Best Cataracts Poems
I feel I have appendicitis,
Or a bad case of bursitis,
And I think I need another tonsillectomy.
I'm sure I got a staph infection
From a tetanus injection
While I was prepping for a hemorrhoidectomy.
I've got cataracts and shingles,
When I cough my kidney jingles,
And my muscle tone's diminished due to entropy.
I have a lower disc displacement,
I need a knee and hip replacement,
And I'm scheduled for my umpteenth colonoscopy.
With my doctor's full compliance,
I will donate my corpse to science
To see if reasons can be found for all my maladies.
No doubt that when they disconnect me,
Vivisect me and inspect me,
They'll find a host of medical irregularities,
As well as hitherto unheard of abnormalities
That may account for part or all of my infirmities,
And might help to explain my PCP's enormous fees.
Author's note: After reading Ilene Bauer's delightfully insightful "A Certain Age", once again I delved into my archives and disinterred this bit of nonsense from 2017. I apologize, dear readers, if any of you who might be suffering from medical conditions find it insensitive. It is certainly not intended to be so. Although I don't think it's been scientifically tested or doctor recommended, I firmly believe in the homeopathically therapeutic value of humor and laughter. And I know that after writing this piece, I felt better about my own health issues.
Seijaku – 8-1-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seijaku
Serenity abides with tranquility
Abiding in beauty
And deep respirations of satisfaction
Ready
Alert
Overlooking tangled mazes of overlapping obligations
Labyrinths of lists -
And atonal demands.
As the sun streaks past engorged calendars
In whirly-gigs of heavy-handed chaos
The shade of tranquility
Stretches out
Looming across the face of serendipity
With the breath of the rose
The whisper of sapphire jewels
Born from oceanic bowers.
In the shadows waits
The gift of each rubric solved
Pushing aside the tyranny of over committed -
In dawns, and Aurora’s ballet in neon slippers,
The spirit dialates,
As moonlight drips from feathery boughs,
Healed from epidemics of minutes
Swallowed by a never resting pendulum.
The poet arises, even blooms,
Ignoring the cataracts of frail dreams
When hurried footsteps and clouded hearts
Still race infected by chaotic delirium
Tripping over beauty’s outstretched boughs
To see – to notice -
To embrace
Lavender, gently waiting, with amazement.
our God is bountiful because
Jesus is Robin Hood turning the tables in the forest temple
and Friday treasures an island of hope in my child’s mind
‘you can be a pirate as long as you don’t turn a blind eye’
patches up sorrow and heartache tattooed in its wisdom
bountiful when the snake shares a candy apple with Newton
as everything hangs in the balance of gravity’s fallen sword
when you remove the splinter from blind sighted cataracts
before asking for a new lens without polishing your view
bountiful when kind men from Mars soothe night terrors
because aliens are friends and ride on Dinosaur’s wings
the world becomes as you see it in the light of your dreams
and the chocolate bar holds coconut filling every now and then
bountiful when the cross rots away and nails get a grip onto
new pastures and the sweet tasting promise of sacred droplets
for tears are washed away in the face of anger ceding to faith
and water baptizes the soil for small seeds to nourish the soul
bountiful when the cocoa smeared lips’ immaculate smiles
prepare innocence for that hardship of life bearing the fruit
of patience resolve and happiness that derives from the source
and chews at the gnawing feeling of doubt until it melts away
our God is bountiful because …
11th November 2020
footsteps aimlessly
walking on their trails
beaten down and broken
shiny as the rails
the rails of the train
over used and rusted
crumbling ignored
the system that you trusted
the silence of conformity
the quiet crying song
of people lost in apathy
monotony so long
the old man remembered
the booming days of old
and tried to warn the youngster
with stories he had told
the young man in the t shirt
can hear no warning cries
television cataracts
covering his eyes
commoners injected
with complacent misdemeanors
fed intravenously
from mass media feeders
the heretics will scream
with no one to hear their call
the working slaves will perish
society will fall
in the pulpit yelling
mystifying lies
sweating like a demon
with fire in his eyes
passing round a dish
to collect the workers' wage
saving souls ain't easy
so he sets a stage
profiting from fear
preparing them for death
comfort is a business
says his liquor breath
on the front row fanning
the woman says amen
waiting for the bell
so she can live in sin
forgiveness is a blessing
that god will give to few
surely she'll be one
when her life is through
the child in the classroom
with the curious mind
will be beaten and conditioned
until she too is blind
"trust in the system"
is the motto that they teach
"question nothing,
so higher you can reach"
the land of the free
the home of the brave
only for those of us
