As I gaze into the mirror after a cup of tea
confusion reigns supreme
a man half my age is staring right back at me
he looks familiar - a real handsome fellow
I have seen him before - but forget his name
That woman who calls me darling - I forget her name
why has she not made my cup of tea! Makes me mad!!
Told me it is summer - Can't wear 7 jumpers
What is wrong with that??
Told me I left the house key in the fridge
think she is confused, so blames me
Crazy woman told me I got lost last week
can't go out alone, so now I depend on her
Where is that thing that I put my money in
that man on the phone wanted money
I should call him
Oh damn! How do you use this thing???
Where is my cup of tea? Damn woman!
Why are tears rolling down my face?
My emotions so erratic - all over the place
Where is that thing to wipe my eyes?
What happened to that thing to do my hair?
Where is my wife I need her - I feel disorganized
Bewildered - who were those people at the dinner table?
Perplexed and suspicious of those around me
Baffled by what is going on with me
A shadow of the man I used to be
What is happening to me?
someone please help me
I have fallen into a dark abyss
Where is that woman with my cup of tea!!!
18 November 2015
Mirror of Memories 'Alzheimer's' - Poetry Contest by Tammy Reams
Progressive mental deterioration that can occur in middle or old age, due to generalized degeneration of the brain. It is the commonest cause of premature senility.
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2015
Like lone wolves in the night
you and I….
that through the darkness
we still hunger for justice
and for truth in all things
We want harmony
To find ourselves
at peace…..as one within….
Capture the green
Feel it swirl and beckon
Verdant and healing
Absolution from the guilt
and from the memories
Release and breathe
Let it flow……
Yes, you and I are connected
Through the regret and remorse
We search and we find light
On a path to illumination
for teaching and learning
Love……pure and true
Acceptance of self
results in balance
Being at one with Gaia
(and her precious gifts)
Achieving planetary consciousness
Us…..we have found
true ability to connect
to the soul of another
True augmentation of self
A home in the higher dimensions
A place that is safe to sleep
Let us dance, my love
My lone wolf…
Let us connect through spirit
(We have shed the black)
Be mine in all things
Forever and always
You are my HEART
Copyright © Christie Moses | Year Posted 2009
I gave you a balloon,
It held my life inside.
Within a shiny rubber tube
components of my soul aligned,
I became something new
a tickle upon my breath,
a tiny bubble
of nuanced personality;
The strengths of me debrided
the secrets of my lungs,
pink and untold
for you to confide,
in eyes before me.
were you astute?
Could your mind compute
of the beautiful find
floating before you?
my unique particles ended
their show of strength
broken in length;
crushed and divided
my dreams subsided...
Molded to an unrecognizable form,
I became your norm.
Though you never knew,
my secret hope to survive
my own gift
thrive and lift,
lay within you.
Your grip thirsted control so long,
the pieces of me left burst
to skitter away in song
among soaring clouds,
leaving shrouds of pain
grounded and gone...
Flying far from the land
one beautiful day,
and the broken balloon that laid
in your hand.
Copyright © Michele Nold-Godleske | Year Posted 2006
It afflicts king and queen alike.
Brought to the castle
by the master of infildelity.
He moves smoothly from one to the other.
He swiftly takes them
as is his right, he believes.
Only to have his fill
from the fair maiden
to the sullied trollop.
He sees them all equally
in his adventures.
He spreads his curse
from one to the other.
It robs it's victims
of their eyes and senses.
Over the years, it slowly degrades
their intelligence and lives.
It can bring down the greatest Empires
if given enough time.
Copyright © linda smith | Year Posted 2007
I’m losing my mind in a hurry!
