These
days, I seem to be collecting waifs
like
others collect stamps
or the numbers of trains.
It’s
a queer hobby, I know,
and not one I’d recommend!
Unless
you have a strong heart
and much time to lend.
They
pop up as unknowns
at the foot of my screen,
urgently
requesting
my immediate attention.
Sometimes
I am glad of the company;
sometimes
I am glad to be in demand,
for
it gets lonely in my basement study
now
that I am home alone,
with time at hand.
Sometimes
the request
is an interruption of thought
or
a distraction from
one endeavour or another.
Sometimes
a moment
of solace is besought,
sometimes
advice
as from an elder brother.
Always
there is a need,
always a life is fraught.
Always
there is pain,
always there is despair.
Generally,
they are reticent
and coy at first;
but
all it really takes
is an invitation to share
A
“how can I help?” or a “how are you?”
and
a whole sad life-story out does spew.
Some
of death too much have seen,
Some
by parent abandoned have been.
Some
fear rejection for telling their truth.
Some
condemn themselves
for being uncouth.
Some
with guilt and self-despite
are burdened.
Some
are so angry and
with violence consumed.
Some
feel wound up tight
and fit to burst.
Some
feel unloved
and for love sorely thirst.
Some
have broken hearts
that will not mend.
Some
see too clearly of this life the end.
Some
feel empty and so, so sad.
Some
feel wicked and so, so bad.
Some
despair of finding peace.
Some
in self-harm seek poor release.
Some
seek solace in vodka or rhy.
Some
their death themselves do try.
Each
bares the scars of despite.
Each
one cowers in the night:
frightened
of the darkness
that
lurks there as a sickness
threatening
in its slickness
to
overwhelm their soul
and
render them unwhole.
I
do what little I can to help and mend.
I
listen, affirm and tell them I understand
(Because
I do understand,
for I have been there.
I
have ridden the bucking nightmare.
I
have felt the gut-wrenching sorrow,
with
no prospect of a dawning morrow.
I
have had my full share of strife.
I
have at times lost faith with life.)
I
try to give them hope,
when faith they do not know.
I
tell them they are loved;
that mercy they must show;
and
that they must themselves
forgive and loose the guilt
that
holds them fast and
has a fortress round them built.
I
tell them life can be
a glorious exaltation
something
of sturdy
and stalwart stone and ice:
something
of fluid
and playful conflagration
varied
and multiform,
yet stable and precise:
an
intimation and disclosure
of heavenly eternity
thrusting
forcefully and surely
into earthly futility.
So
much sorrow, so much pain.
So
many people lost and forlorn.
So
many people in need.
So
many souls to feed.
So
little that I can do;
but
I do what I can, will you?