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Member Since: Nov, 2007

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by eMPapaCee

Saturday, November 17, 2007
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Recent poems by eMPapaCee
•  MIDNIGHT - Manhattan, January
           >> View all 6

a mediator's song

The room is strangely still as he
Tells them slowly who will try
To stop their crippled deal,
And why that effort might succeed.

No one says a word as he
Looks for answers through a book
Of tables, all compiled to still
The growing opposition.

Disguised as silence,
Sound surrounds us as we watch
His shaking hands
Struggle with the sheets
Of worthless, greying plans,
Looking for redemption.

The air, unending, pushes through the walls;
Brief voices, whispered, in dim and narrow halls,
Now blend into the throaty rumbling of
A distant, lifting plane.

And I, knowing that my part will soon begin,
Wonder who has made this man of tin
Look and speak to us this way,
And if some small and gentle hand
Will touch his painful face,
So softly in the night, as if to say
"Don't worry, Bill. It will all work out o.k."

I know that I should never see him
As the owner of a soul
That bleeds from bloodless inner cuts
Or, worse yet, think how must
His endless trip back home
Feel so deadly grim.

Now, I speak, and hear my voice
Echo in another place, where homes are broken
And disgrace is the only decoration.

"What is it that we truly need
To have as ours to close the day.
Save that and nothing else."

Now, they speak
And speaking, kill
What little spirit he has left.
They nod and smile, so glad that he
Will be the one to suffer.

I wonder as I hear the room
Dissolve into a dozen strident voices
That consume him like a meal,
When will I be the one to feel
My ashen face turn paler still as they
Reduce me down and make me thinner
Than a soul should ever be.

And as they stand to leave the room
He turns to me to start to speak
But stops because he sees my face
And knows my answer will erase
All hope;

But then,
Without intending to,
I extend my hand,
And, surprised,
Hear myself, nodding, say,
"I'll see what I can do."

We live suspended in this place
Far from those who feel the need
To tell us lies that bring us grace,
That bring us comfort and degrees
Of all too fleeting joy

My love, this has become my home
And these, the family who appear
Before me day by day,
Until the crack of doom
Will take me to another room,
Where I will stand and hear,
"What is it that we truly need
To give as ours to close the day.
Only this we take away;
This and nothing else."

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Reviewed by Charlie 11/17/2007
This is bar none, the most beautiful poem about work I've ever encountered. Your word combos are amazing, yet soft. It shows humanity, and an inner peace--so far from the hussle-bussle that usually typifies writings/movies of this nature. Encore, Encore! --Charlie
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