but sadly I am re-posting it in memory of those
lost this week in the Samoan Islands.
Death came this morning
even as the Sun was shining on little children,
even as their tiny hands sifted sand at the ocean’s shore.
Death came
like the Beast that was promised
from ages past,
up from the deep,
cracking the shell of the ocean floor
reaching its fierce tentacles out . . . out
over land,
over houses,
crashing steel and wood and glass,
raging salted terror and devastation
like a holocaust called forth
from the bowels of the earth.
Bodies are floating like dead trees
washing up on the shore
and above the waves . . . the sound of wailing mothers.
Where are you, my father?
Where is the house that you built with your hands?
Where are you, my sweet baby,
torn from my arms by the hungry devil sea?
I cannot find you,
your small body to lay in the ground
that I’ve covered with flowers.
I want to remember the life I once knew,
but instead I will dream forever
of the raging ocean wall
that rose and tore you from my arms.
I could not hold you, little one,
the waves, so strong, took you away
and I am alone now without my heart
without even a smile for the Sun
who lied that morning saying, “All is well.”
Joanne Cucinello 12/26/2004
