Wiring Diagram

You can stand outside and see the wires,
brought in from who knows where,
power and more, all starting
in this tangle then traveling along paths

you can trace diligently,
clear and never hidden
until they disappear
deep inside the walls.

Inside, you can see them too,
the places they come out, what
they are connected to, how
the bring color and passion

and stories from the outside.
But, for a while, you cannot see them,
they travel secret roads
inside walls and cellars,

Somewhere in history, someone drew a diagram,
tracing each wire, wanting those
who live here to know the paths of power
that fuel so much that happens here.

Too often now, in this old house of over two hundred years,
the lights go out, and it takes something more
than a fuse or a quick call to the power company.
No, something fundimental has been gnawed away,

worn away deep inside, and you have no choice
but to trace the wires, to travel inside the walls, wire
by painstaking wire, until you find the break, until
you find where time and enemies

have worn away and left your house crippled,
like a heart broken, not easily repaired,
until you trace it back to the original wiring diagram,
and reconnect to your source, finding

your way through the labyrinths of a soul
patched and worn, added to and torn asunder
by tenant after tenant, owner after owner,
lovers who have owned your body and soul,

or perhaps just rented it a while,
making their changes, ripping out and replacing,
changing the paint, then leaving, always leaving
you to trace your wires again, and again, and again.

About this poem

This one has my inner geek shining through, I am afraid. I’ve been a guy who loved wiring things since I was a kid. It’s shown in my main work – designing and building TV technology facilities. So the other day, as I rounded the corner of my house where all the electricity, power, cable, direct TV, phones and who knows what come into my house and saw the scene in the picture above. something started rattling around in my head.

And, it appears, it was this poem. Because like any old house, in our lives people touch us, change us, make us, break us, and leave. And we are the ones who have to pick up the pieces and make sure we are connected and whole and functioning.

And at times, depending on how broken we are, that takes help. And time. And thoughtfulness, to reconnect to our core, and then, move forward, whole and empowered yet again.

Tom