Poem 19

    The words of this poem are the most honest way I can express what I feel.  It cannot be answered, for the reply would have to be "You are wrong," whether I was so or not.  I am not asking for a conversation or an explanation, they are always the same, for either of us, aren't they?  Its just my emotions, as words, as closely as I can translate them.

    For those of you who don't know the subjects, I am sorry, perhaps, for the darkness portrayed here.  But really, we are all much more tumultuous inside than we often show; in any event, I am.   This is just a bit of honesty, in that sense, on my part, because I don't know what else to do but say, "I am utterly frustrated and bewildered.  Only God can know, and I will follow, as best as I am able."

     On the technical side, this poem is written in the same form as "Beneath" which I consider my best to date, and one of the most heartfelt, besides this, Traitorous Heart, and a few others.  There are some phrases common to some of the other poems I've written, and though not initially intentioned, once I noticed them, I chose to leave them in.  They are all an expression of my heart, after all, and are likely enough to bear resemblance to one another.  Let me know what you think.

Poem 19 – Lee A Buckingham – Sept 5th to 19th, 2010

Rock walls echoing with violent screams of deepest pain,

bloody fists upon cold stone, hammering on crimson stains.

    A knock is heard, now drowned out by desperate aching cries,

    wrenching wails of cold agony frost-burn the hand that tries

to crack the door of bitterness, which a soul constrains.

Cracking, chipping, thankless toil, we pound and pick and pry

at granite walls built strong and high under icy, tempest sky.

    But with each painful inch we gain two more, it seems, are made;

    thick mortar troweled, hard stones are cut and on the inside laid

to build a tomb of selfish woe and in despair to lie.

So on it goes, always scorned, and never clearly known,

and in your anger, your spiteful pride, our own is sometimes shown.

    The labor hasn't always been by love, but by hateful bitterness

    for wounds you cause to others here, lying in this wilderness

of ice and snow, with deathly chill; and yet you'd break their bones.

We drop our tools and look, forlorned, at snowy wastes surrounding

and beat our breasts to hear your cries from unknown depths resounding.

    With each awful blow we land upon your frozen, mountain grave,

    you hammer back with blinded rage, no malice do you save

for the hearts outside that offer love; to you, just hateful pounding.

Shall we stay, struggling on, through ice and labor breaking

our hearts upon the iron spears and arrows of your making?

    Or shall we leave this bitter place and let you be alone

    doing what you will in your private hell of stone?

It seems so easy; “Just forget. Consider not your heart's long aching.”

Yet should we leave, and seek relief, burying sorrows in the past,

still others would stay, laboring ever on, hard-set upon the task,

    to cry and bleed, to bear the wounds of love trampled in the dark.

    And for one, chained heart and soul to yours; one day perhaps you'll mark

the rending break, her heart from yours; in some storms, she may not last.

So we light a fire and stumble close to warm our numbing limbs

while still we hear your pleading voice echoing from within.

    You ask for love and soul's comfort for the trials you've been handed

    true sorrows deep, love betrayed, left suffering and abandoned.

But the love you want is to lay more stones upon the tomb you're in.

Again, what shall we do? To stay in this frozen place

is to toil e're against a dreadful foe, our love who turns her face

    on all who'd try to help her see the awful mount she's built.

    We cannot smile and praise your work, your solution to the guilt

of other's sins past, as if by evil, the evil we'd erase.

The storm you flee is real enough; icy grip on all our hearts,

with cruel wind and hail it has lingered on, but perhaps we see the start

    of a change, a pause, perhaps a glow in skies above the peaks

    The hope within, hope from above, all that we each so seek.

But from the depths, you may not know when clouds begin to part.

Admittedly my own hope for you is lost, or all but gone,

I cannot see how, that from the deeps, you can breath clean air again.

    Yet you are not the only one who builds dark mountains high,

    the Savior knows, that each of us, will never cease to try.

So of that hope, which I've received, I must hope too for you,

that the hand which saves us is still the one that makes the mountains move.