(Written after seeing a film of a man on his knees in a heap of ruins, screaming, after the deaths of his wife and daughter by war-time shelling.  It made me think of how I have suffered and cried to heaven, since the death of my very best friend and companion, Brian.)


I know that scream.
A scream that tries to undo reality, futilely;
Knowing it is futile, as it cries;
Whether it is made to the ceiling or the skies;
It does not come as a cry for help—
Because cries for help have been tried too many times,
Before—in hoped-for or even expected helping reply—
But now, the scream is only despair rushing out of the heart,
Through the mouth.  It is an anguished, ancient cry.
Hope has been hammered small, and is quite remote.
The scream harshly husks its way out of the throat;
A loud long wail.  You vaguely wonder: Can the neighbors hear?
Will they complain, or call police?  You don’t really care.
Nothing matters anymore.  All you had is lost in deep despair.
How often do you scream?  Not every day.
Then, one day, you awake;
And all your grief grabs your guts to shake.
Out comes the scream.  You scream and scream and scream,
As if some kind power might make it all a dream;
Only, you know better now.  Still, you scream. 
How long can a scream go?  You don’t really know.
Time is only a walk-way toward the fall. 
Your scream comes out a long loud futile call.
Your tears fall.  Like God’s gracing dew on petals and leaves.
Your heart grieves, your chest heaves, and you are still screaming.
Your eyes are red, your voice is hoarse,
As you lift your hands to heaven.
Your tears fall.  As you scream so loud, they fall silently.
Like God’s silence from the sky.  Your tears fall.
Like dew that adorns the morns; so these are adorning your mourning,
Your grieving mourning that reality scars and scorns.
Your heart has been cut and filled with the world’s scarring and scorning.
But all things, including screams of grief and despair, end at last.
Your present screaming stops; and, at once, it becomes the past.
All that loud screaming.  Was it heard?  By anyone? 
The long loud futile screaming finally ends.  And then--
Silence begins again.


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Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
Aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Tuesday, February 22, 2011  7:00 am PST
Temperature: 38 degrees.   Humidity: 70%  Forecast: overcast
Copyright © 2011 by Michael L.P.  All rights reserved