lost,
my grief, my me.
Why is this so?
Why do I care?
the wail and sobs
for love long gone
for sins and crimes
and broken hearts'
for children standing
in the rain
for need that ate me
to my bones
for hands held tight
that could not hold.
The wave rose high above it all,
a towering froth
of blood and bone
It churned, immense,
each painful point
of days, and years,
and lives, ill-spent
IN IGNORANCE OF HOW IT GROWS
this wave of grief,
this mass of woes.
Can I now see
just as it strikes?
My past calls out-
it grabs my sight
LOOK NOW
it says, it shakes, it fights.
ALL THAT YOU WERE,
ALL PAINS YOU MADE,
LET LOOSE,
LET LOOSE,
Your heart's un-made.
The dark wave passes over me.
I'm tumbled, torn,
but now feel free.
I climb the rock
I sit
I stare.
The sun breaks through
One Word:
AWARE
Richard Wehrman
10/31/2000