The Island

  Life on the Island 

Water. 

Snow melted. 

Rains fell. 

Ice broke. 

Rivers flowed. 

Water swirled. 

The world changed. 

Rumors fly. 

People who know, 

But don’t really, 

Telling tales, reporting info, detailing facts 

That are all not true, 

But passed along again, 

As if they were. 

And none of the tales are good, 

Gloom, doom, fears, 

Making it worse than it really is. 

When “really is” is already bad enough. 

And all the while 

All around 

Are men 

And women 

With uniforms 

And tired eyes 

From sleepless nights 

And long hours 

Risking 

Protecting 

Helping 

Guiding 

At the crossroads 

At the floodwaters 

At the sandbags 

At the station 

Ready 

Always ready 

Always busy. 

With their tired eyes 

And their lonely families. 

I look into eyes filled with fear. 

Surviving today, not sure of tomorrow. 

A home across town, unseen for days 

Standing with others in a newly formed lake. 

What waits ahead? What remains? 

No one knows. The worst is feared. 

Then comes word, a glimmer of hope. 

It didn’t reach one marker, is that one alone? 

No one knows. 

No one says. 

No one knows. 

And not knowing, 

Is the hardest thing. 

People huddled, crowded, dazed. 

Children laughing and playing, 

Because that’s what children do, 

Trusting the parent to make sure they’re safe 

While the parent nearby stands in fear. 

“What will happen to me, to my children, to my home? 

When will I learn what has happened so far? 

What are the paths that might be ahead? 

How will I get there? Where will we go?” 

Sometimes the words spoken in foreign tongue. 

Sometimes not spoken at all. 

Sometimes afraid others might overhear, 

Sometimes afraid the words will ring true 

In the ears of the one speaking, and that is all. 

But hoping the words 

Are overheard by someone, 

While hoping they aren’t overheard, 

By the wrong someone. 

Crowds at the airport, 

Crowds bagging sand, 

Crowds standing and waiting for guidance and plans. 

Crowds left like sheep without shepherd or guide, 

Wanting to help, to make a difference, to do SOMETHING, 

Anything. 

Every little thing helps, every effort engaged in with zeal. 

Until someone official declares it doesn’t “fit the guidelines.” 

Who’s in charge? 

Who thinks they are in charge? 

Who demands to be in charge? 

While people wait in line 

For food, 

For shelter, 

For help. 

Forever. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it. And I’ve lived here for years.” 

Repeated over and over 

By people 

As they express the shock, 

Stunned by all around them. 

Others wait. 

They watch. 

They quietly add a touch. 

And they pray. 

Because they know what many forget. 

Or choose to ignore. 

Prayer does matter. 

A church bell rings. 

People gather to worship. 

Something to hold onto, 

Something that is normal 

Something that brings hope 

Something that endures 

When so much is changing, 

And so much is at risk. 

Isolated. 

On an island. 

In a home. 

In a shelter. 

In a basement. 

For now…. 

Others gibber nonsense, 

Worried about foolishness, 

Oblivious to the suffering 

Next door. 

And those next door 

Sit quietly, 

Invisibly, 

Watching, 

Waiting, 

Wondering if anyone will notice, 

Wondering if anyone really cares, 

Wondering, worrying, 

Hoping, despairing, 

Fearing, 

Invisibly. 

Hoping that if anyone DOES notice, 

That it will be the right people, 

But afraid that it might not be, and so, 

It is better to remain invisible. 

Tears. Sobs. 

Softly shaking heads 

Softly shaking shoulders. 

A hug. 

A held hand. 

A listening ear. 

A friend. 

A new friend. 

A lot of new friends. 

And they wait. 

On the island. 

That yesterday was not an island. 

Until the water. 

Melted. 

Fell. 

Broke. 

Flowed. 

Swept. 

Rushed. 

Flooded. 

Around the newly formed 

But temporary 

Island. 

Someone finds a way. 

To make the short trip out, 

Which is no longer a short trip, 

But a major excursion. 

If you can find it, 

And if your car can handle it. 

