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HOLOCAUST EYES
Holocaust eyes peering through the darkness,
a membrane of despair covering my harrowing
cosmos,
lacerated eyes looking for my G-d, Hashem,
lonely eyes, dripping anguished disbelief,
seeking salvation,
as shards of unbearable sadness slip down my
scarred face, off the cliff of battered flesh and
into a Void where all dreams vanish, end.
Still, I search for my G-d, Hashem,
as my eyes peer through the darkness
and I see
only broken glass and 6 million bones
scattered across the human wasteland.
I remember Kristallnacht, the
Night of Broken Glass, and the
Holocaust.
I shall never forget the past, for I
see with Holocaust eyes.
- Mel Waldman
(added 05.14.09)
WAITING FOR HASHEM, MY G-D
Waiting for Hashem, my G-d, I pray to Him;
even when I do not believe,
I pray,
&
speak to the Void, the vast emptiness,
the Without End;
even when my faith is weak, as fragile as a
baby dove without her mother,
I pray,
&
wait for Hashem, as He waits for me to reach
into the Void and listen to the mystical silence,
I pray;
as I empty my mind and prepare for memalleh,
the filling of the Void,
I pray;
even when my faith is buried deep within my
psyche,
I pray;
&
speak to the vast silence, asking my unknowable
G-d to give me strength, to face all that I must
face with courage and honor,
as I merge with the eternal flow of life and become
one with it,
I pray,
a Jewish man often frightened and terrified by the
sundry shapes of evil, but through prayer-empowered
to speak out against heinous crimes,
as I contemplate the unfathomable Holocaust,
waiting for Hashem, my G-d.
- Mel Waldman
(added 05.14.09)
RESURRECTION MAN
I died in the winter of my despair. Yet in
the spring of sacred beginnings, I was reborn.
In the pristine moment of my 1st birth,
Hashem, my G-d, blessed me with
His divine breath, and in a cosmic kiss,
He created my celestial soul, my neshama, and
I came into being too, a human child with flesh
and spirit, nourished by the mysterious soul,
I came into being.
Through the eerie years of unexpected joy and
sorrow, and uncanny coincidences, colliding in the
cosmos of my life,
I was reborn again and again in the spring of holy
creation.
And I imagine that before my final death, I shall
die a thousand deaths on earth, for each day, injustice
and other evils murder my wounded soul, tearing my
flesh too with toxic despair.
Reborn with each magical sunrise, I am Resurrection Man.
But who shall I be when I am dead and dust once more?
Shall I rise from the earth and fly through the mystical air,
mere dust scattered over human existence? Perhaps,
Hashem will bless me with His divine breath, and in a
cosmic kiss, recreate my celestial soul, contained within the
holy sparks of barren dust, blessed and belonging to Hashem,
my G-d. If it is His will, I will drift in the turquoise sky,
seeking redemption and rebirth, yearning for eternal life,
discovering that even dust has a right to be, for it too comes
from Hashem, my G-d.
- Mel Waldman
(featured in the poetry forum 05.14.09)
OUT OF THE STORM
Out of the storm, the little man emerges,
searching the snow-covered park for a
park bench or gazebo or any unoccupied
spot to call home.
Like a magus suddenly appearing out of
nowhere, the stranger seems to come out
of the eye of the storm,
released from the womb of the blizzard, a
child being born into his earthly existence.
And now, beneath the fierce, flowing
whiteness that engulfs him, almost
swallowing his fugitive soul,
he prays silently to the Beyond
and the Within, grasping faith
in the Nothingness, a whirling
ball of emptiness in which one
is consumed and then resurrected
before vanishing into dust.
- Mel Waldman
(featured in the poetry forum 04.17.09)
EVERYTHING IS FOR THE GOOD
I ride the Manhattan subways at all hours. Often, I read
or write or close my dark eyes and drift off to a distant
place of peace.
But aggressive strangers interrupt my serenity and lacerate
my soul. Even Transcendental Meditation™ cannot save
or release me.
