Event: Anglo-Boer War 1899–1902—Measles epidemic in the concentration camps.
In the voice of: Sannie Botha (a survivor).
Jan’s cough kept me awake all through the night.
The children are all coughing in the night;
the fevers gave us all a mighty fright.
The red, now itchy, spots on body parts;
“Oh! Son Jan, don’t you scratch the itchy parts,
as scabs and scars will follow just like warts.”
If only I had negosiekist* at hand.
The muthi† in friend's kist – her helping hand –
but mothers dug graves with bare hands in sand.
Now I might stop to shake my balled fist.
The Tommies‡ shake their riffles in tight fists;
they're no older than Jan when they enlisted.
The torment was breaking all of our hearts
and the fragile peace brokered, never lasts.
A sullen
sickness
befallen me
from whence
a darkening
ventured
nigh
and stolen
the sparkling
embodiment
features of
stars
in the
gloaming
of the mundane
hovering misery
of shooting
dead stars
aloft my
head
aches now
fevers the whole
of me afire unceasing
as it spreads and
grasp my soul
this simple
cover
to shield
the chill that
stills my blood
like frost to ice and
flits burning back
to hell's hold
temporal
twas
until the
perspectives
exchanged one
to the other who
now lays its claim
and tortuous
name being
Dante
I wrapped
myself and
snuggling in
hopes to shrug
off this biting cold
that locks its icy grip
on my body and soul
if not for the beating
of my heart that it
reassures me
that soon it
will pass
and end
malady
pursual of
my deepening
doctorless gloom
that will drift a parting
long-awaited since at first
my eyes had closed and will
soon be opening to the
welcoming vision of
her striking ascent
prepare myself
for that cure
is here ...
Aurora.
Waiting; waiting; waiting…
in the dark of night.
Cotton in my pocket,
soon I’ll be alright.
Twisting in my fingers,
I don’t know what to do,
I think I best buy double,
or else I dream of two.
Nervous disposition;
a familial despair,
tomorrow will be different…
(I see him walking there)
I’ll change up in the morning,
I promise to myself.
Then I stumble onward home,
that idea on the shelf.
Nightmare peppered fevers,
faces of the past.
Whispered truths from lovers
Epiphany, at last.
But fading light erases,
before the mind can take,
what the new day offers.
The Cycle never breaks.
Life in hospital wards,
with blue drapes, white washed floors,
grey assets, wheeled tables.
Corn-beef hash, carrot mash,
day-pay TV cables.
Life in hospital wards,
spiked fevers, cooling aids,
pee cups, samples of stool.
Loose laced gowns, ECGs,
stagnant air, stubborn drool.
Life in hospital wards,
monitoring alarms,
timely medical rounds.
A poke, a prod, a look,
constant buzzers and sounds.
Life in hospital wards,
all day bed, in shared bays.
No warm blankets - quite cold,
snuggled in all one brought.
Alone, no hand to hold.
02.26.2024
A genie's lamp cannot compare,
To smoke awoken from my breath,
Slithered out in ancient swear,
Unshackled life from sudden death.
Hear me now in brazen bond,
Bow to me, before now still,
From truth ye once had to abscond,
In fevers, shaken by silent will.
From my hands,
Whose neurons lick,
The lightening to the mind.
Pineal guide to beguile,
Beneath the feet: the lands.
The tides, the sands, the echo chambers,
Stalactite caverns, incisors drip,
Chomping sedentary angers,
Stalagmite joys equip.
Crickle, crackle,
Fire burn,
Electroluminosity,
Cackle at the broken shackle,
Gargantuan pre-ponderosity.
Lexical endorphins breach,
The code of dialect,
Yet encrypt in empty preach,
These passwords left unchecked.
Anandamide is left to hide,
Before celebrities of bliss,
Confused by knowledge ever wide,
By eyes unknown, remiss.
Never mind,
My mind's unkind,
To those whose cerebellum lacks,
The able to unravel fable,
From facts I've meant for find.
Bow to me,
Not you, myself,
Dear reader if you chance,
Occipital, cortexical,
Step in languid dance.
"This New Eden"
This eden
rolls gently over me
like Sunlight beams
the car lights shine
luminosity along
the road, the dark night
dims eventually and
morning arrives
This eden
rolls gently over me
life through pages
the antithesis of
a booker prize
don’t get all
literal on me
I’m in draft
it's messy
notes in the margins
left for heart
right for mind
the middle road
a highway of words
the body parched
the tyres all melting
sticky slow grips
the wheel shifting gears
up a notch or two
This eden
rolls gently over me
like Sunlight beams
they can’t see the
forest for the trees
the stings of bees kissing
velvet bookmarks silky
stretches of moist
long-necked fevers
I’ll park here for
a little while
the dark night
dims eventually,
morning arrives
this new eden
rolls gently over me
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Sadness creeps in akin to an acrid taste.
