Best Congenital Poems
Revolving around LOVE indeed…
that’s life as glanced by our special child
blessed by God*, the source of precious breath
and the author of wondrous existence…
Such is proven while beholding his miracle-filled survival
anchored by compassion nurturing him against diagnosis
of “progression toward retrogression”~~~
upheld along care enveloping his being
despite “congenital anomalies”~~~
beautified through comfort supporting him
though afflicted with cerebral palsy~~~
asserted in sign language
expressing his grateful gestures toward
guardians and friends in the orphanage
now serving as his dear family…
I pray with faith for that perspective to prevail
since LOVE of the LORD reigns!
*2Corinthians 1:3 Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort.
March 10, 2021
5th place, "Life At A Glance" Premier Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose; judged on 3/12/2021.
~A Poem That Took A Week Or More To Write~
Scars Left Behind.
Scarred since birth born with a congenital deforming cleft lip
abandoned unacceptable by nobody I don't belong to your
universe I don't belong to be a guest in your domiciles as I am
avoided I don't belong to share a sunrise as I am blindfolded
I don't belong to your beauty parlor as I look repugnant
I don't belong to participate to a party as I am nameless
I don't belong to be present at a birth of a new born banned
to come closer to the mother.
Scars at birth.
My solitude drove me to flee towards one site the lighthouse
stand alone far away far maybe my voice might be heard
begging to be saved from the sufferings on this earth as my
anguish has no end.
My soul will only triumph while waiting for the sun of love
the moon of light the stars that shine I will wait,wait to pick
up the echo of the passing vessels listen to the whisper of
the winds getting windier watch the dark waters drifting off
flowing away blown back towards the shore a farewell leaving
me alone.
Scars till I die
Who shall I belong to? I have no friends its so obscure outside
there is so much stillness around me afraid alone aware of my
shadows disappearance I called for anybody`s support to facilitate
my survival alleviate my pain nobody came I need to rest and allow
my soul to escape who will? who can? who wants to rescue me?
I am tired I was left behind scarred without a mother or father
nor brother or sister I tried but could not save myself.
My soul drifting as I could not belong to someone watch over me
love me feed me talk to me look at me even scarred run with me
when I am old to the harbor before the ship sails but I flawed I had
no strength nobody heard a word everybody ignored me.
Help Me
The ship sailed leaving without my soul because none came to
liberate me I am still homeless and scarred.
Help me to forget help me to survive can anybody do that?
Please.
Therese Bacha
June 26 2013
Jane Merchant (2)
Invalid of flesh (but not of soul),
She saw Creation whole,
And hymned the seasons come to pass
Beyond her bedroom window-glass—
December trees—and April rain-wet grass.
~
Jane Hess Merchant was born in 1919 on a dairy farm outside of Knoxville. She was the
youngest of four children. Her family lived on farms in Knox County and Jefferson County
until she, her mother, and her sister Elizabeth moved to Knoxville after her father's
death in 1949. Jane was confined to her bed at age twelve due to the congenital bone
disease Osteogenesis Imperfecta, which made her bones extremely brittle and thus prevented
virtually all physical activity. Indeed, what little of the outside world Jane saw was
from her parents' arms when they carried her outside as a child. The same disease that
confined Jane to her bed also caused her to go deaf at the age of twenty-three. She lived
with her mother and sister Elizabeth, who cared for her until her death.
Although many people may have considered Jane to be hopelessly crippled and thus to be
treated as an object of pity, she was extremely active in the literary world until her
death on January 3, 1972. She wrote more than 3,000 poems, over 2,000 letters, dozens of
prose pieces, and published ten collections of her poetry. Jane did not consider herself
pitiful in any way: as the Reverend Gordon Sterchi put it at her funeral, "no one who knew
Jane pitied her or thought her life dreary. They understood that her life was more joyful
that their's [sic]. They realized that she saw more from the bed than they saw from the
boulevards."
The human qualities and potential isn’t limited nor territorial
kindness at its peak is indeed interracial
it is brutal to keep this knowledge confidential
b’cos, my experience is first hand and crucial.
Pouring out serial disgusting output, I've been consistent
hence nurturing my friendship is menial,
such a risk is definitely consequential
and it becomes official when a friend’s head is hit
Despite my social status compounded in filth and lots of irritating effect
I've been embraced and kissed by luck
making me believe life is indeed partial
A controversial creature, I am
yet, surrounded by the wonders of true friendship
its complete care, no where near superficial
its love, so congenital
to the point, I feel I’m in denial
My stink spreads across towns
my words attract infirmities
my mind has been the warehouse of lawlessness
and everything bad is registered in my accountability
but the one and only good side of me is you my friends
the day you leave, is the day I join the Dinosaurs
Virginity, the state of never having had sexual intercourse,
The state of being naïve, innocent, or inexperienced in a particular context,
Thought of as almost congenital awkwardness, a disease,
Sex being something you cannot allow yourself to get, a disease for a girl.