Someone else finds a way in, 

Somewhere there is a road 

A bridge, 

An escape, 

And a supply route. 

Something survived. 

But no one can go there. 

It is forbidden, 

It is unauthorized, 

It is unsafe, 

It isn’t allowed. 

So they wait, 

And they watch, 

And they wonder. 

And they worry. 

And they ask, 

When the routes, 

Will bring back those, 

Stranded away from us, 

Worried about us, 

Praying for us, 

Missing us, 

And missed by us. 

Soon. 

We hope. 

All the while, for days on end, 

Night and day, 

At all hours, 

Whirring of choppers, 

Buzzing of planes, 

Chugging of boats, 

Back and forth, 

Taking someone somewhere, 

Or bringing them here, 

Yet the town is strangely silent. 

Because the sound that isn’t heard, 

Is a sound that has been heard 

For a century and a half. 

But not now. 

Not here. 

Not five times in the morning, 

Not randomly through the day, 

Not at all. 

Even though, 

That noise is the reason, 

The town even exists, 

The noise of the train, 

Blowing its horn, 

Clicking its connections, 

Roaring down the tracks, 

With cargo, and commerce, and life. 

But not now. 

Not here. 

Not at all. 

Except the dinging of the bells, 

And the flashing of the lights, 

From the crossarms on the street, 

Oddly sounding out 

That today, the tracks are heavy 

With water. 

That melted, 

That fell, 

That broke, 

That swirled, 

And flooded. 

Hope. 

Hope is offered, 

Supplies, freshly stocked shelves, and 

Receding water. 

A little bit. 

Enough to open one road. 

At least for now, 

At least to go check, 

At least to get a little closer, 

To what stands in the flood. 

And then time to sleep 

Or try. 

For a few hours, 

Troubled 

Uncomfortable 

With the odd sounds echoing 

From the air 

As the planes 

And the choppers 

Come and go, 

Just like the sleep 

That eludes. 

And so you write 

A poem. 

Pictures appear 

On the lighted screen 

From the air 

Of the water. 

So much water. 

From the roadways 

Showing lakes 

That were never lakes before. 

And the remnants 

Collapsed roadways, 

Crumbled asphalt 

Broken bridges. 

And suddenly 

You realize 

They are talking about us. 

Those pictures are here. 

Those remnants 

Of roadways, 

Of bridges, 

Of asphalt, 

That is why we 

Are an island. 

For now. 

Word comes. 

Help is going to come. 

People at a distance 

People unknown, 

People who have heard, 

People who have seen, 

Because the news moguls finally decided 

That what happened here matters. 

But the help has to wait. 

Because it is an island. 

For now. 

And the landscape keeps changing, 

Each day. 

And the plans keep changing, 

Each minute. 

Help is going to come. 

Eventually. 

But it is okay. 

Because help is already here. 

We have each other. 

And we are looking out for each other. 

Whether we know the name 

Whether we speak the language 

Whether we are in the same boat 

We are on the same island. 

We aren’t waiting. 

We don’t have to. 

We have each other. 

Despite those who 

Think that only they 

Are the ones who count. 

The rest of us know, 

We have each other. 

Whether or not, 

It meets the guidelines, 

Of those who think that they 

Are the ones who are in charge. 

It is we, 

We, the people, 

We have each other 

And are doing our best 

For each other. 

Even if 

We don’t know the names, 

Or don’t speak the language, 

And aren’t in the same boat, 

We remain together 

On the same island. 

It is a good island to be on. 

With good people. 

And good churches. 

And open hearts. 

And open pantries. 

And open homes. 

And open hands. 

And it is going to be okay. 

Not easy. 

But okay. 

Maybe not today. 

Maybe not tomorrow. 

Maybe not even in a year. 

But it is going to be okay. 

Because there are more good people on this island 

Than people who don’t care, 

And so tomorrow is bright, 

Even if it means 

We have to wait, 

We will wait, 

And work, 

And hope, 

And trust God through it, 

And it will be okay, 

This is Nebraska. 

Richard Crooks 3/19/19