And I drop into a deep hole of despair and rage. Like a
caged animal, I’m ready to roar and rip
the interlopers.
But with my parched lips, I pray silently or in a whisper
to my G-d Hashem.
Sometimes I count to 10 or 100 or simply walk away.
Kabbalists say that everything is for the good.
Who knows?
I’m a man of peace and rage too. On this day, I restrain
the caged animal inside.
How long will it hide?
How long?
- Mel Waldman
(added 04.17.09)
LATE AT NIGHT
Late at night, when I’m tired and depleted,
my soul ripping and bleeding after seeing
my last patient,
I rest for a few empty, mindless minutes
before my long trek home.
For I wear the wounded souls of my patients.
I need time to strip naked.
I need quiet time.
After clocking out with my wrinkled right hand,
still clutching the day’s darkness,
I cross the dark street
and wait for the 39 bus, across from the nursing
home.
Yet often, I walk one block to the 36. And I wait.
Eventually, I leave the Bronx community health center
behind, and take the 36 or 39 to Parkchester, and the
6 train to 125th Street.
In the train, I tell myself I’m leaving my traumatized
patients behind.
Once on the train, I meditate and try to cleanse the chaotic
landscape of my psyche. But on my dark journey, a
homeless man appears and all the heavy cares of the day
return. Already, I’ve given too much, I think. Closing my
lacerated eyes, dwellers of the darkness, I obliterate the
tattered man.
At Atlantic Avenue, I transfer to the Q train. And it takes me
home. At Kings Highway, I enter Citibank and someone
slithers in behind me. Turning abruptly,
I see the homeless man clinging to a large, dirty white bag.
Still wearing the wounded souls of my patients and drowning
in a traumatic sea of guilt,
I search for change.
In a minuscule moment, my right hand clutches the loose coins
and removes them from my pants pocket. But when I try to
give the coins to the homeless man,
I discover he’s gone.
Smelling his foul odor, I search the tomblike room, and find him
in a distant corner, covered in dirty blankets, his vacant eyes
peering out at me.
Next to the mound of blankets is an empty tin cup. I drop the
coins in the cup, and for a moment, listen to the stranger snoring.
We’re both spent and it’s time to sleep and dream of a better
world. A container of the day’s darkness, I breathe heavily
and saunter off into the night.
I’m heading home.
- Mel Waldman
(added 04.17.09)
WINDOW OF MIRACLES
Looking out my high bedroom window, above the city,
I watch a gold ball of light emerging and spreading and
rising in the east.
Wearing a celestial smile, I open my window of miracles,
and let yellow-gold waves of light sail through, caressing
the potted plants on the windowsill and blessing me in the
mad swirl of dawn with its heat and beauty and vision.
Elated, I gaze through my magical window and feast on
the mind-expanding panorama before me.
Bathing in the kaleidoscopic light of the sun, I taste the
glorious heat of the sun and its luscious colors of hope-
yellow, gold, yellow ocher, saffron, chartreuse, banana
and lemon; orange, ocher, apricot and tangerine; purple,
amethyst, lilac, violet and plum; and the fluid hot colors
anoint my face with love.
I see Mother’s gold eyes gazing at me from Heaven, her
lips whispering: I believe and I let the joy of the new
season enter and kiss my soul.
- Mel Waldman
(featured in the poetry forum 03.26.09)
DARK HOME
Mother took her last breath. Her gold eyes stared at me with love.
But they also revealed something darker, chilling.
Her ancient body, spanning only 5 decades, exploded. And she
vanished in a quiet, cutting moment that severed all earthly ties
with me.
Possessed by a rending sadness that ripped my soul, I shrieked
and wailed and raged against my G-d who took my angel from
this house of light.
I struggled to fathom the incomprehensible. I failed.
After Mother’s death, I said the Mourner’s Kaddish every day at the
Tree of Life, my family’s synagogue for generations.
The rituals of mourning did not comfort me. The grief was unbearable.
Vowing never to return, I left my father’s house one morning, before
sunrise, and entered the vast world beyond.