Maybe, maybe, losing the mind is letting it find itself
or maybe, i'm just crazy
I keep running with anticipation, with heart open and judgment closed
[I discover most superbly this way]
Foolishly Dropping it, hoping that it’ll pick up something useful
On sidewalks, books, table-top salty discussions,
Sometimes in filth letting it pervade the crevices
And when I tidy it, sometimes
It doesn’t all come out, but I try my best
Ever so often, after a new dish soap and scrubbing gloves
it comes out cleaner then it ever was,
With spicy remains of the crude yet true substances
Chunks fall out where the glue of stability erodes
I know that I am fond of it this way
So I can put them back together
With my own fingers
Organized C H A O S
Instead of the media’s, my peers, my parents, piloting
The pivotal pieces
I let them descend tenderly into location
In my own decimal code
I constitute the regulations here
This belongs to me, my only
It doesn’t matter to me if life doesn’t flow
If it’s jagged or slow, here
I don’t care
If insanity is the real sanity
Or that distinctive is incorrect
This is my society and I shape it as I please
Seeing as it only affects me
As long as my mind is
In flurries of expansion
I don’t really care if it’s lost at all
Copyright © Bella Cardenas | Year Posted 2007
Pink- Pink- Pink-
Every peak has its own attractions,
Like the mountains,
The mounts of a woman,
Have always remained,
Her pride possessions. 01
It has the charms,
More intoxicating than wine,
As it reveals the beauty,
Of a woman's alluring binds. 02
These mounts gives,
The wings of imagination and colors,
In the mind of an artist,
And they arise the passion,
In lovers mind.03
Their rise and fall,
Has shaken great empires,
Under their cool and peaceful shade,
The dreams of a child form shapes. 04
Its serenity has given birth,
To most pious and holy figures on Earth,
And their warmth have shaped the dreams,
Of many powerful kingdoms on Earth.05
They feed life giving milk,
To every new born light,
Every time they laugh and cry,
These lofty mounts,
Help in forming shapes,
When the child begins its story. 06
But these pride possessions,
Of a woman,
These lofty inspirations,
Of Poets, Writers and Artists,
These magical charms
Which often become more attractive,
Than the face of a woman,
A wide spread pollution,*
Which is the unwanted gift of
Modern living and
They are also the gifts,
Of worst living habits,
Adopted by thousands,
and millions of woman,
As they fall prey,
Before the charms,
And shows of modern generation. 07
Many such wonderful women,
Who are in the grip of this pollution,*
Have brought this curse on them,
Of their own follies and errors. 08
Many such suffering women,
Can really get rid of,
From the curse of this pollution,*
If only they can show,
The courage to adopt,
The natural way,
Of living and breathing,
Possible under the boon like shade,
Of real Yoga. 09
Of the distortions,*
Of their pink pink ribbons,
Are mainly the results,
Of their own creations,
And these results,
Are not something,
One should blame,
The destiny or God every time. 10
Some of the serious reasons are,
Not caring rightly,
For one’s own pride possessions,
And the lack of,
A cool and calm mind,
From morning till night,
All the junk foods and wine. 11
Beyond all time limits,
your peaceful mind. 12
Running and more running
To catch others,
So that you may not leg behind. 13
And madly crying,
For more and more wealth,
Even if you have sufficient,
For your life time. 14
Are the reasons,
Which invite the pollution,*
To sow its rotten seeds,
The enchanting valley,
Amid the mounts of,
Pink pink flowers. 15
Can still be derived out,
With the little practice of Yoga,
But it remains untouched,
And unsung about,
By most of the modern women. 16
These otherwise elegant women,
Regularly face the problems,
Lack of peace,
And sound sleep.
Which ultimately take away,
And coolness of mind,
Resulting in strengthening more,
The un sprouted seeds of pollution.* 17
Still it is not too late,
If they can only change,
Their life styles,
Their eating and drinking habits,
And adopt from today,
The way of natural living,
The boon like Yoga. 18
As the practice of Yoga,
Not only add years to your life,
But life to your years, as well. 19
Kanpur India 15th Nov. 2012
*Pollution- The other name of Cancer.
Those who want to share their views on My above Poem may
write to me on my yahoo mail id: firstname.lastname@example.org I
would welcome your brief comments and if possible I will reply
you. Thanking you in anticipation. Ravindra K Kapoor
Inspired by Poet Destroyer I am dedicating this Poem to all those women of the world, who are facing any such problem of Pollution* And to those also who are not facing it, so that their life my feel the joy of living under the blessings of Yoga.
