Thurman P. Woodfork

HELPING HANDS

I read my friend’s anguish with pained heart,
stark words on a monitor screen bleeding living grief.
And search for words of my own to ease the hurting,
to offer some measure of relief.

I wonder why they are so slow in coming, these words,
so laggard in forming when the glib responses used to be so quickly done.

Rolled so easily off my facile tongue

It’s as if such eloquent pain mutes and shames my response
by the depth of its intensity.

Its genuineness demands an equally honest passion in reply.

This is real pain, palpable sorrow, pure regret;
an almost unbearable desire to alter what can’t be changed,
what is forever absolute.

How do I ease this amalgam of emotions;
grief, anger, bone deep sorrow, mixed
with just a little shame and an aching, endless feeling of loss?

The need to Just Stop Remembering, if only for today

What can I say?

And I read on, the words lying stillborn in my brain,
unable to energize the still fingers of my hands
lying quiescent on the keyboard.

Helpless, helpless

Author’s Note: The poems, “I Can Hear Your Call to Me…” and “My Brother…” by ©Copyright 2002 by Bruce K. Melson, inspired this poem