Prose of self imprisonment, in lieu to my self-risen-ment
Errected un-hourly to squark at my un-symmetry
And squander the squalor of dirtied mind
Cleansed to find the finest within the polluted rites
The squalor of impunitive squander hath dirtied the fishing rites
And awakened my soul at the fisherman's hour
T'wave thee 'Tally Ho!'
F'the dirtied mind enacted me, the foe
Now I, the fittest t'await and ponder
Shall await fished imprisonment and feed the sonder rays that dare awaken thee.
F'the dirtied mind has collected the tide,
To pollute mine own body.
square blue sign on a pole
large crisp white H on it
white border
underneath it is a tinier blue sign with a white arrow
universal signal showing how to reach a hospital
I imagine a driver from out-of-state trying to breathe
they are racing from blue H signs to blue H signs
this might mean several miles of racing
what if they miss one that turned left?
Would their death be an accident or are deaths preplanned all along?
The doctor told us,
“He doesn’t have long left to live”.
He could say that again,
I already know,
So his voice to me is nothing but howling winds.
Blowing angrily,
Trying to devour my hopeful,
‘Maybe-pointlessly-so’ grin.
But really these are times we thought we’d grieve.
Sitting at the foot of his bed,
Just staring like this feeling isn’t really grim.
Everyone’s smiling,
But we came here thinking he’s probably dead,
Everyone’s lying,
Saying we always believed in him.
These tears were hiding,
Couldn’t believe it when we saw,
Just him in the hospital bed,
With a smile.
A pointless,
Hopeful,
Grin.
Leukemia boys and
Leukemia girls wave
in hospital volunteers,
as the angels wave
them away.
What is
love?
Beyond
an overpriced
ambulance ride,
and an unnecessary
hospital stay?
The most beautiful things:
summer sweat,
and Rome after
rain.
Inside,
a child draws
a yellow sun
with trembling fingers.
The IV, taped
down like it’s trying
to hold him
there.
Forced positivity.
A heart full of
apathy.
I see that
same world you try
to see with substance sober,
and I’ll be the first to tell you—
it isn’t a
blessing.
God has a
hand-grenade
smile, and it’s
hard to find
the grace
in that.
There’s
6 dead, 4 wounded,
and one on the
way.
What an
unimpressive
collection.
The surgeon
had successfully removed his libido
and fed it to the hospital cat.
Corridors became whispering tubes
for I.V. drip pushing wanderers,
their pale bottoms peering out
like beluga whales through the cracks
of gaping gowns.
He dreamed often,
the drugs swiped his mind,
he was a screen, that with flickering ease
erased and replaced his life
with crazily narrated electric poetry,
a hypersonic buzz
that pretzelled his thoughts.
A nurse appeared to him between
the sensual waves that spayed across
his surgically mauled mortality.
She was erotically enhanced,
her trance-dance of sexuality
poured into his flaccid organs
like a shot of ice-cold Taquilla.
Once she spoke to him - just once.
Her words were umber honey
between his parted lips.
He struggled to understand.
Clarity came upon him -
"You're my libido."
He had forgotten about the cat!
She purred softly
as she adjusted his pillows.
Leukemia boys and
Leukemia girls wave
in hospital volunteers,
as the angels wave
them away.
What is
love?
Beyond
an overpriced
ambulance ride,
and an unnecessary
hospital stay?
The most beautiful things:
summer sweat,
and Rome after
rain.
Inside,
a child draws
a yellow sun
with trembling fingers.
The IV, taped
down like it’s trying
to hold him
there.
Forced positivity.
A heart full of
apathy.
I see that
same world you try
to see with substance sober,
and I’ll be the first to tell you—
it isn’t a
blessing.
God has a
hand-grenade
smile, and it’s
hard to find
the grace
in that.
There’s
6 dead, 4 wounded,
and one on the
way.
What an
unimpressive
collection.
All this fuss to fix my brain
Screen line beeps to prove my life
What a mess to make me sane
Back down in this bed I’m chained
Nurses needles prick the same
All this fuss to fix my brain
Back again, that mental pain
That cuts into me— real knife
What a mess to make me sane
Trying to make me whole again
Just so that I will survive
All this fuss to solve my mind
But this life I do not claim
Thrown back at me— still alive
What a mess to make me sane
Oh, just let me go insane
End my life at point of knife
All this just to fix my brain
Hoping to return me sane.
The hospital machine beeps,
My knees weak, the walls are bleak.