Yet over the surreal years of my life, a dreamlike second in the mysterious,
oceanic universe that sustains me, I have often returned home, sometimes
at dawn or late at night in my dreams.
Now, with much sadness and shards of trauma piercing my anguished inner
child, I re-enter the dark, beautiful home of my youth. You see, I left my
wounded soul there.
I’ve returned again and again to bless it and breathe love into its fragile,
ghostly spirit. But soon, I will kiss its beauty and carry it out of the
antediluvian house. Tonight, we will sleep together under the stars,
a few steps from the Tree of Life.
- Mel Waldman
(added 03.26.09)
JOURNEY TO THE HOUSE OF THE LIVING DEAD
In my mind’s eye, I watch a golden sunrise, stroll along the
Promenade, and dance across the Brooklyn Bridge.
I’m a kid again and Superman too, flying over the Manhattan
Bridge, zigzagging and sailing over the Hudson and East Rivers.
I’ve got a rendezvous in Grand Central Station. Inside its vast
universe, my journey will begin.
I live in the Light but I’m compelled to penetrate the Darkness and
search for the House of the Living Dead.
Inside the surreal station, an old man finds and guides me through an
underground kingdom. He clutches a flashlight and points it at the
pitch-black Darkness.
We travel through a secret Labyrinth into the bowels of the earth.
After a long journey, we arrive at the House of the Living Dead.
A mob of lost souls waits for me. As we enter, they shriek in
unison.
We move a few feet and stop. The others form an impenetrable
barrier. We cannot pass through. Yet the old man cries out:
“Separate!”
And miraculously, these creatures of the Darkness move simultaneously,
and soon, like the parting of the Red Sea, the room opens
up. Now, there is a path in the center.
We scurry down the narrow passage and enter a back room called the
Sanctum Sanctorum. It is a tiny room, my little tomb, containing two
wooden chairs and two wooden coffins.
Here, I will meet the others one by one. The winners of the Lottery will
see me first. The losers will wait indefinitely.
Now, the old man leaves. He does not say goodbye, nor will he return to
show me the way back. You see, I’m home.
My mission is to penetrate their Darkness. I must save their souls, for their
salvation is my redemption. If not, I am damned!
Late at night, listen to the dark silence. Close your eyes and perhaps, you will
find my secret house, and in the back room, you may find me too, sitting with
the Living Dead.
- Mel Waldman
(added 02.28.09)
A QUARTER-TO-12 AT THE MIRAGE ON VALENTINE’S DAY
A quarter-to-12 at the Mirage on Valentine’s Day, we sit in the all-night
Brooklyn diner and play old songs on the Compact Disc, nostalgic songs
of our youth.
We listen to “Chances Are,” “It’s Not for Me to Say,” “Misty,” and other
songs sung by Johnny Mathis, followed by “My Funny Valentine,”
“Fly Me to the Moon,” and “All The Way” sung by Frank Sinatra.
An old-fashioned couple, we hold hands across the gold table in our
ostrich-leathered booth. The red rose we received when we entered the
Mirage lies diagonally across the table.
For a few moments, perhaps, we dream of Yesterday and the surreal
passage of time, rushing forth almost at the speed of light. It’s much
like a dream, this phantasmagoric sequence of events labeled Life.
My beloved, whom I gaze at with awe and tenderness, trust and passion
and unparalleled love, remembers magical nights by Niagara Falls, when
she watched the fierce beautiful waters, illuminated by dazzling lights,
cascade down in strips of pastel colors.
“Niagara Falls is one of the wonders of the world,” she whispers. “I suppose
it’s like Time itself, a mysterious Force galloping across the universe like an
unbridled mustang.”
“We can’t stop it!” I cry out.
“Who wants to, my dear? Don’t you recall?”
Her dark brown eyes, soft and hypnotic, capture and swallow me and I whirl
and swirl in the wild universe of our love. And I remember how Time brought
us together, blessing us with the gift of love.
And I reflect: Time is cruel; it is gentle and beautiful too. Time is a beast that
devours human flesh and dreams; it is also a guardian angel that feeds our flesh
and soul.
