Infirmary Poems | Examples

elderliness and Helen Mirren

elderly and Helen Mirren


It is hard work to be old; many people prey on us, the elderly
My wife is better at telling people to fob off than I am
When people tell me a sob story, I tend to believe
What they, why else will they tell
My wife and I are very different; she likes to speak to
people in a cafe or a waiting room at the doctor's, yes, we
Do see many doctors, with age comes the infirmary
I sit there and try not to look at the clock 
She comes from an upper-class family without money
I am from a modest background with a tendency not to spend
money, but safe for a day, it might rain, and we will be
caught in the downpour without an umbrella
Yes, in public, we hold hands, we get the condescending
glances, oh, how sweet they are
I feel annoyed like Helen Mirren, wishing that people would
 off and leave us in peace

Hide of Tyke in Hold

Heartthrob in damsel drag
Belief of human bile
Completely instilling cascading dregs of mechanical flesh, bones and spit
64th avenue 
And coiling deft doom
Winged balls of bulging blood and speckled steel
Merry wails and flutters of moths unsealed 
Fitted upon falling kneel
And reckoned release of rotten roadkill-
Rats and babes and brats
Congealed candy and sickeningly sweet brandy
And hailed light of epiphany to choke, swallow and spit
And strangle without a hand nor handle but grit
Of groil and crevices of menaces heralding honed notes
And a lone liver in fathered infirmary 
Black backed in breachers 
Potted a bulge to indulge the fickle maggots of dissociation 
Emulsification and hearty sniff of 
Whitened slice and slithers of snow
Dregs to drag and hone and throw
Up upon bedded saline laden road
Of rows and rows and pounds 
That drag rotten flesh afresh from the hound
Sutured from spine to fluttered wing
The hide
Plucked apart from rat to brat
And collared collier stepped afresh with new hide and throw 
And stubborn stubbled child with a new mind in tow

5//5//2025

Green-Browed Mountains

Seven days in the green-browed mountains
time slowly retreated to the horizon
sun casually took to the foreground
weather was always a foothill or two behind.
moon sighed into its gloaming.

Seven days inhaling green- browed mountains
wildflower sashayed into the veins
no migraine-no chain of cars
no barbed wire news or plastic drama
no carbon monoxide dreaming...
a bumblebee made a path for my eyes.


Seven days devouring green- browed mountains, 
Like a bronzed faced kitten I napped beside a stream.
Didn't see God but I know he saw me.

Seven days fasting in green-browed mountains. 
A spirit Half cleansed in the sheen of brevity.
Tomorrow, I return to the grey-eyed flats 
Into the padded infirmary of puppets and madmen.

MY BILOCATION PERSPECTIVE

I’m here, but I can be there in the spirit of joy's iridescence---
As my faith brings me to behold your triumphant presence.

I’m here, yet I can reach you from afar
Together, virtually, we watch the star.

I’m here with my body and soul, reading
Then you join me through poetic feeding.

I’m here alone... viewing loveliness of nature
And I’m by your side along technology’s venture.

I’m here fully absorbed with your creativity’s zest
Vicariously, we both experience sublime peace that's blest. 

I’m here in the infirmary vanquishing sickness with its pain
Indeed, praying for you to run the race for championship gain.

I’m here testifying about God’s love and mercy*, so gracious 
While letting you feel the ripples of divine gift that’s precious.

*Ephesians 2:4-5 But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us, Even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ, (by grace ye are saved).

February 12, 2024
3rd place, "YOUR CHOICE AGAIN" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 2/20/2024

Beyond the Sun

Dedicated to Mississippi John Hurt
...whose melodies were as sweet as bird song 


Oh how I long
For that sweet bird song

Sweet Lord bye & bye

Prop       my       chair
'Neath that old window bare

Sweet Lord bye & bye

This cold air done bought me
Tears of            infirmary

Sweet Lord bye & bye

And when        I die
My soul gonna fly

Sweet Lord bye & bye

Held fast to the wings
Of angels     I'll sing

Sweet Lord bye & bye

Sweet Lord

                          bye & bye


12/22/22

Good Luck, Charlie

If things keep goin’ my way, 
I don’t know what I’ll do
Maybe I’ll go be a priest 
in the Church of Déjà vu 
Maybe I’ll court a woman 
and go to Harvard for a degree
Maybe they’ll cast my carcass 
out from the infirmary

I remember what they always called me –
Good Luck Charlie
All advice stops here –
Good luck, Charlie

Yes and maybe we’re all just handfuls 
of what came before
And maybe the point of this game 
is not to caught
Inside the revolving door

I remember what they always called me –
Good Luck Charlie
All advice stops here –
Good luck, Charlie

Blues Music

Listening to the Blues
Slouched almost supine
Next to special person,
Her hand clasped in mine:
Mississippi picking,
Bottle neck used as a slide
St James Infirmary playing,
End of a long Blues ride.
Now a mouth harp break
Exhilaratingly raw,
Finger picking guitar
Carrying the music before.
House rent music that
Spread the world around.
Borrowed, refined, adapted
Into a multitude of sounds.
Music to relax to that
Seeps slowly, and with style,
Down into the soul
Satisfying all the while.
Voices of gravel,
Voices that moan and wail
But voices of power to tell
Some of life's varied tales.
At times when I'm stressed,
Or at times of despair,
At times of great joy
The Blues are always there.
I first listened as a child,
A period so long gone,
But still my favored listen
As my life speeds along.
Now almost in my dotage,
Slouched almost supine,
Still listening to the Blues with
A very special friend of mine.

