Best Ambulances Poems
Brooklyn, New York is my hometown,
There's always something going down.
So many different places, Religions, and races,
Walking so fast you'll only get a glimpse of their faces.
A huge melting pot located in the County of Kings,
Where the sirens of firetrucks, ambulances, and cop cars sing.
Good Old Brooklyn, where the great times never end,
There's a Pub or a Bar within a block to make a new friend.
Concrete filled city where you had better be fast paced,
Better keep up with the hustle and bustle or find yourself misplaced!
Prospect Park has the most peaceful views,
Where there are hills of grass to take a snooze.
Greenwood Cemetery is the place to be,
To rest your head eternally.
Have some syrup mixed with shaved ice,
Our Pizza is like Heaven in a slice!
Buying new clothes or getting those new kicks?
Brooklyn can accommodate your shopping fix!
Biggest population in all of New York City,
People are Smart mouthed, sarcastic, and witty!
Here in Brooklyn you will find the fun times never cease,
Don't forget while you're here to check out the 18th Ave Feast!
There's a Bodega on every block,
Where all the crackheads seem to flock.
Graffiti covered streets and walls,
Parks filled with courts for handballs.
Coney Island is the place to be,
To ride the Cyclone and smell the Sea.
Nathan's Hot Dogs are famous for a reason,
Best part is they're open every Season!
Crimes so old and frequent it's been called "Crooklyn",
At the end of the day, it's my home, I Love Brooklyn!
Categories:
ambulances, appreciation, childhood, city, happiness,
Form:
Rhyme
Jingle-jangle bells
Sing-song syncopation
Ambulances hurtle down streets
of post-war Europe
Eerie bells; haunting bells
ghosts of round-ups, of Auschwitz
of Buchenwald, and Bergen-Belsen
sounds of death and doom
Shades drawn suddenly
blinds sealed tight
Breath held; pin-drop silence
'Till the peril passes
Bells tear at tortured souls
Dragnet's tentacles probing
Reaching for fresh corpses to feed
Insatiable crematoria ovens
Decades later, survivors flinch
hearing jingle-jangle bells
So, too, sons and daughters
living victims of inherited terror
June 02, 2019
Entry in 'What Makes You Flinch' contest
Sponsor: Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
Categories:
ambulances, death, pain, sound,
Form:
Free verse
Voices Behind the Radio
I have chosen to be a dispatcher, working hard to save a life
It is our job to obtain the information from the chaos and the strife.
We do our best to get the location, and the nature of the call
Each call is always different. Sometime we cannot obtain it all.
A patient not breathing, a burglary, or a traffic accident could be the call
We ride the emotional roller coaster, remaining calm throughout it all.
We give instructions to the caller, while keeping them on the phone
Re-assuring help is on the way, and that they are not alone.
With the units enroute, caller still on the phone, we add notes to the call.
We never withhold information obtained, we gladly provide it all.
The Officer needs the address again, the Fire Chief more units to staging
The Medic the nature of the call, it is our job to keep updating.
When we hang up the phone we have done our job, our units are all Code-4
The calls can be overwhelming at times, Sometimes we would like to run out the door.
We have to be ready for that next call, Police, Fire, or EMS
We rely on our training as we strive to do our best.
We ride with you in your Police Cars, Fire Trucks, and Ambulances to each call
We are the lifeline that sends you out each time, and wants you safe throughout it all.
We are usually the face of the department, and the first to be left out
Those faceless voices behind the radio, you depend on without a doubt.
Thomas Nedzbala
Arizona
©2014
Categories:
ambulances, career, child, community, devotion,
Form:
Rhyme
As I stared out my project window into the streets were the predators never
seemed to sleep and the dope heads that kept the neighbors in the private homes on
pins and needles as they prowled the street, looking for the next cash cow to supply their drug needs. In the alley where we would play baseball during the daytime against the old trash bin, at night it served as the hiding place for the drug boys dope and guns…It’s sometimes hardto believe that decent people do live here in this place where I live, but they do.