content with being slaves
some will stand on street corners
holding big white signs
telling of injustice
held beneath our sights
but those who throw the bombs
which burn society down
those will be the shakers
for true freedom to be found
but the sheep still continue
to justify their life
ignoring others torment
blind to their strife
perpetuating failure
selling bankers souls
to keep on consuming
to get the best remote control
to build themselves a shield
what kind of life is this
numbness is a virtue
and ignorance is bliss
Your wise eyes glistened with cataracts, showing me the hazy Indian sky
The wrinkles on your face, the lines by your eyes, showed me the joys of the hills and caverns of the lands
The raised veins on your hands, bumpy yet smooth, acts like the Ganges, a life supply for you and many
The graying in your hair, shows me the struggles and triumphs, the marriages, the children,
The arthritis you have showed me the pain and determination, the years of work, the labor,
The gentle touch from your rough hands, show me your motherhood, your warmth, your love
The words you spoke, your native tongue, acted as the voice of a generation of women, a voice that’s been heard for years, but only sometimes appreciated
Your loss of hearing showed me the loudness of actions, the loudness of your people, the stories, the lessons you have heard over the years
The loss of memories for you, only showed the tremendous amount you lived, you saw, and felt
Your old passions and anger shined w the ferocity of the fiery red Indian sun
Your dry and cracked hands, showed me the deserts of Rajasthan
Your old gold, your wedding ring, your bangles, show me the beauty of our country, the traditions, that even after the years of wear, we still have value
Your old stories of your family show me the interconnectedness of us all, one large tree, supported by your roots
“Mother India, Mother India,” I call into the void,
Wishing you still were near to bring me back home
The wonders you have seen, the pain you have felt, the revolution and wars you have lived
Mother India was you
A woman older than the world, wiser than philosophers, more beautiful than the Taj
As one Mother leaves, the next generation takes her place,
Yet we never forget our ancestors
The ones who fought, clawed, and struggled for us
The ones who sacrificed their lives for us
You truly loved me
This much I know
You were a mother and grandmother
In more ways than one
You were my grandmother, but you were Mother India
You taught me to love my culture and you were my reason for going back to India
Your time had come and your daughters will take your place.
You were Mother India, I was Daughter India
My world is different from yours,
but the same values and lessons I hold
I miss you
But I know i have the same passions, the same strength, the same love running through my veins
Music, Oh mysterious sprite!
Lift me to the seamless realms of delight.
Your ubiquitous presence I feel;
In the hum of crickets, in the silence of the stars,
In the falling cataracts, in the running streams,
You are there in the roaring sea breakers,
And under the swift wings of the wind.
Come as subtle vibes to saturate my being,
Winding your way through every sinew.
Enfold me in your rapturous hold,
Raising my soul to the magic of rhapsody.
Paint intangible pictures in silence,
Creating a sensation beyond the reach of words.
Let my soul savor the taste of ecstasy,
Daubing myriad hues on all ugly stains.
Land me in the sequestered pools of oases,
As the blistering sands leave burns on my soul
Oh Music! Come and fill me.
Soak me from foot to crown,
Like a falling drizzle,
Like a caressing soft wind,
Like a marauding sensation.
Drown me in the subaqueous quietude of the sea,
Levitating me through ether,
And lifting me up onto the borders of heaven!
A Chip Off the Old Bukowski Block ©
i sit here on the toilet
looking at the cane by my side
when did this happen?
its pronged feet could, at any moment,
scamper into a tidal pool, so much does it
remind me of a robotic crab
my mornings now consist of pills, shuffling
to the next room to pour cereal
then work up a **** before I can
leave the house
When did this happen?
bodily functions take priority as
I can no longer trust this body not
to embarrass me in public
when did this happen?
my knees are shot to hell
my bowels rumble and twist
my arthritis tears at me with sharp little teeth
my vision is perfect, cataracts
blasted away by another robot
when did this happen?
the other day my mind went on a holiday
leaving me behind, confused and blank,
frightened
is this a harbinger of what’s to come
when did this happen?
Ruler of the Cataracts-Maiden of the Mist
The thundering waters of the Niagara.
Voice of the mighty spirits of the water.
The natives believed and yearly sacrificed
a white canoe with fruit and flowers
and a chosen daughter, until the Christians
came and told them Jesus paid. Not until
Lela-Wala, an only child and motherless,
was chosen did the practice subside.
After she dived, her father Chief Eagle
ran out of the woods and followed her.