TO OVERCOME OR TO TAKE PRECAUTION ON THIS PROBLEM UP TO SOME EXTENT- ONE CAN START WITH ANY ONE OR TWO OR THREE OR ALL FIVE OF THE SIMPLE YOGA EXERCISES I HAVE GIVEN IN MY ‘YOGA IN POEM’ SERIES 1 TO 5 ON POETRY SOUP IT- SELF. YOUR COMMENTS WOULD BE HIGHLY APPRECIATED. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=490745
IMPORTANT NOTE: The best effects of Yoga can only be obtained if it includes the main exercises of essential ‘PRANAYAMA’ otherwise it wouldn’t yield the desired results and PRANYAM should be learn properly first. Ravindra K Kapoor
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2012
Seaweed waves upon my hair,
an empty grave in a maggots lair.
The taste of death is what I crave.
Don't forget the pretty flowers on my grave.
I sleep under a sycamore tree,
waiting for a miracle to rescue me
My days have been out numbered,
counting every link on my chain.
My guilt will cause you pain,
for laughing at my imperfection ways.
Alive and dead in this disease body called hell.
We are now connected, in a way I'll never tell.
Now I grin at the power you can't decline.
A forever gift that will rot down your spine.
The real question in my rhyme.
Is this curse yours or mine?
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011
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.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012
Ana's taught me to count
not in numbers but calories
with a yolk-yellow calorie handbook.
The calories pulse with a heartbeat.
They are not dead and number-flat;
they whisper and breathe, real and alive.
A pebble-heavy potato = 105.
She's grey-gaunt, spinning herself thin,
this mirror woman staring back at me,
anaemic-pale and flower-frail.
But fat silently seeps, oozes greasily
beneath jutting hips, contaminating,
expanding like some monstrous child.
Consumed by the rituals of chew-and-spit -
food without guilt and regret, no threat,
no unctuous slippage of calories down the throat.
But hunger escapes from the body's bone-cage;
my tongue tingles for texture and taste,
craves chocolate's dark velvet melt.
"Eat," my body pleads.
"Resist." Ana stabs my ear with a knife twist.
Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist. Eat. Resist.
The fading scar on my left wrist
where I tried to cut out calories
is the silvering slash of a grin.
And Ana's still smirking, skewing reality,
sneering "You'll never cut yourself free from me."
3 a.m., bloating in the bathroom's mirror-bright gaze,
one pound gained; the scale's needle
jabs hard into catastrophe's red haze.
Ana's on her knees beside the toilet, guilt-goading me,
forcing unforgiving fingers down my throat.
My heart flutters like a flickering bulb,
stutters like my tongue
searching for words to voice a lie.
Ana tightens the puppet strings,
pulls my marionette mouth
into shapes that say: "I'm not hungry."
"I've already eaten today."
Her voice is snake-hissy
slithering into my ear:
"How many calories? How many calories?"
Insistent, scratching my bone china mind,
screeching like nails down a windowpane.
Drifting dizzily through pangs and pains,
giddy with the headiness starvation brings,
air-light and feather-floaty.
My thoughts could take off like birds.
The Arctic gusts in
and I'm blown to bone.
My arms are winter branch brittle;
wrists could snap with one tap.
I wobble on frangible twigs
that barely pass for legs.
Ketosis: a sour apple smell
clinging acidic on breath and skin.
Hair strands are falling: spider web threads,
wisps and glints of coppery red;
autumn filaments floating off into empty space...
I'm tubed and taped -
the needling invasion like soul rape.
A fattening elixir
of nutrients and glucose is cannula-fed
into my winter-blue veins.
Ana's jabbering on the end of the bed,
swinging matchstick legs,
her bone-brittle voice word-jabbing me:
disgusting, pathetic, obese.
They've stuffed me with Prozac,
fed me Diazepam,
in a desperate bid to turn her volume down.
Gauzy morning, a hollow dawning:
I must play the hunger game,
consume just enough to gain.
Discharged, I'll count my days
not in numbers but calories,
guilt-grubby and grubbing
for the killing crumbs,
spinning myself thinner
till Ana frees or kills me.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2014
The rainbow of reason ends
With a pot of gold and jabberwocky.
When hippocampus dwells in solitary,
of the expatriated mind.
In planned visits
To familiar spaces,
When elapsed faces are still hailed with fervor,
As though they had never gone.
Deep in thought
In cavernous bowels tangled lost,
Remote repartees recurring restlessly.
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,
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,
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,
Save for Elysian veldts
Where the rainbow of reason ends.