I'm bitting my cheek whilst the ward doors creak
I can hear the children shriek, they look weak through a sneak peak.
Explanations are oblique,
These children will be me in a week.
There's critique of technique for hell week;
which is not for the weak.
Streaks of blood, dizzy from drugs
Staring at the paintings of ladybugs
Trying to sleep with ear plugs
I want to smash a mug, the frustration builds inside, stuck in bed
Feeling like led, can't even eat bread, knee held together with thread, throbbing red, Feeling half dead.
I suddenly woke up in bed with dread for next week when I become,
the children who shriek.
Their fists were of furious intent,
But backs were too aged and bent.
It wasn't the seizing,
But rather the wheezing,
That both to the hospital sent.
the calm here is filled with your presence
i feel your energy come over me
as it lingers in the air i breathe
and paints a warm smile upon my face
i do not feel alone
it's surreal how there is hovering
that's tangible between the two dimensions
meanwhile this still looks much like
a processing plant but feels to me
more like a gateway where we said our last goodbyes
and i have come to bask in this energy
so no, i do not feel alone
i'm remembering how i waited
in this same room on this same chair
then you would suddenly come around the corner
such were the simple times
when i was there for you
and you were here for me
but still i feel your kinetic energy
like arms around my body
and do not feel alone
AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
These stairs have wept a million tears
walking from parking lot to hospital room
Hearts travel them, to meet their worst fears
Through shadows and shame, past years
Blessed by the memoires who consume
These stairs have wept a million tears
With the music of a soul ringing in my ears
There’s more love and grace than gloom
Hearts travel them, to meet their worst fears
Families, friends, echoing their cheers
There’s more to this story than doom
These stairs have wept a million tears
The room grows silent when the dust clears
Soon the dream’s soundless spring will bloom
Hearts travel them, to meet their worst fears
In seas of wonder, my gentle volunteers
Remembering, He once rose from a tomb
These stairs have wept a million tears
Hearts travel them, to meet their worst fears
NEW WAVE ASCENDS
Workers waul at leaders sold
who rush to airports cold
in hospitals wan women wallow
tattered children nothing to swallow
ideals trickling through untilled soil
will dreams and intentions expire
before patient arthritic grandmothers tire
softly rain filters Earth’s corners
nourishing hills, herbs and mourners
life follows death singing afresh
surely New Wave ascends roaring
freedom showers cool us alluring
in Golden Age Heart rules
teens dance while lovers drool
reach within, be no fool
SIX WOMEN PATIENTS
Six broken women lay down to rest
brown bodies all in a row
six long stories to tell with jest
six smiles with a million tears
race around ward releasing fears
just so
Six windows uncurtained offers
six sunny acacias buffered
trolleys reel, pills and bottles steep
surgeon makes his rounds with a nod
six students in tow
asking six silly questions to know
just so
Six hard beds high, sigh-slept many
linen stiff as a new penny
squishy meal of mieliepap mixed veggies
making six quite edgy
whose next for operation table no-one knows
they can though still touch their toes
just so
six sets of eyes close for night
dream of kids, chicken pie, golden flights
needles, nurses, morphine gone
no slips on escalator or hip joint pain
they reconnect their own wires, abiding fires
flowing into Aegian sea as African queens
awake back in ward, still here
wee patients not free, see ?
Matron says ‘Go pee’
just so
We come with fear upon our lips,
With weary hands and trembling sight,
Yet find within your fingertips
A healing touch, a guiding light.
Your voice is soft, your manner bright,
A steady shore where you're light is bright,
You turn the dark to morning white,
And soothe the hearts that throb and ache.
Kindness shapes the words you say,
Compassion walks beside your stride,
No soul is ever turned away—
You hold them all with patient pride.
With humble grace and eyes that see,
You hear the cries both loud and small,
For in your care, with certainty,
We know your love can heal us all.
Five vials of hope before 2:55,
An epinephrine Saturday feast
After midday, preventing time to arrive
Again, to stall the curse at least.
The single drop of tear tells it all,
I guess I've seen it coming.
And it did, but very stealthily, the fall
Disguised in serene eyes staring.
Broken voices of 2:55 and hence
A glass of water, a pat on the shoulder,
Paper works, the waiting, querying the sense
Reduced to an atheist's prayer.
The chaos ceased, all quiet on the front.
The war is lost; not a dream did survive.
Life is a poem that is so blunt,
All gone, after midday at 2:55.
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