Time is a unicorn rushing across the dreamscape of our imagination and a mirage
in the vast desert of human existence.
Yes, I remember how Time anointed us with drops of divinity. But is it real?
Are we?
Inside the Mirage, we enter a timeless dimension of pure love and vanish.
- Mel Waldman
(featured in the poetry forum 02.28.09)
THE GARDEN OF EVIL
Within each man and woman, buried in the wasteland of the psyche,
is a secret Garden of Evil. I know. I’ve wandered into this dark
garden again and again.
Wild black flowers flourish and I see Death, a Shadow dancing in the
dreamscape, a ghost that transforms itself into any image, now
disguised as a beautiful ballerina dancing around me,
tempting me to touch its gentle fierce hands, kiss its gaudily painted
red lips and enter the Void.
I see Trauma, a severed heart whirling and swirling in the wind.
Suddenly, the wind becomes a Shakespearian Tempest and in a
Kafkaesque metamorphosis, my secret garden is transformed into
a vast, bleak traumascape, evoking chilling memories of Auschwitz.
I cry uncontrollably, howling in the unholy night.
I remember the Holocaust.
I see Despair, dead peacocks in 12 wooden coffins, broken, grotesque
peacock feathers bent over frozen wood. The 12 coffins form a circle,
surrounding the Black Dahlia, a female corpse of macabre beauty with
long flowing black hair, that lies in a gold coffin above a catafalque.
In the Garden of Evil, her real identity is unknown. Perhaps, she is
the notorious victim, brutally murdered and mutilated by a 20th century
killer. Or is she my dead soul?
Slowly, I approach the fantastic corpse, exquisitely sculptured, and
monstrously enchanting. I must see her. The Black Dahlia beckons me.
Gazing into the vacant eyes of Darkness, I vanish.
- Mel Waldman
(added 02.28.09)
ALONE, ON KRISTALLNACHT
Alone, I travel in a private dreamscape to Yesterday, and enter
the long, endless night, a barren wasteland and a labyrinth from
which there may be no exit.
I taste its sadness, inhale its miasma, the vast loneliness, my
crippled soul, and exhale the eerie, silent ululations trapped
inside my chaotic brainwaves.
Alone, abandoned, and forgotten by humans, I travel with
phantoms in my head, for the dead speak to me on my dark
journey.
My ghosts mumble, whisper, cry, and howl. Inside my
hidden universe, they shriek fiercely, desperately. But I can’t
see them. They exist inside my cavernous brain.
Alone, and surrounded by ghosts, and lost on this savage night
of despair, I doubt the existence of G-d, for my faith has been
shattered, like broken glass.
I’ve returned to the long, brutal night of Kristallnacht, the
Night of Broken Glass (Crystal Night), November 9/10 1938.
And throughout Germany and parts of Austria, the Jews are
persecuted.
I dream this dark dream of Yesterday when Nazi storm troopers
smashed Jewish shop windows and destroyed Jewish homes,
businesses, and synagogues and beat and murdered Jews.
On this evil night, I dream of burning synagogues and thousands
of Jews arrested and sent to concentration camps. Alone, on
Kristallnacht, I dream this harrowing dream.
Inside my psyche, I hold the two children of my soul.
Doubt is my left-brain child. He questions all. Logic
is his G-d.
Faith, my right-brain child, is his twin. Intuition is
his G-d. And on this long, endless night of torment,
Doubt and Faith battle.
Alone, on Kristallnacht, I cannot fathom the nature of evil
nor find G-d amidst the broken glass and shattered souls.
Still I search for Him. I will never stop searching for my
G-d.
- Mel Waldman
(featured in the poetry forum 01.23.09)
ONE MYSTERIOUS MORNING
One mysterious morning at dawn, looking up at a golden sun
and listening to crepuscular creatures, I discovered who I am
and what my mission is.
Expelled from Mother’s womb over half-a-century ago, and
destined to become dust, merging into nothingness, I am a
guest on earth, given the gift of life and the soul-rending
wounds of suffering.