Copyright © Ryan Caidic | Year Posted 2008
Yoga in Poem - A novel attempt 01/ Many
YOGA is a priceless gift given by great ancient Indian
saints for every human being through Vedas. I am
trying to bring one step each week before all my
known and unknown friends of Poetry Soup and for
other viewers for a glimpse of this treasure of India,
which in fact is a gift of Good Health
for the entire humanity.
Meditation Step 01
The essence of healthy living
And the most precious
Gift given to humans
By the Almighty God.
We think and think
And puzzle our mind
With ideas and emotions
With worries and
This goes on in our minds
Ever since we find that
We have grown-up
To know and understand
And to behave with
From that very time
We unknowingly start
Worrying also and
Not only during daytime
When we are in sleep.
This never ending
Row of worries and worries only
Sometimes for reasons
And often without a season
Have become a habit
On what we have and
What we do not have.
Lamentation and pondering
Brings and form shape
A Free Gift for all of us
In the form of slow poisoning
Which we inhale and drink
Every day and every moment
When we breathe and talk
When we love or walk
When we behave and misbehave
When we are in a haste and
We lie on a cot
Or when we fight
Without a cause.
This constant thinking and
Slowly destroy everything
Good and great in our heart
Given by the Almighty God.
But meditation and Yoga
What we often unknowingly
Just throw away
By our day and night worrying
When we go to sleep or
Are busy in accomplishing our tasks.
Meditation and Yoga
What we often unknowingly
By our worries
While sleeping and even while
Accomplishing our tasks
With a gift of better and healthy life.
Kanpur India 4rd /6th July 2013 To be continued ……
The series which I am starting today
is also a gift for all American
friends on their Great of Independence 4th July.
My Greetings for all of you.
With best wishes…Ravindra
Benefits of Meditation
can be seen and noted on the following webpage.
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2013
It crouches above the ripe strawberry of her left nipple -
a swelling blot on the flawless skinscape of her breast;
a mortality reminder, a dead bell echoing in her ear,
eclipsing future hope and all she holds dear.
Mornings, in the bathroom, she absently fingers it
and feels the ice-curl of chill around her heart
as subterranean steam February-frosts the mirror with a hazy gleam.
Nightly she lies thigh-to-thigh with him.
He tastes the vanilla butter scent of her skin.
She tastes horror's metallic tang; crushing close to him,
sweaty with anxiety and morbid with imaginings;
slipping through the cradle of his arms, that fault-line crack,
as the earth and her world quietly shatter apart.
And she knows words are helpless to hold back the fear-frosted air.
The horror is strung between them, taut as a tightrope
across which creep all her figures of fear -
the dream demons who whisper constantly in her ear.
And all she wants is normality's reassuring touch -
a benign, safe hand upon her arm.
She tries to hide within the details of daily living
and takes small comfort where she can:
mundane morning rituals, the clatter of diurnal routine;
dishes dunked in foam-bubble water,
telephones ringing, voices asking.
Snowdrifts of hospital appointments pile up on a table.
And she feels isolate and separate as a snowflake;
a temporal frailty melting on the heat-pulse of humanity.
She no longer feels human.
Cells mushroom and proliferate within her body's twisting maze;
sickness spreading through labyrinthine arteries,
darkness shadowing veins' corridors, gathering in nodes.
A hidden malignity glitters in the web of infinity;
her skin shimmers ice-iridescent with radiation.
Cold mornings close in.
She prepares antioxidant-rich fruit in a bowl,
slicing strawberries with surgical precision.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2011
Thunder and lightning ruled the black night
As the frightened young mother struggled
Beads of sweat ran down her pretty face
The old midwife calmly sponged off sweat
She hummed a lullaby to soothe her pain
Praying that the husband would be back soon
Five miles to travel in treacherous weather
Seeking the one doctor for hundreds of miles
Twelve hours of labor now seemed like days.
