It was decades ago that I scribbled this poem on a cardboard insert for a pair of Bloomingdale’s pantyhose. I remember the weatherman at the time was a jocular New York celebrity, now long departed from the airwaves. The disasters to which I referred have receded into non-memory for those of us not personally affected and have been routinely replaced by further horrors. I first posted the poem on Red Room months before the Haitian earthquake and Lisa Marie Basile, the inspired editor of Caper Journal, decided to include it in the anthology Vwa:Poems for Haiti, proceeds to benefit the victims.
Now, five years after Katrina, months after the Gulf oil spill, with immensurable other earthquakes, mudslides, avalanches, hurricanes, and tornadoes between, the flood waters of Pakistan present fresh tragedy on an epic scale. Is this disaster so huge that we cannot deal with it, cannot fathom the suffering? I believe so. I as one frail human cannot comprehend the extent. My only offering is to repost this poem that remains eerily appropriate. Here also is the video I made only months ago, focusing on donations for Haiti, where they are still desperately needed. People in New Orleans and the Gulf continue to suffer. Give wherever, whatever you can. If you have no money, give words. Give tears. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXKXAt7RdK8
Shifting patterns, Can’t guarantee,Ha! Ha! We think you’ll haveA fine weekend for the game.
Ten thousand small brown
People dead from the great hurricane.
It won’t reach us,
(Except for some trailers.)
Brown thousands more sick and homeless
In brown muddy waters on
Brown global spots.
Yellow millions uncounted
At risk from typhoons.
Where are your rhymes, weatherman?
Scripts filed as yuppie collectibles in
Plastic sleeves against the rain.
Mother Earth shudders her earthquakeShoulders as she sobs.
Grubby waters rise nearby.
Caribbean winds kill those
Smiling black rhythmic cruise
The winds may brush us here and
There slightly, but
Shouldn’t interfere with the weekend.Ha, Ha, the game should be okay.Oh, by the way,Don’t let it upset your day.
Brown arms reaching skyward
Up from imprisoning brown mud.
Heaven cries more rain.
No where to go.
Pain. Hopelessness. Grief. Death.
Heaven cries more rain.
While I cry and cry,
However hard I try
It has upset my day.
Causes Mara Buck Supports
Kennebec Valley Humane Society, Amnesty International