Poetry Of Milo Tsukroff
The Unclosed Wound
Every time I want to make a page
That honors my little boy who died
I am consumed with grief again
My chest feels all funny inside
I asked, "Lord, why won't this wound heal?
"It's been two years since he's been gone.
"Why all the tears? Why do I feel
"Like this grief is never done?"
I heard His Spirit whisper, deep in my soul,
"My wounds have also never healed.
"I've left you, wounded, less than whole,
"So that in you I can be revealed."
What can I answer to my King,
God of the Universe, Love revealed?
I can only bow before him, knowing
That only in Him am I healed.
Copyright (C) 2000 by Milo Tsukroff
21 June 2000
We Are The Survivors
We are the Survivors
But we can't be proud
Of what we have gone through,
What life has allowed
We hold our heads high
With smiles on our faces
We seem to cope well
And go through the paces
But if you could see
Behind our bright smile
You would see all our wounds
How we hurt all the while
We have seen how dreams die:
One instant wrong choice
Shatters dreams to despair
Now we mourn, not rejoice
We are walking wounded
Though we stumble and fall
Yet the Lord lifts us up
Carries us through it all
We have gone through the valley
Where grinning Death waits
We have been through the channel
Of pain's lonely straits
Through rivers of tears
And the pain of our loss
We continue to live
Without Death as our boss
With lives that are shattered
By Evil revealed
We keep right on living --
Until we are healed
Copyright (C) 2000 by Milo Tsukroff
5 May 2000
I Will Help You
I am someone with a wound that will not heal.
Look on me - Though my flesh appear perfect,
See? I have a deep ragged torn weal,
That yearns for my lost child,
Exposing a tender beating heart.
A young man shot down in the street,
A school girl run over by a car,
A baby, innocent, that somebody beat,
A pregnancy that, desperately wanted,
Never made it far:
I see their parents on the news each day,
New members of our association.
With tears I take the time to pray.
I welcome them with shared sorrow,
Not elation.
I, though living, have died too,
I know their agony, their despair.
I know the depths they will go through,
The numbness, the denial, the emptiness --
I have already been there.
So when I see you on TV,
All the comfort I can give
Is to say, "It also happened to me --
"I will share your pain -
"And I will help you live."
Copyright (C) 2000 by Milo Tsukroff
12 May 2000
I Dreamed I Walked In Paradise
I dreamed I walked in Paradise,
And there among the isles,
Where perfect summer reigned complete,
I trod white beaches with glad feet,
That stretched out many miles.
But there was one beach not the same:
It was a beach of night.
Black sands, dark waves, a moon on high,
Where nightbirds gave their lovely cry;
I asked, "But is this right?"
"Is this dark scene, in Paradise,
"Misplaced, though beauty-filled?"
He answered, "No mistake was made.
"This beach was always Heaven-laid,
"And central in My will."
"You see," He said, "Now take a look,
"At this unusual sand."
I scooped a handful, held it, amazed,
For there, to my astonished gaze,
Were gemstones in my hand!
He smiled, and pointed to the moon,
The black beach, and the night.
I then remembered how I cried,
But found His living love inside,
As He made all things right.
"This beach," He said, "remembers all
"The dark times you went through.
"Its sands are crystal tears I shed,
"Its ocean is the love I said
"Will always be with you."
Copyright (C) 2000 by Milo Tsukroff
23 December 2000
Streets Of Gold
In heaven there are streets of gold,
As clear as crystal, so they say.
An we, unwilling to be told,
Do not believe words plain as day.
We protest loud, "This can't be true,
For gold is metal hard and cold!"
Well, here's an answer that may do,
Of how to make clear crystal gold:
First, think of how a diamond's made:
You take some charcoal, black as sin,
Heat high, and press it with great weight,
Until it realigns within.
Now, see! The purest, hardest thing
That in this universe can be!
Pure diamond! Which will catch within
Pure light, then throw it out to see!
Now think of gold that's crushed with weight
And heated past the point of pain:
Would it align itself all straight,
And form a tetrahedral grain?
So it must be with that gold,
As pure as crystal, in the ways
of Heaven -- made from Life's strong mold
that crushed us all our living days
And we will walk the golden street,
And we will talk of God's great love,
And we'll rejoice with all we meet,
And only think of things above.
But when we walk those streets of gold,
We'll know from their great clarity,
That they've been formed from pain untold,
Transformed by God's great Charity.
Copyright (C) 2000 by Milo Tsukroff
2 March 2001
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