I don’t know how? But really they do, I swear. The alleyway was littered with so much broken glass on the ground, sometimes I would pretend that it was diamonds and would dream of running out one morning and picking it all up and then I would be rich like the people who lived in the private homes up on the hill. At night from my window in the summertime I could smell their grills cooking some expensive meat, that seem to overload my sense and make my belly growl in a hopeless thought that I might somehow get to taste it.
In the distance sirens blare in the middle of the night as the ambulances race to the causalities of the night life. I can still recall those house parties that never seem to end, that’s until the men in blue decided to finally answer the calls and put an end to their night fun, but by that time they were all drunk and doped out or found a mate for the night…as they all spread out onto the side streets like cockroaches when you turn on the light and then shots rang out in the calm distance of the night. People scatter into the night.
My eyelids are now so heavy I can barely hear my own thoughts inside my head. When all of sudden my door flings open, standing there in the doorway I can make out a shadow, I take a deep breath and continue to play like I’m asleep. Wow, it was only my mother, just checking in on her only investment for her future dream of a doctor or lawyer that would not have to deal with this mess, she shuts my door after seeing that I was okay…as she takes a deep sigh of relief, knowing she could take solace that her child was fast asleep.
Categories:
ambulances, childhoodnight, dream, people, dream,
Form:
Narrative
Job Description Board of the Middle East
The Sniper - not Palestinian
The Bomber - not Palestinian
The Thief - not Palestinian
The Terrorist - not Palestinian
The Child Killer - not Palestinian
The Burner of Tents - not Palestinian
The Group that blows up Hospitals - not Palestinian
The Rapist - not Palestinian
The Blocker of Humanitarian Aid - not Palestinian
The Exploding Pager Man - not Palestinian
Plant Bombs in Toys Job - not Palestinian
Booby Trap food on the starving - not Palestinian
Deprive Water to the Starving Job - not Palestinian
Genocide Promoter - not Palestinian
Financier of Genocide - not Palestinian
Propagandist for defending burning Babies - not Palestinian
Killer of Journalists - not Palestinian
Using Ambulances to murder civilians - not Palestinian
However all these positions are open
apply in Israel
they need more persons with zero morals
death is their only currency
Categories:
ambulances, abuse, evil,
Form:
Free verse
Chiraq
Date: Sun, Nov 15 2015 at 9:22 PM
("Killings")
("Victims")
"Imprisoned"
Highest ("Statistics")
In the ("System")
And of ("Disease")
Feeding the belly of the Beast "Obese"
Separated from Fathers & "Mothers"
Become "Hustlers"
Of the Streets Become "Brothers"
They Judge US by "Colors"
Only rightfully Almighty God Judge Can "Conduct"
"Poverty"
"Animosities"
Against the "Society"
Of the "Rivalries"
"Fighting" amongst Each "Other"
Mothers "Crying"
City "Dying"
Children in the City caught into "Violence"
Police "Sirens"
Ambulances "Flying"
To the scene "Outlining"
Of the Innocent "Lying"
Guilty of the Choices "Decided"
Drugs, & Guns "Imported"
From the "Forces"
To Openly "Extorting"
In the Man's "Voyage" Of "Torrents"
College "Tuitions" an "Unemployment"
Not Enough "Fruition" in the Schools Educational "Fulfilment"
I'm Speaking of Knowledge & "Wisdom"
Not in Texts "Written"
An History or Historic "Recipients"
It's Books "Written" of Historic "Apprenticeship"
"Inventions" Etcetera "Printed"
But in schools today not "Descended"
Math, Science, Reading, (Language) "Arts"
Speaking a "Language"
"Nameless"
to say isn't the "Hearth"
Of a "Nation" Created from the "Arch"
Of Gods "Blueprints"
It's not Blue's Clues to find the Blue "Scripts"
The (Media's) "Encyclopedias"
Is "Onamotopoedia"
Same Sound repeating the Image of the "Deceivers"
Amongst the ("Receivers")
Gangs, Sets, "Organizations"
Built on ("Foundations")
Amongst the Creation of the ("Nation")
That has been "Forsaken"
This the life "Chose"
Of ("Those")
Generations from Generations ("Rose")
Pray for a Change but I'll never "See" it
Because we Endangered Species in Existence upon ("Extinction")
I Hate Chicago an the World for number of ("Reasons")
I ain't on the Outside looking ("In")
Looking from Both sides of the ("Tent")
I ("Vent")
Is life all that has to offer to ("Exist")?
