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Rhoda Monihan Poem
I was Second Lieutenant of the Army Nurse Corps,
At Pearl Harbour when it was attacked and bombed;
I was in my room at the nurses’ quarters, a store,
Near Tripler Army Hospital, six miles from le monde.
At about 8:20am the on-call nurse called me,
Said Pearl Harbor was being attacked, grave concern,
She looked out and said something was strange, really,
“There is an awful smell…a lot of noise,” we did discern.
So I decided to walk to the hospital, ten minutes flat,
Bt as I stepped out the quarters, had an awful feeling,
No gardenias or hibiscus to sent my nose in a bat,
Just the odour of sulphur and burning oil, and buzzing.
Upon reaching the hospital, I saw twenty stretchers,
All with injured men, lined up, each with bloody wounds,
Some with an M on their foreheads for morphine, etchers:
I was an anaesthetist, and was commended at the sounds.
The chief of surgery turned to me and he did say,
“Madelyn, if we are hit, I want to say to you that,
It is a pleasure to have worked with you,” hey, hey,
“You are a good anaesthetist”, and I accepted that.
But I just replied, “I know God knows we did nothing,
To deserve this, I am putting my trust in him”;
And caring for the wounded took days, also the dying,
And our emergency rooms were schools and a kitchen.
We were very short of bandages, medicines for repair,
Totally unprepared for the hundreds of casualties,
But we did the best we could do with our work and fare,
And blood was donated day and night, no apologies.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
I do so love harvest thanksgiving,
That time of year which celebrates agriculture,
When church flips from being god-centred,
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.
It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,
‘Cos tins are given no problem;
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.
As a child who regretfully attended church,
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.
No food bank is respectable, of course,
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day,
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.
God is sometimes just such an abstraction,
Academically, he’s for the objective mind;
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.
When you just need a meal on the table,
And need it supplied by someone else,
Whether by government, food bank or church,
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse.
I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.
Being grateful for food, diet and health,
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.
Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;
It’s that occupation and training which ensures,
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.
The harvest basket every year means to me hope,
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,
That this real examination is something to advocate.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
Disability, Illness and Fundamentalism
My brother died of Cystic Fibrosis,
When I was twelve and he fourteen,
It took away his ambitions,
To study at Oxford - the pipe organ’s steam.
I understand being born with a genetic disorder,
Because I have Cerebral Palsy and sometimes mused,
Upon when researches will similarly classify,
The failure of muscles which neuronal circuits use.
I was born with a condition,
And so knew James was likewise endowed;
I didn't know why my dad, an MD,
Did not suspect his son’s cloud.
I wrenched that it was my dad’s old age,
That prohibited him for from making a diagnosis,
But deep down I knew that he was immoral,
For not offering a prognosis.
So I related to James very well,
And we talked about ‘male’ things:
Cars, Spitfires, planes, and inventions,
Because I was a tomboy with wings.
We also discussed politics,
World history, philosophy, science and maths,
But at the end of each discussion,
He made out to mum that we were just having a laugh!
Our parents were fundamentalist Christians,
Full of woe at non-religious activities,
And believed that the soul supported mind and body,
In harmoniously pounding entities.
Neither did he say that he cared for me,
In the toilet or with my jumper,
Which he sometimes would put back on me,
Before we were seen by “Mother Thunder.”
He was just like them as he loved the Bible,
So I allowed him to thus develop;
In the church with his piano,
The congregation to envelop.
My knowledge of his illness,
Was validated at school, special and disabled,
Where there were others with CF,
Who also had fingernails turned inward.
Indeed I may have complained to my school,
About the deprival of his life-span maximisation,
But they continued to patronise me,
For my self-care hesitation.
It was only once James was diagnosed,
That they took me seriously and ‘kent’,
But by that time I was entangled,
In a web of divine intervention for a CF relent.
They thought God would cure him,
Completely and entirely of CF,
But I always knew their insanity,
Would end in them being ‘cognitive deafs’.
Latterly of course they prayed,
That God would save him from death as well;
And so I often questioned educators,
Who forbode my slowness accusation to sell.
After he died they produced a book,
And called it Goodnight James,
Which upset me and found me distraught,
Because their own faith it blames!
