Best Neurologist Poems
dadgum doctors, heads up their butts
poking, prodding, pricking skin
neurologist a psychopath
gets pleasure as electric volts pass through my body
family doctor showed little concern
made me paranoid about irregular heartbeat
EKG failed to determine cause
left me more in doubt than at ease
dentist like a character from Dustin Hoffman’s “Marathon Man”
the more pain inflicted
the more he rejoiced
deep root cleaning caused severe infection
bloodwork done by Vampira clones
labs filled with tubes and needles
results not shared with me
yet I footed the bill
optometrist an Oriental who moved so fast
didn’t care if the prescribed glasses worked
boo on you, dang aristocrats
waving your credentials
nurses so slow to respond
MRI promised on CD, but couldn’t be obtained
just like the blood tests, needed a “report”
doctors driving me insane
each should share my mental hospital bills
*Based on ongoing health tests and written for PD’s contest. Assignment Free Verse, 25 lines, category slam, sad and educational, title: Mental Hospital Bills
Dedicated to my son, my heart, my Kyle
As infant, he was a smile and precious dimples
who had experienced no day or night simple.
He constantly battled while growing in the womb
in order to cease death's increasing threat of doom.
He battled inside the special care nursery
where I garnered my first Motherhood memory.
As toddler, he battled space to allow his place
because balance had not been granted by the fates.
So, too, he fought to finally stand up and walk.
He would fall, stand to retry, no matter who gawked.
He struggled to button, tie, open, close and zip
as fine motor skill challenges were a rough trip.
He will never, ever read, the teachers all said,
no matter that he piles books around him in bed.
Each night after dinner, he studied to the brim
with me who had learned how to teach reading to him.
Then seizures came and took what he had learned away.
School-bullies learned how to make him seizure each day.
Neurologist failed with this med and then tried that.
All had side effects that were hellish living facts.
Once in his bed, he was spinning, holding my hand
and my tears began to fall despite my command.
"Mama, all our days, Mother and Son love will stand
so, please don't cry, God has a perfect seizure plan.”
After a two year fight, the scary seizures stopped.
Since, his gross and fine motor skills have soared and popped.
His reading skills improved, increased and success locked.
Now, as adult, his dimples and smile remain hot.
My precious, brave son lives life with all he has got.
To me, my son’s steady courage has always rocked.
... CayCay Jennings
December 19, 2016
On that fateful day in August arriving late, so unusual for me
For I am always early; did I know deep down what the verdict would be
As soon as I walked through that door, the neurologist told me my fate
I had Parkinson’s she said; a degenerative disease; but then I heard no more
How I wanted to scream are you sure, are you sure
Then I started to cry; then I started to shake
How on earth would I cope; how on earth would I live
I am now all alone since my darling had died
But the kindly sweet nurse made a cup of sweet tea
She gave me a hug sending me on my way
with armfuls of booklets, to read one by one
and not all at once, there’s so much to take in
I spoke to my family, I cried, they cried
I spoke to my friends, I cried, they cried
Then slowly I realised it could be much worse
I began to get angry; I began to curse
Till finally I vowed to live life to the full
Making each second count, till the day my time comes
I vowed that Parkinson’s will never define me
I will never let it rule me; I will fight it to the nth degree
Written 21st December 2018
Competition: You are not defined by
Sponsor: John Hamilton
2nd place
Standard contest 180
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st place
My accomplish are very small throughout the daytime
Senior and retired, I have to remember to make sure I don’t forget to take my pills
Memory is short and cannot focus
Seven fifteen in the morning comes around very quickly,
especially when I go to bed so late, then I toss and turn because my body aches.
My Yorkie makes sure I’m up, he jumps up on the bed and lies by my side until I’m up; he patiently waits to be fed.
Get up; wash my face to wake up, then into the rooms to fix the beds
Into the kitchen and fix my Yorkies food,
take my vitamins for the energy I need,
I put on my shoes on rain or shine to walk my Yorkie up and down the road,
come back home and take my medicine
After all is done
Behind the computer and see what is up with Poetry Soup and Facebook, my way in staying touch with all my friends and the world.
At nine I’m back in the kitchen fixing breakfast, so my husband can take his medicine with food
Clean up the kitchen after we’re done
I’m off for a ten o’clock appointment with my neurologist, to brainstorm what’s going on in my brain.The outcome is, data is not being processed and stored in its files. My computer is running down and it’s caused by old age
Back home and start all over again
Behind the computer and see what is up with Poetry Soup and Facebook
At one o’clock I’m back in the kitchen fixing lunch, then
clean up the kitchen once more after we’re done
Call my eight- three year old mother to make sure she’s getting along ok
Trim the hedge and clean up the mess so it won’t block my view when I look out the window
Into the shower because I’m all dirty, wet, and sticks
Behind the computer and see what is up with Poetry Soup and Facebook
At four I'm back in the kitchen to fix supper then clean up the kitchen once more
By midnight, I finally make it to bed
After composing a list of my daily chores I realize I didn’t have a life
When I’m asked, “What did you do today? The story I tell is,
“Same old, same old.”