Something to get rid of, a disease for a boy.
Virginity being something sacred and to be cherished,
Sex is exciting, and hot, and almost a prerequisite for your first year of college,
Something sad, something hot, something bad, all of these things and it is-
Virginity, the state of never having had sexual intercourse.
A pawn for a pawn, a crown to crown,
whom is Master of this Lodge in town,
this I enquire while preparing the pyre for you to retire,
my meddlesome mobility unabated, indicative of a congenital nobility,
configured to coral this clambering caravan of corrupted cargo,
like a sqaulid sailing ship mired by a dragging anchor
I will be the insensitive squall that screams and squashes
your spirit's resolve for immortality to which you aspire,
by necessity, your pirate army pines to encroach this backline of mine,
alert for advantage like hyenas on high ground,
but when the men turn round with countenances of lost children,
then the lead you must take and oasis forgo,
A final engagement cautiously commenced upon the carnage
of this conflict's first casualties, terrific testament of mortality,
gross scenes torn pale and asunder by torchlights,
unremitting images of the half dead bleeding,
their moans bare and last moments barren
like old channels of lost rivers,
raging exhaustion spurned and supplanted with a spontaneous summons
of a brazen belief that my foe is more weakened, warbled and wasted than we,
here in the middle, setting the endgame circuitously,
a defense is devised to deter like a pinching pillory,
my startegy is instinct, my ferocity diverse -
J.A.B. - Final Part -
Daniel is a "different" child
The doctors said he might just be a slow starter
Daniel had something unfamiliar and different facial features
He ate poorly and was fed through a tube
There were many worries and hospital visits
Six months passed before he received his diagnosis
Daniel had Williams syndrome
A rare, congenital condition characterized by
a characteristic appearance,
developmental defects in the cardiovascular system,
reduced growth and developmental disabilities
As parents we had many questions
It was a roller coaster for a long time
Today Daniel is eleven years, a joyful boy
who loves to draw, dance and listen to music
Our son is a loving and cheerful boy
- let the "different" children shine
They are good enough – more than good enough
CIPA or Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis
is a genetic disorder very rarely found among us.
They afflicted with this disorder have a damaged gene
and as a result, sufferers never experience the sensation of pain.
Many may assume that this would be a good thing
but they who are afflicted encounter much suffering.
Death from hypothermia among CIPA patients is quite common
because they never know when their body temperature is low or rising.
Some CIPA patients have had to remove all of their teeth
to prevent them from chewing on their lips whenever they eat.
There isn't any cure or treatment presently
for the few afflicted with this rare genetic disease.
I guess with so few afflicted, it's not a medical priority,
but maybe this disorder can be used positively.
Many bed ridden terminal patients suffer needlessly
with agonizing pain until they're deceased.
In my opinion, they ought to have the right to be
euthanized and put out of their misery,
but that isn't ethical among the medical community.
This is where I believe CIPA would come in very handy.
If research can figure out how to damage this otherwise healthy gene
responsible for allowing us to feel the sensation of pain,
perhaps it could be injected as a serum possibly
and relieve the chronic pain from dying patients permanently.
The patient would have a leisurely, peaceful exit completely pain free
and ethics wouldn't be violated within the medical community.
All terminal patients in chronic pain could all die humanely...
...but then I'm not a professional. This is just my theory.
I think I need surgery,
Can I take out my heart?
Cupid is at it again,
The diaper wearing brat.
Love is bitter-sweet,
Why can’t I just have candy sweets?
Maybe Man wasn't created to be alone
God’s plan perhaps.
Drowning in my schizophrenic abyss,
I wonder if I would see bliss.
Maybe it’s me being randy,
Why can’t I have candy?
Despite things being rowdy.
Born without mating instincts,
My congenital disease,
Emotionally indistinct
In high degrees.
Juke on repeat,
The feelings play each time,
I don’t send text thinking
she would reply,
I am wasting emotions,
It's getting pointless,
My heart is turning sour,
And my feelings, voiceless.
October 10, 2017. Topic 'A' Love and Romance.
From Mastadonian timelessness
Thru Neolithic mankindliness
Past icy agey instances
Cave-ember dream sequences
Animal carcass sustenances
Tribal ritual religiousness
Guttural language utterances
Savage native dominances
Eking marginal existences
Toward era-ending extinguishes
To Nomadic brutal homelessness
Under cracking cultural bridginess
Under societal forgetfulness
Under Military expansiveness
Governmental negligences
A congenital hopelessness
Constitutional vagariousness
Evolutionary pervasiveness
Solitary survivalness
That’s my piece of boniness
My tent reeks of holiness
On the edge of precariousness...
From within the flux its breath sweeps the shoreline,
Sometimes spewing forth flotsam and jetsam
Lolling us to sleep with its soothing savoury sighs.
Its siren calls hypnotising the unwary and confidant.
Drawing us to depths of hidden fury and peace.
Scouring the lands with an insatiable appetite,
Forever hungry, it’s stomach a pitiless pit of plenty.