Scary Quarantine

At last came the long Lockdown
It is so agonizing for doubtful countdown
I feel we are living in a darkened cage
With the gaze on calendar for counting days.

Like a storm,Corona virus swept the lands
All advised not to shake hands
Shop shut,bank shut,school shut
Do I use mask for virus or mouthshut?

Groceries, All deny to lend
With my kids I find time to spend
Trying to cook smart and yummy
Covid-19 alerts to keep starving tummy

Alas ,The only concern now is the pandemic fear
Thinking what is far and what is near
It is hurting to watch infirmary scene
May we soon come out of this scarry quarantine.

Birthday Flurry

In her grand fantasy’s territory
Freely emerges beauteous Twinkle Fairy
Opening great provisions' granary ---
Gifts* for her wondrous birthday flurry
As a good girl, giving home no worry.

Twinkle Fairy grants her food-dowry:
Sweet delights flavored with strawberry
Midst pies whipped by apple and cheery
There’s also veggie meat, indeed savory
Likewise nutritious chips of zero calorie.

Basking under her dream’s victory
She’s awakened, hearing Mom’s “Hurry!”
In her room, vibrant and glittery
Are loved ones, singing; oh, how merry
With their presents wrapped by prayer’s glory.

Thanking God, she winks at Twinkle Fairy: 
That's Mom along her virtuous story
Miracle-filled; sometimes, a mystery
Strengthening her faith, despite fatal injury
This blessed feast in the infirmary. 	

*Romans 11:29 For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.

November 1, 2019
Honorable Mention, "STRAND no 650 any theme any form" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 1/19/2020.

Pity Patty Peddy

Peddy don’t know-no betta to do,
he just following his imaginary urges,
friendly suggestions from   TuSac Boy Blue
Sayin’ little Timmy and Sue
wanna play     the same game too

Pity-patty  

First fake squirt a few ...
then tell his new little buddies,
he made a tear boo-boo
Let him cry on the shoulder,
while his little hands       privately
	wander over
down there      and touch you

Peddy got caught
wid his hands in the honey pot
Patting his little head ... sweating hard,
	   and licking his lips a lot

Take po’ pity on Peddy,
‘cause his little fingers gon be
trying to pick the lock

Pity-patter of his little feet ...
lying to escape
another beating, and him eating
his own bad boy snot

Prison infirmary peeps sez:
Peddy’s short eyes memory
         most daze
don’t remember a lot

Much of what he does now ... 
is suck his tiny thumb,
and finger diddle 
wid the pretty little flower pot

Good Luck, Charlie

If things keep goin’ my way, I don’t know what I’ll do
Maybe I’ll go be a priest in the Church of Déjà vu 
Maybe I’ll court a woman and go to Harvard for a degree
Maybe they’ll cast my carcass out from the infirmary

I remember what they always called me –
Good Luck Charlie
All advice stops here –
Good luck, Charlie

Yes and maybe we’re all just handfuls of what came before
And maybe the point of this game is not to caught
Inside the revolving door

I remember what they always called me –
Good Luck Charlie
All advice stops here –
Good luck, Charlie

Raining Cats and Dogs

This past week it was raining cats and dogs,
prayed about it to not get so annoyed,
one car totaled other in infirmary,
husband tomorrow having triple bypass surgery,
Meow, Arf, Splat go land some more in the bog.

Why I Love You

The sand beneath my feet, the waves above the water, floating endlessly in search of nothing. Hitting the water, the sharpness of breath, I feel renewed above these waves. Towel around my shoulders, sitting, gazing at the horizon in the warmth of Maughold's cove, one tiny inlet, to almost feel new, pleasure in the being. The plateau of sea beyond me, all around me, sensing the curvature of the earth. Curious people bobbing up and down between rock and sea. No picture to remind me, prefer the sensation of that moment. Yesterday I heard, today I feel. At one with the emptiness, beauty reaching far out to sea, just me, a hint of something beyond a sea infirmary door.

The Leprechaun

I'll be happy to be a leprechaun
That silly green hat will be worn.
If ye share yer pot of gold with me
A leprechaun I'll be happy to be.

I'll buy ye a pint of the black stuff
More if that's not enough
If ye give me a gold coin or three
A pint of the black stuff I'll buy ye.

I'll swear an oath on me shamrock
Put all I own in hock 
If only ye will give me a share
On me shamrock an oath I'll swear.

I am Irish and from the emerald isle
That's a guarantee to make ye smile
Leprechaun grant me this one wish
From the emerald isle and I am Irish.

I'll drive you to Dublin's fair city
Where the girls are so pretty
You can have colcannon and stew
To Dublin's fair city i'll drive you.


Come home with me and vent yer spleen
Upon me very sweet Colleen
Then i'll escort ye to the infirmary
Vent yer spleen and come home with me.


Swap quantrains. Lets see what you've got.
Contest of Andrea Dietrich .
Listed as quantrain form.

There Is No Goodness

There is no goodness in my nature,
It’s only sores, and rot, and mulch…
What was the goal of my creation?
Why in the hell it hurts so much?

It’s all defined from the beginning:
What is permissible, what’s not…
So, why are daily seconds streaming 
And wash away into the night?

Why try to reach in contradiction,
To suffer, learn, to water land,
To give away all this perfection
In final breath that comes to end?

From A to Z it’s predetermined,
From brightest climb – to bleakest fall:
First scream of baby in infirmary,
Last hissing sound of dying soul…


1979

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