I go through life verklempt;
No feeling is exempt —
I wince, I cry, and my breath dies
At each suicide attempt.
I mourn the deaths of loves, yours and mine;
My thoughts largely unkempt;
With pictures zoetroping through my mind,
I go through life verklempt.
Childrens’ laughs lacerated by bullets or bombs,
Or starved, or drowned or burned;
I blame myself, my clothes I rend,
For all I can’t prevent;
I go through life verklempt.
Hiroshima & Babi Yar, Tulsa & Nanking;
Vaporized or demonized,
Inhumanity. The same thing.
Horrors pent-up, then unvented —
I go through life verklempt.
If I could stop one child from dying,
From illness or abuse;
If I could melt all guns and ammo,
To put to better use.
If I could unlock Ferlinghetti’s
“Dark Bodegas of the Self;”
If we could reach inside your darkness,
Offering a hand, a heart, some help.
If we could cure all hate and harm,
Each day, each act well spent,
Then all the catches in my throat,
Emotions, that they represent —
Have served the purpose of living,
For which compassion is meant.
I go through life, verklempt.