Categories:
ambulances, how i feel, lost,
Form:
Free verse
My 3rd favourite drive was to see her
Only for it to be the longest drive home
To be once again in her arms and embrace her too
I knew what was coming
I never wanted to let her go
Stability is so fragile
Stability breaks with a word
Her mind state is a dark world
All alone she decided I'm not to follow
I could see she wanted to cry
Inside we both had many times
To be not good for a person
Is impossible when even in this outcome
Her presence makes me smile naturally
The talk of the future
The talk of ifs and maybes
Doesn't matter to me
I know what I have now
I know how to be happy again
Can you not see?
My life is with you
No matter what I choose
No matter what it is you do
My dream is to be make you happy too
Sitting in my car returning the way I came
Over an hour to drive home
Easily felt like it was over two
The cd player in my car was purposely loud
Covering the sound from my phone
To my right an accident had occurred
Firemen and ambulances calming the situation
Shards of metal and glass strewn on the road
To my shock I felt nothing for the devastation
My only aim was to get back home
My 3rd favourite drive was to see her
Only for it to be the longest drive home
Categories:
ambulances, angst, depression, devotion, girlfriend-boyfriend,
Form:
Narrative
Achievement, 1 of 2
—Time to share—
I grew up in a slum where the gang members,
at the risk of their lives, fight over their turf.
My lullaby was red and blue warning lights
flickering from dashing squared cars and ambulances,
and my bedtime story was the blow of sirens passing through
the streets and alleys between boarded up abandoned houses
standing in rows here and there.
My mother, though loved me dearly,
happened to be a high school dropout
and single who brought this world to me at her teens.
She was a minimum wage earner, therefore, her life was
nothing but struggles, kept body and soul together in misery
between laid off to employed to laid off, between paycheck to welfare
to paycheck that is thinner than a sheet of paper.
Although under educated, she was a pious woman,
and that is why her keen desire was not her son to follow
the steps of her mistake and suffer like his mother.
Her wish was to raise her only child to be a decent citizen
with a noble profession and thereby add some value to the community,
return some good things to the society.
Apart from mother’s great expectation, however,
I was a disobedient rogue child, a kind of problem kid
on the block when I was a lad. I got into bad company
and led astray by them, was irregular in attendance to a school
and cut classes whenever I felt like.
Until one day I learned of my mother’s tragic death
on the way back home from her work,
she was struck by a stray bullet
in the midst of gang members cross fire.
Categories:
ambulances, anger, black african american,
Form:
Epic
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.
The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity and a tragedy.
As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.
Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.
The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless
people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.
Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone or armor.
Categories:
ambulances, boat, death, eulogy, father,
Form:
Free verse
Dear, dear lady, with crumpled
tissue paper skin and
spidery fingers fretting hanky,
'Couldn't find cannister,
don't know where it is, Em. '
Silent me knows is always in the same place.
Tea bag, two spoons sugar
in white half-filled china cup,
rose patterned napkin neatly
folded close by and ready
for too frequent spills ..
Safety first: neither too hot or full, m' dear.
Old phone trit.trit.trits,
her fingers fidget fear of bad news,
mustn't be, can't be..
I answer, 'Fine, yes,
you'll be here later? Thank you!'
Thank goodness, Norma won't be lonely.
How that small lined face pinks -
Unusually aware day and date,
second Thursday in month,
visitor visits, tea biscuits in larder,
hair to comb, best shoes to wear..
A sweetly smiling day to come..
'Do I have to have a bath?'
'Nurse was here yesterday, love,
you're fresh as a daisy.'
Fidgeting stops, smile starts,
'Thursday, Betty comes'..
Sad, so sad. What to say? Nothing's best.