Fell trees and shaved off roof tops, toppled by whipping winds
Rising rivers were swollen, and flooded make shift roads
Endless rain poured like there would be no end
Meanwhile her unborn child lay bridged as it battled for release
Suddenly the door burst open and the doctor rushed in
His clothes sticking to his skin; there was no time to change
With his palm he felt her forehead asking pertinent questions
He and the old midwife tried manually to turn the exhausted child
At each attempt, mother’s painful cry was heard in the distance
She gave one guttural scream and usherd her baby into the world
The child, born limp, barely breathing as the mid wife took her away
He starred into her eyes, and knew that she was beyond his help
He brought the new born to lie in her mother’s warm arms
The silence was noticeable; the raging storm had passed
The sound of light rain, now a comfort, gently tapped upon tin roof
In a soft, weak voice she called her husband and managed a smile
Then she blessed her child with words from a mother’s heart
“May you be a light, swift as lightning when days grow dark.”
“May you have wisdom and foresight beyond your days”
“May your heart nurture and remain open to love”
“Like rain, may you bring life to all “
“Born this stormy night, your name will be “Rain”.
By : Audrey Carey
Note: Imagination at work:) Written for Constance's "Rain, The Story" Contest.
My imagination took me to some little village in Africa. This scene is played out in
many villages where health care is non-existent. However, there's always, thanks
to God, a wise, caring "midwife" to help mothers during delivery.
Everyday, countless miracles are performed by God through "midwives"!
Copyright © Annalise a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2010
Snow steeped in mountains and mountains steeped in snow
Evergreens and pine trees hold the earth with purpose
Nurse Anne steps into hospital from brutal winter cold
Measures stethoscopes and takes gentle pulses
Takes care of bullet wounds and children on her rounds
Wears white, green or blue uniforms or gowns while working
That’s pure speculation as you know
Nurse Anne is not a lawyer according to close sources
She writes poetry on line, refines them in her leisure time
Her prescription for good health and life is simple
Eat vegetables, fishes and less meat
Most importantly, Breath, (it helps a lot)
Take moderation in everything
Get plenty of rest and sleep
And if you can’t be intelligent or stay on your toes
At least stay on your feet
Naturally a life spent vertically is not advised
Nurse Anne wants us all to exercise
She will help you to get by and back to skiing
With her good guidance and by being wise
She does her noble work then travels home
Returns to evening
To writing poems at her own leisure
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
Beauty is said to be skin deep
Cancer… a silent thief
Chemotherapy has taken its toll
Her hair, once a river of gold
Now flows onto the hairdresser’s floor
Placing a scarlet wig on her head
She looks in the mirror and smiles ...
she’d always dreamed of being a red head
Contest Beauty and Diversity Sponsored by Poet Destroyer A
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
Kill the Silent One
He has invaded, unseen
Lurking and silent
Evil destroying one and all
From cell to cell
Leaching blood and soul
Smiles are murdered
The silent one is a killer
Who must be killed
The order has been given
Command centre now on full alert
Maps perused and studied
Will be at early dawn
Men prepare their battle gear
The landing party both excited and nervous
Life depends on them
Ones death also looms
They have no guilt
For whom shall be killed
The silent one's days are numbered
Victory is their only option and concern
War has been declared
We shall overcome
The silent one
The dawn is approaching
The men kit up in their uniforms
Preparing equipment, double checking their instruments
They march forth ready to do to battle
At dawn, as the brightness above shines down upon them
They enter the theater of operations
Doctors in full dress
Scrub nurses ready for action
Technicians monitoring vital signs
The battle has begun
More saline, clamps, increase IV, Scalpels
Blood stains the heroes of the moment
The end, a silence, a satisfaction, a tear
This patient can be declared
The silent one was murdered
Tears and kisses
This battle won
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Sudden and strangely strong
many shocks flood my body
causing muscles to stiffen
Does it hurt?
My mind drowns itself in
electricity without prior warning
causing a myriad of odd seizures.
Each one different from the
last; no seizure is the same.
My memory is not impaired,
I remember every one and
everything around me,
although speech disappears.
People appear scared, not from me
but from what I have – epilepsy.
Many stigmas float around the
condition, many are as false
as the common school rumour.
Still they are believed like an old
An unwanted burden,
it limits possibilities,
still I have it and so bare
its unwanted scars.
My life impounded and unfulfilled,
epilepsy is a curse without
any hope of a cure,
it’s only made controllable
by a blend of concoctions created
by textbook intellect.
Still my body and soul remain my own
regardless of how hard it tries
to take control,
I remain confident and strong.