My mission is to heal others and myself and help repair the
fragmented universe. I’m here, I believe, for as long as I’m
supposed to be, according to a divine plan. And the
fulfillment of my will is less important than the incomprehensible
will of the universe, also called the Will of G-d.
I will breathe His cosmic breath until He summons me. Then I
will vanish into the Void that creates, consumes, and recreates.
- Mel Waldman
(added 01.23.09)
THE DAY MY FATHER DIED
The day my father died, over 20 years ago, the sun
still rose in the east and set in the west. I took the
Q train over the bridge into Manhattan, gave my seat
to a pregnant woman who thanked me for being an
old fashioned gentleman, gazed at the glittering sea
below, and got to work early.
But before I sauntered into my office, I looked up at a
golden sun on this glorious day in May and silently
thanked G-d for the gift of life.
The night before, I finished reading Hermann Hesse’s
Siddhartha for the 6th time and contemplated the nature
of father-son relationships. Before going to sleep, I read
a few pages of Steppenwolf and began a dark journey of
self-exploration.
The day my father died seemed like any other spring day
until my sister called and said: “Dad’s gone.”
I did not leave work, for I needed to forget and deny his
death. And since my father passed away in Florida, his
body had to be flown to New York.
I could do nothing but wait. The day my father died, I was
helpless.
Yet the universe continued to dance its cosmic dance, and
the earth chased the sun. The moon still came out that night.
And according to The New York Times and the evening news,
humans committed heinous acts on my father’s last day. But
I believe that righteous men and women blessed the earth and
others with their kind deeds the day of his departure. It’s a
well kept secret. We hide the beautiful stuff from each other.
The day my father died, I felt everything, lost everything,
died and was reborn, and my invisible universe changed
forever.
I must confess that I loved and hated him, condemned and
forgave him before his death. And the day his soul vanished,
his body still and cold, I blessed and forgave him once more.
I needed to let go and love. The act of forgiveness saved my life.
No one noticed, however. The world went on as usual, indifferent
to one man’s death or another’s search for his soul.
- Mel Waldman
(added 01.23.09)
THE JUDGE
The darkness devours his compassion. Alone at night,
wearing a red and gold robe, he sits in his sacred chair
and contemplates the snake, the spiraling evil that
surrounds and smothers him in his private interior
courtroom.
After 50 years of passing Judgment, the Judge is an
empty receptacle, flesh without spirit, for the serpent
has swallowed the last vestige of his soul, a shard of
kindness swept away by the fierce winds of Judgment.
The old merciless Judge embraces a harsh Justice of
severity and restriction. Grinning sardonically in the
pitch-black darkness, he is fully aware of his power.
Perhaps, he thinks he is G-d. Of course, he does.
His vacant eyes gaze at the ancient snake that grips his
throat. And he eats his omnipotent delusions, the juicy
fruit of grandiosity. Inside his secret courtroom, the
raging fires of Justice burn the white and silver flowers
of Mercy buried deep in his wasteland.
The invisible fires burn throughout the soulless night.
- Mel Waldman
(added 01.07.09)
REDEMPTION
On this endless night of good and evil, I travel across a private
Waste Land of chaos and despair no other human can cross or
see, on my journey through Hell in search of Heaven.
I seek redemption and forgiveness. Yet I do not remember my
sins. Like an ancient philosopher, I ask:
Who am I? What is the source of this unbearable guilt, the foul
cloth that covers my broken soul?
Have I committed heinous crimes? Or am I an innocent man?
I pass through a Labyrinth of Judgment in search of the Truth.
Scorching eyes watch me and burn a hole in my psyche.
Icy eyes stab me with shards of frozen thoughts and feelings.
Yellow, green, blue, indigo, orange, and red eyes penetrate
the crumbling edifice of my soul.