Its minions devouring the fallen. Lost in opaque screams.
The rolling wave ripples through to the very soul,
Its innocuous plate sparkles in white foamy trepidation.
Beckoning us, taunting us, through its congenital self.
Primordial waves bathe our lives as we search the shore.
For peace, love and isolation, now flung and strewn.
Where hope of salvage dwell in our beachcombing souls.
We wish to return from where once we came, we lost embryos.
Our mislaid mother calls, still we newcomers neglect her voice.
5th Aug 2013..........S.de Burca
I've found someone I can't live without
Pitiful, I've only discovered that after they've left
Now I can't live.
I've descended on both knees
A face flooded with tears,
Which bled from my broken insides
To repent, to pray to a God
In which I did not believe existed
A God in which I only turned to
In times of need
A God in which I believed would avail me, even if I wasn't the most
Faithful of followers
I believed if I was baptized in his name, he'd perform divine miracles
Before my eyes, even if I did not practice his teachings
Am I selfish for doing so?
Set aside my failure to practice
My own congenital beliefs,
My heart still aches
My body, still empty
Legs shaking, weak from the lack
Of his presence
He is my pillar
He is my wings
He arises me above all that is evil
He makes me feel whole,
He makes me feel divine,
He makes me feel like I can climb mountains,
Slay the devil, himself
I am a fool for this man
He is my King
And I would walk through hellfire to be able to hold him once more...
(whose video powerfully, profoundly, and
positively affected this southeastern residing
Pennsylvania papa)!
Afflicted with Cystic Fibrosis since her birth
contagious exuberance, gung-ho,
infectious jubilance noah dearth
which eye opening (then tearing)
podcast link sent tummy
FaceBook account,
she distilled and
didst poignantly blog the
purpose driven life,
no matter...hmm...
her existential time
nearing thee finis
line on planet Earth
though upworthy defying
deathly clasp of grim reaper,
who scythe lent
lee doth await
she (titled lass of poem) established
a substantial supportive network,
via such an up
beat aura, charisma,
persona, et cetera create
ting global bond sans,
world wide web, aye equate
chance lucky opportunity
to witness airily especial
and gutsy acceptance
of her (congenital) grim fate
while this healthy
(as an oxymoron) lix
spit tilling chap doth hate
sweaty palms (a minor,
though tolerable inconvenience)
versus being irate
at an accursed disease
still no cure as of late,
yet...state of
the art revolutionary treatments
provide longevity, and... YES
possibility to discover a mate
though consigning severe limitations
but...WOW, that girl (unknown
til yesterday) doth narrate
positivity, which amazing
will power didst permeate,
within thine noggin
triggering sincere flowing tears
bursting forth at an unstoppable rate
hence this attempted rye
ming livingsocial tribute
to go for broke
esprit de corps elan trait
completing a bucket list
while eternal sleep will wait!
Out of the pot of Nature's Heritage we were created.
The taste of originality to savor, such novelty to behold.
Fearfully and wonderfully adorned with a spirit nurtured as a replica of our being.
A magnificent culture of beauty who have under-taken as a task,
In the misconception of thousand ways to keep such aesthetics alight.
Rather than lived out the beauty of our souls,
Focusing on the weightier matters, are fastened on outward frivolities.
Baked earth marked with easy simplicity and freedom from artificiality.
Rather left a congenital appearance to be remarked, remodeled and redesigned with embellishments.
Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.
Consider the great beauty in the heart of the Queen of many Queens.
One of Esther, a fair and beautiful maid of whom the royal crown was placed upon her head.
Bore and carried upon her shoulder the pains and burdens of her people, travailed much but overcame.
Abigail, a woman of good understanding and a beautiful countenance with graciousness,
Averted the mischief wrought by Nabal her churlish husband.
Reflect on the beauty of the courage Deborah seised, serving as a judge to the Lord's people.
Fought in the face of danger as Sisera was sold into her hands.
Contemplate the amount of love Tabitha a woman full of good works and alms-deed possessed,
That even at death her folks would rather she lived again than lay helpless to death.
Ex-cogitate the excellency of the fulfillment of everlasting covenant,
The lord established through a seed from the barren womb of Sarah.
Ruminate over the determination of a virtuous Ruth,
From a low estate Mary, blessed among all women of whose seed is the king of kings.
A chew-over ambit an acquisition of a quintessential perspective.
From the river bank, a water course cannot be changed
take the risk and go mid-stream
short cuts are easy and cheap but
with straight forward deadly consequences.
Water is confirmed to be boiled
when it’s exactly at a hundred degrees.
A ladder is said to be climbed
when the top has been reached.
Life so easy is a product of minds so strained,
stardom has no DNA, neither are strong muscles congenital.
Doing something new isn’t supernatural,
it’s the same ordinary, taking an extra mile.
A medal rounding Neck and a victory crowned head
dish out demands not found on shallow waters
when the diver is back atop
no one remembers the bottom pressures of the ocean.