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Health Death Poems | Death Poems About Health

These Health Death poems are examples of Death poems about Health. These are the best examples of Health Death poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Epic |

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis

ONE WORD~

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my mind,
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my veins,
                                   
A silica odor, dust walks through a fresh desert night, 
Cool air beneath and above the sea.
A warm furnace smell, I don’t understand.
Intricate to rise and receive without knowing.
Up ahead in a virtue distance, 
A mysterious poisonous effluvium light-     
My face feels like a leaf'
My sun holds up its own pendulum rods. 
Inflammation comes and settles in for the night,
There it stands in a pertinacious manner, with quality.  
I resurrect this air created from madness, all over again.
Twilight, rain stranger than strange.
Visions, pursue my path into an infested dark pasture.
"From the red Heaven I fell into the waters of a cobalt Hell"

Perhaps this venerable moment, will pass slower than slow.
PERHAPS NOT!
If I accept, and then decline.
Would this balance the precocious state I live in?
How about when wrong directions follow my promiscuous ways.  
Is my conglomeration of ideas, no longer safe?	
When I no longer value the values of the young.
Will I sleep at the mercy of his ancient heart.
They're the voices give and take from our health. 

Today, those soft, perfect eyes are calling from far away,
Ashes high, vapors and infection welding me.
The bright skies swallow every thin silver line,
Where the clouds sit somehow~ in bacteria….
UNITY! 
YES UNITY! Fantabulously-fantastic!
Always, wanting more than love can touch.

We are living' it up with no alibis!
A way to be and not to BE!
The champagne leaves their cup.
Awaken in a life, disturbed ~ NOW INTERRUPT!
Only in this world, lava will reach her lips.
Prisoners and doers; 
All night…. Too late for a treatment.
Lungs, decaying, evil rats. 
Direction, affection, ending all the inhalation.

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Running through my lungs,
Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, 
Flat-lined my life ____/\ /\___ ___/\______/\___ _______________

By; pd


Details | Narrative |

The Drying Of The Ink

No longer at desk the typewriter has been given 
it's final rest.
As he cant recall the day or year.

The once strong mind is closed the body
but a museum or tribute to what once was.
he his home but locked within himself.

Vist's from thoose who once knew the man 
are like people viewing a body at a wake.
he calls from within the shell for for release.

Yet his lips will not move his voice never sounds.
Inside he burns for the chance to run as the river
chases the sea.

To be the man they never knew and the one he 
could admire and both despise.

The page sits in typewriter like a willing 
eager lover in bed. 
Waitting in stockings that cling to delicate thigh.
the tears escapes it's minds prison.

He thirsts for it like a drunk for that morning drink
of whiskey waitting hands held togather trying
to keep from shaking.

He sits as a painter without hand.
watching the most beautiful sunset fade without 
a chance of ever capturing this moment.

The ink is drying he feels it everyday.
Soon he hopes like the dust that does gather
he will be swept away.


Details | Rispetto |

Purple Horizon Proud

The sun rose bright red not a dark cloud in sight
           Few whispy cotton clouds spread around blue sky
Redtail Hawk in sky left nest for morning flight
          On those cold air currents he did swiftly fly

Door was opened by east north easterly wind
           Letting out illness, death, want_then in comes health
The sun set covered in dense clouds_cold its shroud
           Will it rise in morn purple horizon proud


Details | Free verse |

Dementia

He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
Tough.
Independent.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died, 
he has not been the same.
Sad
Lonely
Empty.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
Mind slipping, 
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it, 
until now...
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain, 
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Oh well...
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best, 
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows 
what happens next.
Sedation
Medication
Anger
Hurt
All results of
dementia


Details | Free verse |

Worst Love Poem Ever Written

I suck at dying poems
Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems,
Hair falling out in the shower poems
 
And I told a half truth
When I told you I could write you one
In less than six months (It's been eight)
I apologize for being so late

 
I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful
Like those ribbons
I see all over the internet
Filled with cheesy generic rhymes
That read like a Hallmark audition

  But already my metaphors are melting
And my similes are getting soft
 I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off

 When I went to Google
And the typed in the word 'happy'
Three billion links came up

Not a single inference to
Breast cancer, hair loss
No redirects to mastectomies
Yahoo wasn't any kinder

 
The only thing research could teach me
Is that a good day on chemo
Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black
And has no blood in it

Or when your urine
Smells better on Wednesday
Than it did on Tuesday

Sleeping less than 12 hours
When 24 would be better

  
America has more poets
Than it does alcoholics
   And Pot smokers combined
And you chose me to be
Your Breast Cancer
Poet Laureate

Trusting me to write a poem
About the biggest battle in your life

So I refuse to finish this poem
Without something bright and hopeful
 
And don't think
I didn't notice your Facebook activity
Had decreased by 88%
In the last three months

 
And you aren't really
Coming to any more of my poetry shows
Ever again. Are you??
But we still have March, April
Don't we?