Black, ebony, coal, sable, sloe-black, charcoal and
cobalt, lapis lazuli, sapphire, turquoise, azure
and brown, ocher, sepia, sorrel, sienna, umber, auburn,
copper, chestnut, cinnamon, walnut, bronze, mahogany,
rust, cocoa, chocolate, coffee,
and slate, silver, gray
and emerald green, olive
and ocher, tangerine, apricot
and purple, puce, magenta, amethyst, violet, lilac, plum
and cinnabar, rouge, pink, ruby, madder, maroon, crimson, blood,
and gold
surround me, enclose me, and cut through my fragmented
being with the gaze of fire and ice,
ice and fire.
Perhaps, I will discover the incomprehensible. Yet I fear I
will never understand, trapped forever in Hell,
shrieking one reverberating word into the
unknowable Labyrinth-
Why?
- Mel Waldman
(added 01.07.09)
BRONX RHAPSODY
IN RED, BLUE, & WHITE
Dark songs sung in the ghetto sky,
private lyrics, eerie beats,
a Bronx rhapsody sweeping across
the winter dreamscape,
&
screeching seagulls swooping down
on the multicolored landscape,
sailing across the seething waste land
in The Boogie Down Bronx,
a cornucopia of raw emotions,
trapped in a Bronx rhapsody
in red, blue, & white
in The Boogie Down
&
reverberating rhythms sweeping
across the South Bronx,
hip hop beats swooping down,
blood gushing from the crimson sky,
&
ghetto folks singing the blues or listening to
D.J. Clive Kool Herc Campbell,
Creator of Hip Hop,
&
Hip Hop emerged in the South Bronx,
in a Bronx rhapsody
in red, blue, & white
in The Boogie Down
where the Bloods wear red,
the Crips wear blue,
&
dreamers wear pristine white
until they’re shot dead in a
186 or 187 (murder or homicide).
Dark songs sung in the ghetto sky,
reverberating beats in The Boogie Down,
seagulls descending, gunshots flying,
&
Hip Hop gave birth to a Bronx rhapsody,
a red rhapsody of blood,
a blue rhapsody of despair and soul death,
a white rhapsody of hope and dreams,
&
ghetto folks buried the dead in a white coffin
for eternal rest.
- Mel Waldman
(added 01.07.09)
STILL LIFE IN DEATH VALLEY
Still life speaks to us. Yet we do not listen.
We wander across the human landscape,
oblivious of the secret universe. Still
life surrounds us, caresses our spirit,
and yet we do not see.
In the city, metaphysical objects with healing
scents are everywhere and reveal the hidden
universe. But we do not inhale their pure
odors. We sing the blues, swallow the
ubiquitous sadness and exhale rage.
Still life speaks to us. Yet we do not listen.
Drifting across the Waste Land, I leave my
urban companions behind. Alone, I descend
into Death Valley and breathe its dry, hot
vastness, the dark emptiness of the Void.
And yet, when I surrender to the circular silence
that engulfs me, I feel a divine presence. And I
listen to the still life in Death Valley.
What or who are they? I do not know. But now,
I see their invisible holy sparks and inhale the
celestial flow of the universe, merging with the
Ein Sof, the Ultimate Nothingness, the
Without End.
In a cosmic breath and kiss, I become one with
Hashem, my unknowable G-d of love.
- Mel Waldman
(added 12.23.08)
A G-DLESS PLACE
On a dog day afternoon, I stroll east along Kings Highway. The heat
is oppressive, almost 90. My mind rushes off to a cool sanctuary,
leaving my weary body behind. As I continue to saunter along the
avenue, I feel like a man trapped in a nightmare, struggling to escape
from his prison, willing himself to run away, but only able to run in
place or suddenly paralyzed and helpless. I dream of flying but I feel
like I’m trudging across the desert. Observers may see only a man going
for a stroll.
Soon, I pass an old homeless man sitting on the sidewalk. Sweating heavily,
I stop and gaze at the man. He looks odd. And the longer I stare at him, the
more peculiar he seems. Is he real and human? Or is he an alien or a ghost?
Soon, I watch him change. And after his sudden, dark metamorphosis, he-it
seems to beckon me.