5/15/2015
I accept what i need offer up what's left
Let ridicule fall on ears that are deft
Just as a fisherman catches fish on his hook
I write out my poems and put together books
The reason I do it is clear as can be
I feel it's what the Lord ask of me
For 41 years I had no idea I was a poet
But if I couldn't cook it I could damn sure grow it
My life consumed by Marijuana and speed
Trusting in them to provide what I need
They replaced my job and even my love
They were everything that I held above
They picked me up whenever i felt low
If I got to high they helped me to slow
No, I didn't write poems or watch the T.V.
Never touched a computer said, "Thats not for me"
Traded in the girls because the next on was cuter
Woke up with a shot went to bed with a hooter
I would run day and night until I would drop
Running more from myself than from any cop
I chemically induced away all my dreams
See rivers take mothers after being formed by streams
These days my head feels like it's in a vice
I'll tell you right now my pains nothing nice
Weekly shots I take for the Hepatitis C
Epidural Steroid blocks in the spine for me
Every doctor I see I greet with a smile
Not feeling to good but I will after while
They say my attitude is one that is great
I see the beauty of love with no time for the hate
I have no reason for anger or time to be mad
No reason for all that this is my bad
This isn't that bad hell I've suffered more
At least I can turn my knob and walk out the door
Reality is real but it's also a dream
Things that are clear may not be as they seem
The Lord is my master to whom which I serve
For he's already given me more than I deserve
Children who love me and a beautiful wife
All the blessings a man needs in life
So Doctor tell me how can I not smile
At least I'm not alone walking this mile
I have you guys and the Lord walking with me
And thats about as beautiful as beautiful can be
I dedicate this poem to all of my doctors
Dr. Garrison - Primary
Dr. Merliss - Neurologist
Dr. Aldwari - Infectious Disease Specialist
Dr. Johnson- Pain Management Specialist
Dr. Beck - Physical Therapist
I feel very blessed to have such a fine
team working so hard on my recovery.
I also wish to thank everyone for all the
Prayers I have received. I love you guys.
The neurologist hung me out to dry
“No cure,” says he as I hang by a thread
All dressed up and wanting to fly
Took torturous tests that I did dread
What? No means of comfort? Have I misread?
Like a kitten on a hook, I hang and wait
Please take me down and offer hope
Now in a chiropractor’s hands I rest my fate
On my spine he’ll press and grope
With the symptoms, I’m learning to cope
Yet, as I hang here, medical bills are tossed at me
Insurance pays a bit, but it’s running out
Praying for a treatment to set me free
Months pass; whiskers grow from my snout
In a debtors’ prison I’ll land, no doubt
July 31, 2011
By Carolyn Devonshire
*Entry for Francine’s “Hangin’ in There” contest
I went to buy an R.V.
They said all I could afford was a Lose-a Beggo.
I bought a pair of alligator shoes.
But then I started wandering off into swamps.
Finally, I had to toss them, they were
really biting my feet.
I got arrested for tossing
an endangered species.
I got a fantastic price on a
1995 calendar.
I discovered the Missing Link.
(Of my broken chain).
Were cell phones invented for prisoners?
I bought a hot dog from a street vendor in NYC.
I guess he didn't like my looks.
He offered me mustard gas.
Speaking of hot dogs, I bought a $500
hot dog roller-grill machine.
But then I could no longer afford the hot dogs.
I'm so dumb I used to think hot dogs
were Dobermans left out in the sun.
The waiter asked me if I wanted some
mussels. I said I couldn't afford the
gym membership.
What's in a name?
Letters, I guess...
I use Military time, cause I
thought the o'clocks were just
for Irish people.
Did the Ottoman Empire
build forts out of armless sofas?
Someone told me they wanted to see Tibet.
I said, "Why?...No one will win."
I couldn't afford the colon cleanser, so I got a semi-colon cleanser.
Why do they call those big eighteen wheeler trucks "Semis"?
Where's the other half?
Whoever said "All good things come to those who wait" must've had a different
postman.
My neurologist calls me Mr. Numskull.
Someone asked me what my net worth was. I said I pay $9.95 a month to be
online.
I have so many electric pianos the electric company had to build another power
plant.
Amazon doesn't like me either. I ordered an 8mm camera- they sent me a
loaded 9mm gun with instructions on suicide.
Have a good one, more on their way.
(If you wish to unsubscribe to Tom's
Terrrible Tibits, Tough Nookies!)