It seems to say that if you ask nicely of God,
In a way and in a certain manner,
That Jesus will heal the sufferer’s body,
So as to create a holy clangor.
I am disabled, entitled to the health service,
And would not like to promote divinity,
As a pathway to make anyone better,
Even if it allow conceptual modal validity.
Studied marketing, hate the book Goodnight James,
Because it plasters God as real,
As potentially effective as a doctor,
When He just ramifies what you feel.
NHS doctors are real to me,
Because hey helped my brother get better,
Fight bacteria and mucus build-up,
With operations and drugs - ‘bread-and-butter’.
There is no God,
And he’s certainly got nothing to do with the NHS,
In any way whatsoever!
Because that would make a great big mess!
The NHS is not attached to divinity,
Dependent on it at all,
Not a sidekick or an offspring,
Not a development from God, a call.
It’s not above God,
Beside him or below,
Not secondary,
Nor a third party to know.
The NHS is not an agent of the divine one,
And it is not an agent of earthly representatives,
It’s not assigned to Jesus for productivity,
And in medical need, God is not active.
It is the mind of the doctor which I so love,
Astute, intelligent, insightful and aware,
Of the patients’ incapacity’s,
Giving life, functionality and care.
I don't know why my parents wrote the book,
To chide those who ignore,
The celestial being in medical journeys,
Making the patient into an ignorant whore.
See, there are not three people in the doctor’s room,
There’s only two, you and her or him,
God is not invisibly interacting,
In that beauteous dialogue - the win.
Although I understand faith can be expressed,
In many ways, boldly or with timidity,
I likewise have the right to my opinion,
Of who to trust in life’s tepidity.
To sacrifice one’s mind for a delusion,
When the actual means a nurse or doctor,
Is an extremely saddening experience,
For the relatives who know people so much more.
Obviously, private devotions are personal,
Not affecting anybody else,
But what they did changed hearts,
Towards God, and not towards the NHS.
Fundamentalists in the 80s so needed to know,
How to fit in to their brave new society,
Where new technology, disability rights and medical advances,
Gave church leaders a certain amount of sobriety.
The book could’ve described James’ love for me,
And that would have explained disability at least,
But what transpired was a religious projectile -
A holy cry of an introspective fundamentalist feast!
I explained life and death to James,
How to cope and why we get ill and suffer,
He was more at ease after we had talked,
More interactive, chatty, and calmer.
You can only validate what you know is true,
And I know to hope in the health service,
To glorify, praise and advocate its methods,
So as to help others enjoy a human presence.
People’s lives will only improve,
When individuals make it better,
Societal progress is wrought by the ones,
Who’s convictions become actions and words, letter.
So I did not help market the book,
In any way at university,
And I don't know if my parents understood,
Their slighting by my apparent adversity.
I have my own memory of James,
His fondness, deviation and complexity,
So I hope that you will understand,
The real story of his personality.
Go to the doctor when you are ill,
Don’t request divine healing,
Because your confidence will be much greater,
When you rest in people’s love, in their caring.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2018
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
Going to Church?
So no,
Can’t go.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
May life bless you with real freedom,
Keep enjoyment as your place,
May you find your own confidence,
From your education and your space;
May you entertain discernment,
Whilst fulfilling your desires,
And may platitude be rescinded,
By real love in your eyes.
May you receive more than you give,
And see reason when there's none,
May your friends light your inside,
May you give hope to those with one;
May you save the exploited from oppression,
By making despair to you most personal,
And may equality be the standard,
For your repudiation of its dismissal.
May you always uphold justice,
Even in dark and uncertain times,
When faced with honest requests,
And its unsettled times sometimes;
May you do what’s right no problem,
Not questioning the strain,
Nor grumbling about the consequences,
Of morality’s devoted love train.
May your diamond be stalwart honour,
For war heroes old and injured,
Tormented by battlefields and sights,
Of the mangled and beleaguered;
May you testify to fact and truth,
And publish what you know;
And may reason be your sociology,
To dictatorial governments overthrow.