Stir porridge, my tears trembling,
standing at Norma's side;
should I remind her that
sister Betty died near ten years ago?
It's so sad to be eighty..
and becoming more forgetful every day..
This lovely woman, this fragile shell,
drove ambulances during the war,
WWII was her hell on earth,
she lost too many kith and kin.
Her mind still grieves.
Many would might say that deceit is a sin
Her visitor - Betty's wonderful daughter,
brings flowers or a small plant
and sings songs that Norma - with
a little reminder, sings and sways to
For two hours she comes alive.
And the Lord understands and - forgives.
Categories:
ambulances, emotions,
Form:
Free verse
Venice, Italy, is a crazy shamozzle of new and old
Where junk, graffiti, decay, stunning beauty,
history and culture poverty and opulence, all reside side by side, bobbing.
Water dominates the landscape, canals and waterways replace all the roads
Everything is carried by boat, food, people, garbage, produce, industrial supplies.
Ambulances, fire engines, delivery trucks and police cars are all replaced by boats.
The disorderly rusty ferries ply the waterways, jostling along with gondolas, magnificent polished wooden water taxis,
Occasionally the historic scene is ruined by modern fiber glass runabouts
with huge outboard motors completely out of place.
Next comes barges with cranes, garbage collecting boats, delivery and construction supply boats, and the many service vehicles.
Grab a table beside the canals and watch the parade of boats old and new jostle and bobble on by.
Walk through the tiny crowded streets and enjoy the kaleidoscope of people of many cultures enjoying themselves.
There are many surprises. Tiny shops with feet in large glass tanks being cleaner by fish.
Everywhere there are places to explore and things to enjoy.
Looming off in the distance you may see huge cruise liners dwarfing the buildings,
These vessels are seemingly populated by ants, as the ships are so big.
The ancient church bells in Venice chime as the ships depart arrive and depart, in homage to the new god of tourism.
The Palace art is simply overwhelming, overloading your senses.
Ancient art is everywhere and often ignored.
Venice is beautiful, but one gets the impression that all the photographs taken in Venice
are gradually sucking out the life force out of the structures, hastening their decay.
There are so many dimensions and experiences, places to explore that you never get tired of Venice.
The more times you visit the better you will like it and the more you will find to do and see.
You have to laugh and ignore the hassles, the jostling crowds, the regimented crowded ferry system,
the pushing and shoving of the crowds in the tiny streets,
simply laugh and have fun.
Venice is crazy, nice, with diverse multi-faceted attractions and lots of things to do.
You will love it!
Venice Trice is Nice.
Categories:
ambulances, adventure, travel,
Form:
Free verse
I am the Project Air Bridge,
The veritable virus lord-cum-felon of duty fraud.
Fumaye's privileged his bridge that projects pompous airs.
Maelstrom, mammon coextend where it forks and fares.
Transpontine ambulances shriek, hearses creak;
Cispontine pandemia profiteerings peak.
Lip service put onto pushy pumper,
Juggling jobbery jarred into cushy number.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A villainous virus lord-cum-gubernatorial wailing ward.
I have federal flag foil my neckties,
Have federal fiefdom at my behest.
At home seizing states' supplies,
In style feathering my own nest.
Grave grin toward myriad plunders amassing in size;
Frivolous glee unto stricken states moaning distressed.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A versatile virus lord-cum-omnivore slyly adaptive-jawed.
All foreign aids I indiscriminately swipe and sweep,
Compatriots in need, meticulously sift and bleep.
Cronies and bogeys bogart the most and the best;
Those in the doghouse, let viruses lay them all to rest.
My wheeling and dealing can always pay off,
Just owing so much to so many I always play off.
I am the Project Air Bridge,
A heinous virus lord-cum-Old Nick's Regalement Board.
Blanketed by bereavement are betrayed people,
Their wounds bleeding undressed.
Butchered for banquet, the Bald Eagle,
My plates attending undressed.
Muddy mug shades dirty cook;
Murphy's mug shakes leprous wine.
Worse stinks history's mug book,
Ever since its accession of mine.