 
But even if you had one breast
Or no breast

Or if you had less hair than I do
I promise to look only in your eyes
And never ever even notice
Or even think about it

And never for a moment
Would I feel sorry for you

Yes I suck at lying too...

 
But I don't suck at loving you
Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning
 With no Cancer at all
And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside
Your bedroom window...

And I would be right there with you
Holding your hand while we look down on Paris
And you can impress me with your French again

 
And if I ever make it
To the Pulitzer Poetry board
I might lose a thousand points
Just for this poem alone

And my hopes for the prize will be smitten
And some old person 
With white hair will say
That was the worst love poem ever written


Details | Free verse |

Senility

The rainbow of reason ends
With a pot of gold and jabberwocky.
When hippocampus dwells in solitary,
       silent,
              eerie,
                    forgotten dormitories
of the expatriated mind.


In planned visits 
To familiar spaces,
When elapsed faces are still hailed with fervor, 
         and hasty,		
                 eager,
                      vivid candor,
As though they had never gone.


Deep in thought
In cavernous bowels tangled lost, 
Remote repartees recurring restlessly. 
          Cautious,
                      wary,
  	                    and ever leery	
of echoing footsteps anxiously nearing, as though someone might overhear. 


As even eyes fail to mirror
The twilight of past vigor,
Speaking in feeble voices muddled beneath walls,
            beneath walls,
	           beneath walls,
	                     beneath walls.
Walking politely in ancient, and empty, imaginary halls.


The stars stop still and unfleeting
Listening to last breaths, and the heart’s last beating,
To hearken timid last words from the past's last illusions,
            past apparitions,
                         past veritas
                                   past delusions,
Where celestial alae still go a-flutter with lost aspirations.


When the frail hand that once held and sheltered
Cannot even rattle dandelion clocks,
Or crush delicate imago wings into dust,
          and caress, 
                  and feel,
                           and touch, 
Save for Elysian veldts
Where the rainbow of reason ends.



Details | Free verse |

Bill


R.I.P. William Dale Eubanks
d. July 1, 2012, aged 68 yrs., Tennessee Ridge, Tennessee

Death came as no surprise
the first Sunday in July;
it claimed you, on a ridge in Tennessee,
with kin who took you in and waited with you
through the last hard days.
You kept what fears you had well hid,
did not betray with loud complaint
the fate you could not but know awaited.
A smile, a joke, a hug – exotic meals –
And genuine interest greeted all you met.
And you were, certainly, never boring
but well-traveled and smart
beyond the telling.
We’ll miss your wit, your bright demeanor,
and will remember all you freely gave ---
and what you took from us
with your passing.


Details | Ekphrasis (Ecphrasis) |

Black Sunday {Personification in Couplet form}

I was as high as the eyes could see
A giant dark cloud of pure misery

I seemed to roll as one with the wind
A giant black wall that had no end

I stripped the land and left it bare
Of the lives I destroyed, I didn’t care

Those who stayed I covered in dust
As their children died I broke their trust

From my hell many families did flee
Left to wander homeless in misery

I changed the word these words are true 
Black Sunday brought darkness on you


I didn't see any direct link but just goggle
pictures of the dust bowl and you will see
what i have written for Brian's Contest.
The Dust Bowl - Alexandre Hogue - 1937


Details | Imagism |

Guilty Reflection

Looking dead at me in this smeared mirror...
a lost man
tormented
face red
brittle
and teared

stacking excuses 
the longer I stare
this stress abuses 
my conscience with a glare

a guilty reflection warns
my mind is the prison I fear
as I long to escape 
from the  hell I dwell in
right here

who have I become? 
what have I done right?
crossroads appear suddenly 
as fog fills the mirror tonight

darkness owning the room,
prefers I suffer slow
so I proceed with speed 
because it’s the only way I know

tasteless stories
flood my life’s hard bound chapters 
while this smeared mirror reflects tears
dripping from a face 
which was once filled with laughter. 


Details | Bio |

Exit Sign

As days go by,
And the pain gets worse,
I long to ride,
In my hearse

That "Exit Sign"
Above the door,
Calls to me,
Like never before...

I'm not a coward,
I'm not a fool,
But living with pain
Breaks the rule...

I hold back, 
in fear of God,
And, I guess,
that's kind of odd,

Yet constant pain,
Just gnaws away
Makes me wish
Today's my final day...

And effects on loved ones,
Escapes me not,
To make them sad
Not a desire I've got

But pounding, twisting
Endless agony
Makes me wonder
How much more for me

That "Exit Sign"
Above the door,
Entices me,
Promising no more

Writhing pain,
Pulsating misery,
So very tempting,
Believe you, me...

Homebound,
Largely bedridden
The meaning of my life,
Seems so well hidden

To die alone,
And in pain,
My destiny,
A life in vain.


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