1/11/2022
HANDSOME LAKE
He was born as Hadawa'ko “Shaking Snow.”
Handsome’s half-brother was Cornplanter.
My heritage from People of the Longhouse —
John married Margaret, a French woman.
She birthed Helen, my great-great-great grandma.
Together they lived on a reservation.
Handsome was born in 1735 in a Seneca village
on the Genesee River into the Turtle Clan —
later he was adopted into the Wolf Clan.
Doubtless my relatives knew of Handsome Lake.
He signed the U.S. treaty with the Six Nations.
1/11/2022
Referenced Wikipedia.com and webwinds.com
During my morning strolls along country paths
The world comes alive in all its gleam n’ glitter
What lovely autumn vistas unfurl and pass me by
What miracles of creation, what wonders of life
What variety, what fantastic medley
What serene peace, what easeful tranquility
Sights and scenes that hold one’s breaths
Sounds and songs that chase away the moody aches
Autumn leaves of crimson red, lemon yellow
And rusty orange, as they drop, they swirl and whirl
Fly in the wind, some landing on my body and tickling me-
A rare feel that this special season alone can give!
Avian chatter of birds migrating to the south,
Blended with the music of leaping cataracts,
And their echoes sent out by tall rocks and giant boulders.
All that pleases the eye and ear in euphoric delight!
Had I been a Raphael or Rembrandt,
I would have transferred those scenes onto a canvas,
Which one would never get tired of gazing at,
And kept in the drawing room for everyone to see
Or a Wordsworth to have composed those immortal
Tintern Abbey lines, inspired by these ‘beauteous forms’
To be recalled and recited by men of all ages and climes
That they ever ring resonant in their private closets!
Dec. 14.2022
~Placed Third~
Brian's Contest- You Choose
~Placed Second ~
Still Life of Autumn Scene Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Eve Roper
Is it a reverie or a true slice of life?
Have I landed in Arcadia or an earthly paradise?
All seems so magical, eyes refusing to believe.
Am I dreaming or do I simply fantasize?
I see everything clothed in glistening sheen.
Around me, all I see is beauty and grandeur.
Heaven seems to have come down to earth.
The sky and the Earth, draped in great splendour.
Covered in a cloak of sparkling dewdrops,
The verdant leaves seem studded with emerald gems.
Glittering in warm sunshine, they look so gorgeous,
Amid them, flowers dance on delicate stems.
Bees fly humming in subdued tone,
Teasing even the weeds that wear a flower.
The bunnies feeling the breath of May,
Nibble at tender grass, so eager it to devour.
All about me is liquid silver’s dazzling glow,
With eddy swirls and falling beams.
Above me is the vast panorama of the sky,
With chiffon clouds straying far into the seams.
The boughs of trees droop with blossom’s weight
Leaves tremble in the might of passing gales.
Tickling rills and somersaulting cataracts
Give a heavenly dimension to half lit vales.
The meadows are dotted with violets and bluebells.
Also, clusters of flowers that never seem to fade.
Lovely birds are heard singing from every bush and tree.
Golden sunbeams play, filtering through the shade.
No doubt, this place is closer to Coleridge’s Xanadu
Far off from world’s sick hurry, this seems a heavenly sphere.
Anyone who lands in this ‘Elysian Field' will loudly exclaim,
‘If there is a Paradise on Earth. it’s here, it’s here’!
she reaches behind the smokescreen
of her sunken eyed curtain veils
films of tears void of translucence
stoke reminiscent ashes that trace
another blinding thick-skinned defeat
hidden by camouflage and smears
touched up campaigns of bravery
her retinas a web of hallucinations
illusion delusion cataracts and dreams
stirred but not entirely shaken as
she reaches for another glass to empty
while numbness mixes with mirages
of victory over hits and misses
on battle lines of reconstruction
a palisade and shield from truth
her sentience slips into severance
from memories epiphanies and falls
from grace as she applauds the circus clown
and crazy court jester she became to be
in sadness badness insanity while
holding on to fragmented shards
screeching on the palette of many
a brush with fate curses and agony
she is a survivor of abuse and violence
exploitation and deliberate transgressions
and reaches deeply into her resolve
to allocate anger to where it belongs
instead of blaming her own kindness
she lifts the olive branch closer
to her tumbler spits out the hemlock
and trusts that tears will dry
once excoriations have dried up
until then she is not the drunkard
she is made out to be by sycophants
and hypocrites who spiked her
drink of life but merely coping
for the moment and longing for solutions
29th July 2021
The old man gazed at the sun about to set
And its molten core soon to dissolve in the sea
Scratching his head with tremulous hands
And running his fingers on the stubble of his unshaven face
He held once more tight to his wheel chair
Casually he had a glance at his hands
Those dry, weak and shriveled hands
Gone wrinkled with passing years!