Dominant as it may be life must
go on and I must continue to grow
Copyright © Leighann Anderson | Year Posted 2011
Sleeping in your crib, you were curled onto your side,
A thumb inside your mouth, a blanket cuddled in your arm.
Only 18 months old, your baby blue eyes so beautiful,
How could anyone bruise you this way, your innocence lost,
Who was it who hurt you like this, if only you could talk.
You take a bottle from me and nuzzle into my grasp,
I want to protect you from any more harm and pain,
All I can do right now, is love and care for you with all I have,
And give your medications that will make you strong again.
So I kiss you good night and place you back in your crib,
May your night be filled with good fairies and sweet dreams.
Then Social Services will take you away when you are well,
I only hope and pray that you will be safe now forever more.
**A true story from my Nursing career working in Pediatrics.
Written by Lee Ramage
September 19, 2011
For Debbie Guzzi’s contest
Won 8th place
Copyright © Lee Ramage | Year Posted 2011
Peace to all of the inhabitants within and without the universe
Respect to all existence both stagnant and dynamic
No desire to understand only to observe and appreciate
Those who’ve sought understanding have greatly misunderstood
They intend to change (upgrade) and will inevitably spike altercation
Disrupting and forever corrupting universal equilibrium
Effort to become God the creator and healer of all is the cause of disruption
Persevering disabling efforts to be God with the determination of correction is the cause of infinite corruption – the effect of cyclical disruption
“____ heals all wounds”
No human is able to fix
We are only able to use
An attempt to restore is abuse
“____ heals all wounds”
Copyright © JustcallMe Britt | Year Posted 2013
The plains people such as Lakota, Crow and Ojibwa
Spread throughout the Native American world
Who believe that the sickness is borne out of
The individual’s being out of harmony in life.
Witchery, sorcery, wizardry ways they heal it
Out of the three they prefer the witchery way
Corn pollen is said to be pure and immaculate
Sprinkling with corn pollen helps to cure disharmony
In fact corn pollen so powerful and trusted
That people carry it simply for good luck.
Navajo shamans confirms it as the most powerful
It’s a healing bridge between humans and spirits
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place Win
Contest: Native American people by Shanity Rain
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2013
envision harmony and mental clarity
focus on a journey of possibility
Meditate on transformation and
awareness of inner state
peace and healing
instruct your mind
to redirect the lost and struggling inner voice
Where you can’t see the wood for the trees
under your nose is the path of freedom
Put aside perceived struggles
revitalize, relax, respond
to body, mind, heart and spirit
Intuition, introspection and spiritual renewal
bring about personal healing and
Stillness of mind – concentration
Thoughts of the subconcious and subliminal
beyond all negativity
away from all interuption
To allow time for self communication and
expression of inner self
Senses – awareness of scent, sight, sound, taste and touch
Healing hands of the medical profession or alternative therapy
ambiance, temperature, oils, music, sounds and
sights of nature or universe
realisation comes in various form and shape
causing us to feel life in fullest expression
Connecting – whispers of wind
radiating everpresent warmth of sun
a blanket of love and light comforts consoles over and through the cosmos
rippling infinately through infinity outwards, onwards
connecting right back into where we are at right now
unmoved unchanged and as we were
Wise – responsible courageous allowed to let go of need to be judgemental or
let go of controlling enable trust wisdom and humility
intelligence of knowing others
wisdom of knowing self
strength in mastering others
power to master oneself
Energy -breath, force, spirit, soul, God, universe –
whatever – doesn’t matter how you refer to it on personal level
energy, balance, light, sound, vibration, peace
centered self – stillness – silent – eternal –
to have enough is a richness in itself
accept appreciate and acknowledge oneself
Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2011
Smokeless inhales hurt.
I cough tar on my shirt.
As my black lungs breathe,
Shrilling exhales wheeze.
The nicotine cracks
Copyright © Hyle Chu | Year Posted 2009
No more than 12 years old
Sees images of women
She looks in the mirror
She doesn't see the image
Her body doesn't fit the mold
Movies, TV and magazines
Tell her she is not what they want
She is not thin
She is not beautiful
Everyday her eyes cry as she looks at who she is
The perfect her hidden within
The beautiful soul they will not let her see
Still she does not fit the mold
She feels unloved
Eating less than a cracker a day
Throwing up the scant food she eats
Her body changes
They make her up
She wears a beautiful white dress
They close the lid
Denied the perfect her
The person she should have been
She lies in eternal rest
But she is loved
She is wanted
She will be missed
Copyright © R. e. taylor | Year Posted 2008
Just one pack a day
she says she needs.