My known, soothing landscapes,
grown from my own hues and shapes,
somehow vanquished their view.
Just one more sore blister of news
to aid my staid mind’s gist of confused.
My angered fist punched tears in their wake
before my shock shakily jot them on a list
of all my fear sought to restore propped.
Truth and I both awoke the first day of last September.
Coffee bound, then mumming around, it was not
long before I felt scared and anxiety provoked ~
I startled at a stranger’s face in my mirror ~
Noted my home had turned to disorder
Saw store reward cards had left my wallet
Winced that drawers were insanely arranged
I about fell to the floor from facts just scored.
Did I want to wake my sleeping man
to answer my questions and more?
I choose to abide in the peace of ignorance
because I feared that if truth made my bed
I would ever decrease beneath the sheets.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Though details are clouded, I have surely been rerouted.
I try, but fail to decipher what all determined this matter.
Prime pieces of me were clearly scattered blind-battered
by forces cemented to time-tatter my mind demented.
It feels as though I have been divorced from myself
by means of some unleashed, bruiser intruder.
I lack all recall of three hundred and sixty-five days
and this is a pain not even my neurologist explains.
"Praise ye the LORD. O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever." Psalm 106:1 of the King James Bible*
“He will progress toward retrogression…”
oh, gloomy tidings --- verily heart breaking news
I was confronted with, more than a decade ago
announced by a pediatrician neurologist.
“… Retrogression…”
every day, I kept defying said medical prophecy
not that I was in denial of our special child’s condition
but was anxious his infantile spasm epilepsy would be fatal.
“… Toward retrogression…”
such reverberated, intensifying my angst
every time I beheld his restlessness
propelling his fatigue before going to sleep.
“… Progress toward retrogression…”
yes, I questioned diagnosis with mixed emotions
as fear swelled over courage, striving to prevail
yet, faith in God surmounted my motherly qualms.
“… Will progress toward retrogression…”
nonetheless, the Lord with His miraculous mercy and might
worked along our loving nurture midst supplication-filled care
in the orphanage that serves as his home and family.
“He will progress toward retrogression…”
that was then (2010); and so saddening
since the doctor whose assertion is now being nullified, died (in 2018)---
could not behold and rejoice for our child’s development.
Today, our son is showing remarkable progress
marked with gratefulness, peace, and joy
while in sign language he prays and worships---
---expressing that the Almighty is good*.
February 6, 2021
3rd place, "A Meaningful Poem" Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 3/26/2021.
Imagine an ice pick
to the core of the meat
twist and yank and pull
through smashed socket
cracking temples in a vice grip
hammer through bone and gristle
take that sharpened fork,
heated sear my tender neck
claw it off my tightened shoulders,
dull saw my jaw ragged
grind out each tooth
every nerve alive
flesh shivers
mouth waters with contained spew
taste of rot and bananas
every little sound
chews off my ears
is this what death feels like.
no. no.
*
My neurologist (brain doctor) encouraged me
to submit this poem for all who have felt the
wrath of migraine pain. I am also posting for
those who have never experienced a
migraine, lucky...
Left
© By Holly W. Schwartztol
Early on that morning
I wracked my brain
Trying to solve
A computer glitch
As I left the wretched machine
I rose and felt suddenly dizzy
And as the room spun
I chided myself
Saying this isn’t worth
Your having a stroke
I lay down on the bed
Listened to a disc
That promised
Relaxation and rest
My head stopped throbbing
And the phone rang
The caller ID said
Mother
What was she doing at
Home in mid-morning?
Only the voice on
The other end
Wasn’t hers
But the
Maid I’d never met
Telling me of mother’s
Neck pain and strange speech
And then I knew
That my pain had
Really belonged to her
That my dizziness
Reflected hers and that
It was she who was
In fact having a stroke
Frantic calls ensued
Between Miami and New York
A neurologist
Saying that the stroke
Had been massive
That the prognosis was grim
Words of paralysis
And irretrievable
Brain damage
I faxed the living will
Which is really the
Will of the living isn’t it?
We sat by her bedside
For four endless days
And then her breath
Was no more and she was gone.
And at 62 I was
Suddenly an orphan
Both parents gone
The older brother
Having gone 40 years ago
How do I live in
This world
On this planet
As the lonely satellite
The last member
Of my nuclear family
Here to sift through
The pictures
And the letters
And all the memorabilia that
Make up a life
Delightfully coloring a butterfly drawing
my child, secured in his custom-built wheel chair
grips, midst obvious struggle
his yellow crayon…
Wow… he’s enjoying his creativity-schedule
as he painstakingly finishes his artwork
along bugging restlessness
overcoming “butterfly-in-pupa stage” syndrome…
Soon with glee-filled countenance
devoid of bashful gesture
he shows me his masterpiece:
a glowing butterfly, radiant in yellow…
Witnessing his gracious achievement
I see in him God-wrought remarkable changes
indeed precious indications that he’s “educable”
undoubtedly, not progressing toward retrogression…*
Yes, I’m beholding metamorphosis in process
thus, with faith in the Sovereign’s miracle
I envision my boy in his functionality
like a butterfly in its blessed beauty**.