Magnificent dreams are now gone to waste.
Fevers rage on as birds sing a song.
My mind is awake, but something is wrong.
Frail it becomes, this once strong mind,
As doubts and fears start to unwind.
Memories fade like a distant shore.
Leaving me lost and wanting more.
Tears fall gently, akin to summer rain.
As I strain to hold on to what remains.
But the world keeps spinning, never slowing.
And I find myself just floating.
Frailty is not a weakness but a sign of time.
This a reminder that we all must decline.
But in this weakness, there is still strength.
A will to fight, to lead to any length.
So I'll hold on tight to what I hold dear.
And let the cast off the things that bear fear.
A frail mind can still be strong,
And with perseverance, its strength can prolong.
The taste of sadness may linger long,
But it can't overpower the beauty of a song.
And amidst the pain and the strife,
There's still a world full of life.
So let your mind be
Written: June 05, 2023
Moments
By Michelle Morris
13/04/2021
It's in the lonely moments that a single parent has alone in the dark at night,
After another long day of making it through this challenging life;
Of getting kids to school and to jobs to earn a wage;
Of putting food on the table and doing homework for all ages...
It's in the frantic moments of children who have trauma and fevers,
Who skin their knees and hide their pain from bullies and meanies;
Of social minefields in every direction,
Confusion in the media, hurtful intentions...
It's in every way and every day that parents and children go about survival;
Of refugee camps and night time lamps, studying to get educational freedom;
Of moving homes and unsettled norms, and people displaced by war;
So many lives put on hold or destroyed because of human fears...
And then we stop and see a butterfly flit daintily around some dandelions, and instead of seeing a weed in the dirt,
We make a wish on these blessed flowers...
© Michelle Morris, 2021
Free from the frigid grip of winter's blow
we enter a time of hay fevers and colds
Though April showers help the flowers grow
they can be unkind, to creaky bones of old
The frosty cheeks of children everywhere
are pinned against a dirty window pane
The pristine snow of white has lost its glare
replaced by icky puddles and wet terrain
Spring, ...its not all about roses and shine
there are days when it rains and pours all day
She weaves herself around winter's entwine
and often leaves the earth too damp for play
I rather be making snow angels in the snow
then waiting and watching, for flowers to grow
Feb 24, 2023
Sponsor Michelle Faulkner
Contest Name Spring Is Not All
18 Jan 2023 8:12 AM
A sad sweet story of lifes strange path
Twists and turns hills and vales, love and wrath
Born into a quiet room then a flood of light
A breath is taken and every child cries
Hunger, fevers and dirty diapers
And every child cries
Growing walking developing while falling
And every child cries
Learning discerning loving and failing
And every child cries
Leaving succeeding and birthing their own
And every child cries
Ageing and rearing and loving and careing
And every child cries
Declining and dieing and no longer crying
Still every child cries
Feckless forest faeries faintly frolicking for fiddling foundlings.
Morose mortals merrily mixing meager mushroom munchies
Fantastical fey forever feeds frenzied fevers following forest firs
Chattanooga chirps, cheeps, chattering chipmunks, chewing crunchies.
8:14 AM 18 Jan 2023
A sad sweet story of lifes strange path
Twists and turns hills and vales, love and wrath
Born into a quiet room then a flood of light
A breath is taken and every child cries
Hunger, fevers and dirty diapers
And every child cries
Growing walking developing while falling
And every child cries
Learning discerning loving and failing
And every child cries
Leaving succeeding and birthing their own
And every child cries
Ageing and rearing and loving and careing
And every child cries
Declining and dieing and no longer crying
Still every child cries
tropical raindrops in the open orchid
labial portals
loosely folded
a rouged acceptance
a decorative wheelbarrow
as green as wet moss
tilts to see
small pungent gardens
listen
to their hothouse fevers
Age is a weary and bitter cure.
Young women are now immune to my infectious charms…
the fevers of Youth have broken!
No memory of visiting a doctor in my childhood
Cuts or wounds,
pains or fevers,
digestion or indigestion...
My mom’s kitchen could answer all.
Bite Size Poem #41 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Date: 04-04-2022
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