His hands once so busy are now limp
His days once brisk are now long and dull
He noticed the discolored patches on his skin
Under them the lattice of tortuous veins on the dorsum
They run down to join with the bigger ones
Like small rivulets flowing towards larger rivers
He remembered how the streams from summits
So vigorously come down with a gush
Also the noisy cataracts somersaulting down,
Leaving reverberating echoes all around
But they produce only a soft musical sound
As they join with the rivers and pass through plains
And finally end in a kind of hushed stillness
Just before merging with the sea!
The old man philosophized;
Life too is like a river:
Fierce and ferocious when one is young
Gentler and sedate after middle age
And slow and sloppy in old age
With this calm acceptance of the need to de-accelerate
Wrapping himself in the shawl against the growing cold
He turned away from the window.
Pushing his wheel chair,
He moved forward,
Knowing no haste…..
Towards his bed for another night’s tired sleep!
Grandpa breathed his last when
My father was still in my grandma’s womb
For me it’s a distant dream to recall
What he looked like or what he was.
But what the people of the town said
That he was all in one for education of the kids
A head-master, a teacher, a peon, a caretaker.
But I do remember my grandma with whom
I lived since my birth to my teenage till
I left for the university education.
My grandma widowed at the age of nineteen
Bringing up my father, settled him for a good life.
Built a tall wall against all Tsunamies and if
there were Tsunamies, they're on the other side of the wall.
And then………..
She got up in the dawn, and knelt and blew
Till the seed of the fire flickered and a-glow
And then she had to scrub and baked and swept,
Went to river for wash and
Bring a pot of drinking water
Till stars were beginning to blink and peep;
And me lie long and dreamt in my bed,
And her day went over in idleness.
Waited my return from the school and
If late by a few minutes,
Will come half the way to school.
While she must work though old
Till the seed of the fire got feeble and cold
Getting cataracts in both her eyes and
I was her eyes and her ears and hands later
I remember my grandma as she lay dying,
What she said of me to my dad "that Babu,
He's all the treasure you will ever need”.
+++
October 19, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth Place win
Contest: Sketch a character by Gautami Phookan
Santa Clause has a more heroic deed and story,
Which everyone might have missed to hear and see;
He has been on service for a decade or yore,
He's a wizened Santa and he cannot walk anymore.
His reindeer are nowhere to be found,
They went to breed, he keeps looking for them around;
He has cataracts, so he cannot see them,
He was operated…now, he has spectacles with thick lens.
He is worried that his gifts will not be given on time,
So, he sits hurriedly on his wheelchair drawn by snowman,
But snowman keeps rolling while dragging him on the ground,
He wishes that someone will pass by to get them quickly in town.
Santa Clause has a brilliant idea on his mind,
He remembers some balloons for children on his chair, behind;
He blows them and takes some helium for snowman’s body,
Now, you can hear them both saying “ho ho ho”-- flying happily.
Christmas to New Year, you can still see him hovering on air,
He is busy dropping gifts for adults and children so dear;
Everyone is running gladly to receive the gifts while singing,
"Oh Santa, you got the whole year the spirits of the three kings."
January 3, 2014 9.10pm
Fifth Place
Contest: Santa Claus
Judged: 1/3/14
Sponsor: Poet Debbie Guzzi
Honorable Mention
Contest: What's Up With Santa
Judged: 12/18/2014
Sponsor: Poet Jerry T. Curtis
We walk the rocky shore and you lean heavily on me,
Mother, bruising my balky arm -- muttering "Ay, Hijo!".
A few steps and, breathless, we are both exhausted.
Your once-brown eyes, gone gray, are like
concentric rings rippling from a random stone
thrown into this polluted pond in winter.
Cataracts cloud your lenses; they have a ruptured look --
purple, jellied -- like the eyes of a dead fish which I poke,
perversely fascinated. It is puffed and rotten.
Your eyes are puffed, too, red-rimmed,
moist with tears that brim over
though you try to blink them back.
That you love me and I you,
and that we wish to extend
our time together, is clear.
As clear as the fetid water in the pond,
as clear as my conscience when I drop you
at the Home, having invented a meeting,
to which I must hastily fly.