I would like to say something
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.
4 comments:
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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.
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