*"Expect that he will progress toward retrogression..."This was uttered by the pediatrician-neurologist that diagnosed our special child of infantile epilepsy and global developmental delay in 2010. Today, our son, by God's grace is doing well.
**Psalm 90:17 And let the beauty of the LORD our God be upon us…
October 4, 2019
Honorable Mention, "Writing Challenge, October-Butterfly" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart- Wiishkobe Ode; judged on 10/5/2019.
part 1 of 2
Annick (my 28 year old sister) came down to NYC, from Boston, for a day visit. It was one of those warm, cerulean days between Christmas and New Years. Annick’s in a surgical residence, in a pandemic, but still somehow, she got away.
We’re dining on a shaded, outdoor, sundeck - I arrived first, by a moment but then the elevator opened and Annick emerged, looking like a model - familiar but I don’t know - more completely adult - more than ever like my mom. It was all I could do not to weep for happiness when we hugged.
After that long hug, Annick gave my clothes a slow, censorious looking-over. When my mom and I shopped for “school clothes” last year, in Paris, I bought some stunning designer (Anna Molinari) clothes - only to find out they were completely out of place at Yale. Now they’re sentenced to a trunk under my bed and my replacement clothes are from FatFace and Patagonia.
I’ve been dressing to disappear but I wanted her to see a “new me.” How I’ve survived in a rough, academic country - not just survived - but thrived. I also wanted her to think her sister was beautiful and hoped I didn’t seem too strange. She cupped my chin - just like my mom does - “You look wonderful,” she said.
Annick mentioned we’d have company for lunch but she was alone - then this tall, fair-haired, man was with us. He slipped his arm around Annick’s waist and they smiled, together. I’d never met one of Annick's boyfriends before so this was a little disconcerting - part of me wanted to pull her away and say, “MINE!”
Annick made the introductions, “Anais, this is Gerard - Gerard, Anais.” Gerard leaned into la bise then half hugged me, patting me bearishly on the back. I decided he was too tall and too handsome and began to examine him for flaws.
He wore a dark-charcoal-gray cashmere suit with a light-gray oxford-cloth shirt. “Are you always so dapper?” I asked? “I wanted to look substantial,” he said, with a very slight French accent. He held me at arm’s length. “You’re definitely sisters,” he said, smiling.
We settled in. At first we were a little stilted with each other, uncertain how to best introduce ourselves. Annick said that Gerard is a “Child Neurologist.” “Funny,” I said, “you look older.” and he laughed. I was warming to him.
At first, I barely noticed your presence
all I saw of you was
a swift turn of the head
no one else noticed
but I did
Over time you became bolder
extrovert, out there
then, everyone noticed
when the spasmodic jerking began
I hated you. Prayed for you to go away
but as time ticked on ….
clearly, you were going nowhere
you just grew wild, wilder wilder AND WILDER
like a windup toy spinning out of control
you were reckless with my emotions
physical wellbeing too
my neck, you caused to twist
turn, shake, twist, twist, turn, shake
whether standing, sitting or lying in bed
the pain was often too much
it brought me down
right down
down
I wanted to die
I could no longer with live with you
especially when the medics had no clue
Eventually together we grew
you tolerated me and I you
until a quarter of a century later
…. that’s how long it took.
Eventually a Neurologist took one look
he recognised you straight away
‘Ah her name is Dystonia
she is not a mystery.’
he was confident as he told me
it wasn’t all in my head
as so many had often said
he has helped to calm you down
with the Botox injections
administered quarterly
your wildness is more moderate
the pain I felt is far far less
and now we can co-relate
though we will never fully be mates
When you were born
It was the best of days
Such a small one
Your life had begun in different ways
There was something wrong
We thought then
And went to the doctors
To put our doubts to end
So the tests were made
To put it all to rest
Parents assured it would be alright
Just a pinched nerve no big mess
So we sat in the Hospital
Speaking to a Neurologist then
A tidy office on a cold day
But we found it the beginning and not end
Your son has cerebral palsy
And it’s incurable
I can’t tell how bad it will be
Go home and do what you are able
So we went home
And told our crowd
Tears and hugging
For us were allowed
The years have gone by
And there have been ups and downs
But one thing is known for certain
It wasn’t his choice
And we guide him where he’s bound.
© Paul Warren Poetry