Jennifer Brea had encephalomyelitis
She was examined by the best and brightest
She was told that anxiety was the cause
These kinds of mistake should give us pause.
Heide Ferrer got tremors and vibrations
Told it was depression, imagine her frustrations.
She took her own life, long covid is now supposed
Another disease dismissed, not diagnosed.
Alison McCabe was in severe pain
She was told it was the flu, so why complain
But it was the side effect of iron infusion
It was the doctor, not her, who had the delusion
There are other cases, if you search you will find
There's a catch all basin of "all in your mind"
some patients even accused of seeking attention.
If docs don't know, maybe best course is abstention.
The process of elimination can be a dead end
If you assume its mental, patient may not mend.
But don't make the mind the dumping ground
For every mystery not yet found.
The setting sun weaves a poem,
blossoming
unsung trochaic along the river basin
(Nurulhuda Junction. Teesta)
Sometimes it feels quite an estranged thought to realise that living is a mundane day to day thing to sustain. The welfare causes are demanding all those intricate , subtle personal delicate feelings, into a powermonger possessive expositional ownership, for no good understood parameter.
The book was well versed. Muzzammil was lying on his bed, half awakened. He took his glass pairs off. A pair of opaque spectacles, with the littlemost effort, both the bifocal parts are often sweaty. He was waiting for his wife’s special morning tea, everyday. Remote area in the suburban side, every day newscaster is often quote a belated story there.
December, 2025
Flying wedge-like
as wool feathers the wind,
the geese are leaving the basin.
Where do they go?
How long till they arrive?
Will the plump make stops on the way?
At first a few
will arise together.
Later thousands flock to the sky.
Who leads the skein
and rides the windy tides
to the land of their winter dreams?
If I could fly,
wings soaring up with them,
I’d write poems with my pink feet.
And send all my pals a post card: “Wish you were here!”
The house on Basin Street has a back yard dressed in Eleanor Tabor.
Front yard, Sonata Spring.
They called this curb appeal.
My woman wore a bodycon sweater dress, belted waist.
This they called curve appeal.
I'm beginning to learn the laws of nature,
there are two kinds of winds;
a hurricane blew shingles backward, the house stayed with me.
My woman walked out of our abode,
a kind zephyr carried her hair backward,
she broke embankment,
swept away in a loud outpouring and was never seen again.
I poured water in a basin
ready to bathe with it
but it told me to stop;
“I have wonderful plans,
to be the greatest Sea
In this desert environment;
greater than Red Sea, Black Sea
Stop wasting me away.”
A potatoe cake bathing with an onion ring is an iconic sealed ring in a genuine abyss of calm. But an abyss is neither an abbot nor an abbess. For pretty tunnels created in a monastery clap link out to wave wreathed gardens bursting with hue and fauna. So a garland weave can be made into the form of a forty thousand foot ibex. And this can be achieved quite quickly. By placing bees in soldier lines. That normally has the desired effect. Oh wow. A little bean with a fruit cup is arriving. Look how sparkly the costume is. Lovely lingering linguistic lounging linking. And a stick smiling from an antique wooden chair in a mountain forest haze. Hahaha raisins racing radishes. Hahah pointed playing field. Xxxxx intellectuality z
The mountain bends down,
kissing the nape of her neck:
As jealous trees sway.
Morning yawns brisk air,
Into tepid moss-fill lungs:
Shivering boulders.
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