His face is gaunt, but he looks like Santa Claus with a long
white beard. He has no hair on his head, and it glitters
beneath a sprawling sun. Partly hidden beneath 3 torn blankets,
he shakes violently. Then suddenly, he is still.
Is he dead?
Brooklyn’s a g-dless place at times, without a trace of humanity.
It’s a wasteland of lost souls unaware of the death inside.
But you can’t hide from Hell!
Well, for a long, chilling moment, I study the stranger.
And soon, I listen to his cutting, heavy breaths. He is
alive and magically slicing a piece of my soul for lunch.
Horrified but curious, I almost talk to him. But on this
soulless day, I’m frozen in the heat of despair.
He’s one of G-d’s children, I remind myself. And of course,
G-d created him in His image. Yes, Hashem created him
and all other creatures in the universe.
But peering out at the tattered creature from inside the cage
of my existence, I can’t make sense of his being. Certainly,
he’s no king. Yet he wears my son’s eyes.
(Is it by chance or design that his eyes are the same color as my son’s?
I can’t fathom why or how he came to wear my boy’s eyes. Of course,
I too wear his eyes.)
Instinctively, like a frightened beast, I rush off, obliterating
him from the landscape of my psyche.
I’m free, I tell myself, until a crazy thought emerges in my
private wasteland:
Who created G-d?
The idea or question is not mine.
My son asked me this trick question, a cosmological conundrum,
a few days before he died last year.
“Don’t know, son,” I said to my boy. “It’s the mystery of existence-
the secret of life and death.
Peering through the darkness of my psyche, I see my son’s hazel eyes.
And I shriek silently the Sphinx’s answer to the divine puzzle:
Man!
- Mel Waldman
(added 12.23.08)
REPETITION COMPULSION
I sit with my patients in the eerie Office of Oblivion,
a dark place for sufferers beneath the earth, and listen
to the horrific tales of their lives,
the traumatic tessellations of a repetitive past, a mosaic
of distressing patterns that occur again and again inside
the dark labyrinth of their existence.
And I hear their ululations, the haunting shrieks of babies
and children trapped in the unforgiving past, tortured by
loved ones or strangers, and devoured within the spiraling
circle of the snake again and again, for the past is now and
always, until it is released in a dark but illuminating moment
of miracles, and launched into the unfathomable universe.
We sit together in my subterranean Office of Oblivion, and I
listen to the voices of repetition compulsion that speak of an
ancient time of trauma.
And the voices reveal the meaning of despair and hopelessness
and victimization. But still, in the deep silence that follows the
cutting words of trauma, a hidden mosaic of hope and mastery
emerges, creating time and space for life, releasing death, an
antediluvian prison of the past, into the vast universe beyond.
- Mel Waldman
(added 12.04.08)
RUDE AWAKENING
Upon awakening from a dream of terror,
I see things as they really are, not as
others wish or dream or believe,
but as I perceive, for there is no reality
except for my creations-my thoughts,
emotions, and behavior;
my wishes, dreams, and visions.
I am the creator of my universe. No matter
what others think or say about me, no matter
what evil flows my way, like an invisible
storm that sweeps across my broken soul,
my response to the outside world defines
who I am.
I am a man. Probably, you’ve never heard of
me. My pseudonym is Marvin Einstein. I
share the universe with billions of people.
Like you, I am a harrowed human responsible
for my life although I have little or no control
over external events. Yet within the sacred
landscape of my bewildering soul, I choose-in
every mysterious moment of my existence-how
to experience and interpret my life.
Like you, I struggle each day, always striving to
transcend the traumas of my daily existence and
craving the ubiquitous beauty of the universe.
And it is a rude awakening to realize that reality
does not exist. Indeed, I too do not exist. Every
moment I create and recreate who I am and the
world around me.
Every nanosecond that I breathe-inhaling and
exhaling reality-is exciting and frightening, for
every vital moment is a metamorphosis and a
rude awakening, sudden death and enlightenment
too.
- Mel Waldman
(added 12.04.08)
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