May you respect others in esteem,
For kindness and achievement,
May you follow those you understand,
As beautiful in accomplishment;
May you undertake endeavours,
Which ramify the other unstudied,
By embracing love and laughter,
As whispers of grace embodied.
May you always say what’s inside,
Whilst giving other people a chance,
Trusting them with your memories,
That history upon which you cannot glance;
May you always speak your mind,
To make rationality your guide,
And in dignity confide and correct,
To let the delinquent within you abide.
May your philosophies be trophied,
As a garland by the lonely,
And may your way be warmly accepted,
Without negotiation or apology;
May righteousness be your hallmark,
And caring thought your attribution,
And may you prevail generally as a good person,
Bringing light where there’s intrusion.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
My Computer Might Daydream About…
My computer may daydream about,
The Twilight films and the meaning of The Matrix,
The thought behind Star Trek and the point of Star Wars,
Which I repeatedly watch on its DVD Player,
And it may classify humankind for a lack of consideration,
For the intelligent slow typer who’s possibly disabled:
For his or her own personal shortcuts run.
I don't like typing a space after my shortcut abbreviations,
To indicate that the computer should expand my abbreviation:
I like typing just ‘tc’ to get ‘the ‘, (the with a space),
Not ‘tc ‘, tc and then a space, to get the same, the with a space;
As if I would not like to sacrifice the term ‘tc'
For a quicker way of typing ‘the ’, the with a space:
Why the fiip should I type a space every time?
I obviously would demand to turn the shortcuts feature off,
Just in case with eccentricity I chose all of a sudden,
To type ‘tc’ in an email, document or web entry field,
With or without a space, either way it would be fine,
To facilitate that desire of mine.
It’s so much faster, far superior and quite ingratiating,
To cut out the space and just combine unused English characters,
Which never sit beside one another in language for readability:
I’ve used shortcuts like this since I was 10, and got a degree,
But it does not occur to any software developer as sense and sensibility.
I had 632 shortcuts without the spacebar like that on my old iBook,
On the TextExpander 2.8.1 app which was my chalice,
But naively asked their support staff if the app worked with Keystrokes 4,
Word predictions software which speeds and assures,
Who never replied to me, I suspect because they've never heard of,
Anyone using they’re business emailing app,
For shortcuts without the monotonous spacebar expansion key;
TextExpander is used to expand repeated business paragraphs from a thoughtful abbreviation.
My computer may also wonder about the engineer of my footswitch,
The device I use to type with, mind over matter,
Who mentioned to me something when he built it,
About the return key possibly not working at all times for all things:
So sometimes I have to stretch and use the keyboard:
What kind of nutter was he!?
It may also dream about my beliefs and views,
As it knows all my poetry so far with no blinkers;
Nothing is held back from my disk space,
Which sits as area so welcoming, so aware of me,
Letting me be secretive, true and very, very free.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
Thump Trump,
Big lump.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap
A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong,
My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop,
Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong,
The silence echoed round the wheel fop.
I screamed with tears which said the news,
When sirenes had been screened for writ, ...sorry, I did not mean anything else like
Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews,
That cared enough to dare read the fit.
Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here,
Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped,
Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear,
When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped.
Critical realism still made no ontological sense,
My metaphysical slippers knew no god,
Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense,
When constructivism departed from my odd.
I could not write to epistemology for methodology,
‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive.
Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy,
Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff.
Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair,
No predicates set my entities alight to condition,
The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer,
I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition.
This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation
FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal,
Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation,
Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal.
Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical,
Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact,
Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal,
The dame. The lame as mentioning the act.
Structural.
Rhoda Monihan
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2019
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
Oneness is silent,
Sweet and with sent,
And unity never ultimately shouts,
But in coalition mounts.
Unity can be found in a group or just the two of you,
In a community's graffiti artists with a rue,
In a school’s parents circle demanding more childcare,
Or in a company’s union who about pay care.
Oneness can be defined by stating,
That you are another person dating,
Romantically, politically or just socially,
By fashion, voice or class, or economically.
All people are one,
And one matters to everyone,
And we have unity with others,
When we come along side our brothers.
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2015
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Rhoda Monihan Poem
Hill Dill,
Come Over The Hill!
Copyright © Dominique Webb | Year Posted 2016
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