Silver spoon feeds up mouth; siren's spoon feels up lips.
Sicking up are malapropism and spoonerism of freudian slips:
Feasting my eyes on boons cross air bridge,
No blink for victimized crossbones' bare ridge.
This is me, the Project Air Bridge,
The very virus lord-cum-Juggernaut Accelerator of boons-for-bones baud.
Categories:
ambulances, extended metaphor,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Like a drop of the rainbow
A mother arches herself over her stricken child,
A man arches himself over his prostrate wife,
And a stranger arches himself over another.
Rainbows in a hailstorm, they all are,
Bringing out their best colors
To hold back the hail of bullets
That but for them would rip another:
The killer sought to see red
Yet from heroes and heroines alike
Came the rainbow through his gun sight.
Wheezing past the bullets
Were ambulances and wheelbarrows,
Taxis and foot angels--
All in search of succor for the wounded, the dying...
Nowhere, though, did I see the gun laws:
While the rainbow flew at half mast,
They remained asleep and aloof.
Categories:
ambulances, bereavement,
Form:
Free verse
Dylan Carston was a well-off young man,
thanks to a large and health trust fund,
his father was a true Wall Street ace
and had been quite generous to his sons.
Dylan had set himself up in Miami
after years spent getting his MBA,
he did consulting four days every week,
the other three he did like to play.
He’d partied with friends at all the bars,
and had his share of hot one-night stands,
not yet had he thought of a wife and kids,
he was enjoying the life of a young man.
One Saturday as he walked down the beach
to get exercise and breath the sea air,
he stumbled upon a frantic woman
calling for him to go over there.
As he drew near he saw down in the sand
a young woman who’s face had gone blue,
he could see no lifeguard near where they were,
but fortunately he knew what to do.
He found no pulse when he listened close,
and placed two hands high on her left breast,
with hard compression he began CPR,
pumping furiously at her chest.
Every so often he placed his mouth on hers
and forced oxygen deep into her lungs,
the other woman ran off to find more help
while Dylan continued the rhythmic pump.
Finally after three desperate minutes
a gurgled rasp echoed up from her throat,
life returned to her, the blue fading out,
though her eyes still knew not where to go.
Moments later he heard the rush of feat,
the lifeguard and the woman had returned,
Dylan gestured to where the girl lay,
“I brought her back, now I think it’s your turn.”
The lifeguard thanked him for taking action,
then knelt down slowly at the victim’s side,
ambulances came, reports were fill out,
when Dylan left three hours had gone by.
He felt good about saving the woman’s life,
it was a moment he would not forget,
congratulations came in, on top of that
the lifeguards sent him a certificate.
Three weeks went by and Dylan returned to
the safe routines of the everyday world,
and bit by bit his thoughts turned away
from the near death of that helpless girl.
So it was with a great deal of surprise
when a process server told him these words:
“Dylan Carston, you’re being sued for assault,
you can consider yourself dully served.”
Dylan’s mind whirled at the accusation,
he had no idea how this could be true?
Had some ex regretted their time and cried ‘rape,’
were they evil enough to go down that route?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Categories:
ambulances, abuse, anger, beach, dark,
Form:
Narrative
Vehicle headlights segue through the muggy day as police cars and ambulances hold
sway as though autumn has crept into a summer's day and flora and fauna
do not know what to do until this glorious English summer returns; as though
the Gulf stream and Global warming conspire to forbid the holidays to be as they
should, when schools out dreary clouds come out to play with rain eager to spoile
their fun as wind works hard to hurry them inside cooped up at home on tedious
technology so vacation at home: "what summer?!" holds sway in these islands of
such variety on such small scale as though it was Legoland at play.
Our puritanism still segues as though we deserve to be punished for honeysuckle
heaven and rosy dawns with skies to take your breath away in an ordinary English
garden having cream teas with by bouncy strawberries, better still shy raspberries
in our unusual now usual summers we fervently hope and pray with weather women
and men will continue to beckon brightly outside and not moan our one safe topic of
polite conversation.
Categories:
ambulances, summer,
Form:
Free verse