Where once a solid form existed,
There’s nothing left but shard,
Tangled remnants, split and twisted,
Tossed without regard.
Earth ripped and roughly gashed,
Features stripped and shattered,
Levees broken, structures smashed,
Strewn about and scattered,
And in amongst this mangled mess,
There stands a man forlorn,
Too numb to feel distress,
Too tired to weep or mourn,
. At crisis points, when faith is shaken,
. It’s then, when man feels most forsaken
© Tim Grace, 18 March 2011
To the reader: Natural disasters tally-up a cruel toll. Impacts are deep and far-reaching. Headlines describe upheaval, deluge and inundation. Apart from individual trauma, social rupture compounds the devastation into widespread despondency. Forlorn despair grips tight; testing humanity’s collective will and resilience. Fortitude offers repair… but that takes time to accept; first comes loss and grief.
To the poet: Piecing together a poem from fractured snippets of human misery is a delicate process. The depth of emotional content delivers a glossary of hackneyed headlines. As poet, with vicarious voice, one can reference common parlance and translate trite commentary but not without the risk of superficial opportunism. Take care, disaster awaits the thoughtless.