Years later - hospitalized with cancer. . .
Just one cigarette -
Written 12/17/2015 by Andrea Dietrich
for the SOMETHING WITH GREAT IMPACT!Poetry Contest of nette onclaud
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
Chain smoke until
I'm in care of the CO.
There's one left, still.
I smoke it really slow.
"It's the end," I anticipate
As the last inch evaporates.
I can't get
It's over before
I know it.
Butt, I can't quit.
I'm possessed with this
Obsession; I'm addicted.
My lungs have oxygen,
Yet I'm suffocating inside.
I can't breathe again
Without my 'noxide.
Copyright © Hyle Chu | Year Posted 2009
For my Devonshire
To which I dare to aspire
I still feel your fire
Nay deny that you retire
My wish for you to sail higher
This many do desire
We continue to conspire
Father her life is no on the wire
I beseech you sire
Much love have we all acquired
Though her fears may be dire
Toss those to the wind
With this message I send
You are my dear dear friend
No matter what end
With these words i say again
Father she is my friend
My true next of kin
It's time to see a wind
Copyright © Steven Henderson | Year Posted 2012
Sometimes the loneliest times
are when I am not alone,
and a stream of conversation invades my ears.
Sometimes the loneliest times
are when I'm with you
and you see my empty gaze stare into you.
Sometimes I want to be lost in the world
Sometimes I choose to disappear.
Sometimes the loneliest times
are when I am alone
and my thoughts force me into darkness.
Sometimes I wish that you could be me,
Sometimes I want you to see what I see.
Sometimes the loneliest times
are when my brain stops
and thought becomes the hardest thing
in the world.
Copyright © Zac Thraves | Year Posted 2013
Cancer, you are an artist
A prolific one at that,
For several dear ones
Have encountered your work.
Your wretched fingers as sculptors
Design imprints of faces unknown.
You smudge white, pain-ridden clay
A little here, a little there,
Till your subject becomes amorphous.
But oh you are not finished!
A red cross encrusted kiln
Invariably cements your doings.
A surgery of crackling and burning,
Until the shape is spit out,
A hard shell lost of all dignity.
Satisfied with your creation,
You give it one last look
Before it rests on an earthly shelf
And another project is begun.
I am sad to say,
You are quite skilled at your craft.
Copyright © Michele Nold-Godleske | Year Posted 2005
There’s rain in my brain,
A pitter patter on the old grey matter,
Cats and dogs in the cerebral cogs,
A shower dampening my mental power.
There’s precipitation in my imagination,
A cloud collision in my vision,
A deluge in my centrifuge,
A tidal surge has overwhelmed my optimistic urge,
A tsunami is rampaging through my spiritual harmony,
A lighting strobe just struck my frontal lobe.
There’s a vortex in my cortex,
An eddy in my heady,
A blizzard in my gizzard,
Hail in my vapour trail,
Sleet on my feet,
Snow on my big toe
Making me feel low.
I’ll pop a pill and rest my head
Upon a bed of feather
And when I wake I’m hoping
For bright eyes and better weather.
Copyright © Alex Frankel | Year Posted 2014
I saw the Four Horsemen -
the famous apocalypse guys.
They rode silently past neatly folded laundry,
They approached me in silence,
their breathe a rye and meadow wind.
Each of them in turn,
gliding ghostlike past where I sat,
watching steam on the mirror
War had no use for me,
past my prime, bum knee.
Not even as cannon fodder.
Famine had little to work with,
I had known hunger, want, poverty,
nothing he had could scare me.
Pestilence likewise dismissed me out of turn,
for which I’ll be forever grateful,
probably too sedentary to spread the touch.
And Death, well, we all must dance,
but today is not the day, now not the hour,
Death merely bid me good day.
And then they were gone, their vacancy tangible,
while I decided to look up embolisms or strokes,
trying to close this doorway into myself.
Until I saw the tracks in the talcum powder,
heard the soft whicker of horse,
and tasted their life on my tongue.
Copyright © Christopher Reilley | Year Posted 2014