Long Abnormalities Poems
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So as not to come under the scrutiny of an oncologist,
Each six months to check my moles I visit my dermatologist!
His exam is as thorough as that of an investigative criminologist.
Sometimes he'll take a biopsy and forward it to a microbiologist!
Many times he's had my moles zapped by his electrologist,
Or provides an RX for medications from the pharmacologist!
If he suspects any cell abnormalities he'll call in his cytopathologist,
Or send me down the hall to consult with his peer, the etiologist!
I don't want to come under the knife of that "cut-up", the pathologist,
Nor do I want to be listed in the obituaries by a passionless necrologist!
To keep this old frame free of moles I have no faith in a cosmetologist,
So, I'll continue to bare my hide for inspection by my dermatologist!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 6 in Nikko Palmario's "Holy MOLE-y!! Contest - August 2010
#Who_What_are_you?
Confused and trapped inside my little self, your questions exacerbated my confusion, wished I answered better, but I was lost too, inside. Emotional abnormalities, some would think I suffered bipolar, knowing not the extent of my suffering, I was just unplugged from making meaning of who or what I was
Zooming out of friendships, conversations, crowds and relationships, wished specialist may fed my saroundings with better meanings, for I failed, tired from being unable, tired from being not understood, by myself too. Who or what you are? Please don't ask
In me answers reside not but more similar questions piles up, daily, think my brains are to blow, wanna return to my mother's womb, maybe there, no one would ask me anything but then I'm here, who or what am I?
After 29 years of abject confusion and disorientation, a user manual shoved into my vision, to navigate myself to my lifelong questions. Found my ancestors at end of my long trace, waiting so impatiently; you are us , they said and they continued; go and show them us. then what am I? For people have asked
You are not basic but a rare seed we saw fit to plant on mother African soil, you are a torch bearer, a voice for the voiceless, a salvager, a mending wall, a spirit evoker, cauldron of wisdom and knowledge, you are omnipotent, go and show them, for they want to hear but they will instead see. Who or what you are?
#Poetic_Ink
"I'm hearing images, I'm seeing songs no poet has ever painted
Voices call out to me, straight to my heart"
Cold, emotionless, and her nature, defiant
Hard to connect with as well as unreliant
A boarding school for outcasts such as Wednesday
Revenge for brother, brings on her sinister way
Dysfunctional families—ivory towers make wagers
Enrolled are lost souls and morbid teenagers
Like Arkham Asylum, a long and brutal history
Medieval mayhem come to life again in her story
Nevermore Island, Romania’s Nevermore Academy
Unconventional practices become their enemy
Designed for students with extreme personalities
Who don’t think their practices convey abnormalities
Is an all American coming-of-age supernatural
Tangled in spider silk or it’s web, which is factual?
And there it is the unscrupulous psycho-therapist
A principal’s shapeshifter and her sorceress rapist
Forcing thoughts back into some semblance of order
Werewolves, vampires, gorgons, and sirens who boarder
Are the architectural texts with applications ubiquitous
And the requisite archaic desperate mass exodus
Dark long tresses, paints it black in gothic dresses
Many who are romantic interests she addresses
Rises to an ovation with a most clever shadow dance
Sanity, reason, balance, rationality, and much arrogance
Behind the smiling facade of normality where lie derelicts
There lurks a psychopathic serial killer, and other convicts
Beyond their control, declined their world of decadence
Insanity, lunacy, madness, the outcasts show no evidence
Highly severe psychological and physical illnesses?
Or real paranormal abominations and alien devises
Guiding her are messages from the beyond with passion
Her lecture combined intellectual lucidity and compassion
Society's shoreline shifts
with storms
and unpredictable periods of calm,
at times only rocks can be found,
while at others white sand
stretches for miles.
These changes brought on by weather and tide
affect the very elect with private gardens
as well as the tenant on 103rd street.
Perhaps this is why one-third of Americans
consume anti-anxiety medication
and have difficulty sleeping.
Except for me.
I am unaffected by societal abnormalities,
as I have learned to accept who I see in the mirror.
Tides and undertow do not
toss me like flotsam
or sink me like a float with no air.
Greed is who I am.
Money and possessions are my blood,
my sustenance.
Touching my fat wallet each morning
replaces seeds of anxiety
with placid thoughts of retirement.
America's money is green by design
representing harmony, safety and fertility,
that guides the supplicant.
Only one letter separates
greed from green
for a reason.
Nature's lushness is replaced by
nurture's bounties,
rose's leaf by corporation's dividend.
Yes, greed defines me,
and now that I'm wealthy,
many friends surround me.
Can life be any better?
My insecurities are making me insecure
My doubts are giving me doubts
I would scream and yell, if I thought I would be heard
Over top of all of my shouts
My phobias are starting to scare me
My complexities are awful complex
I am a perfect text book example
Of a condition for which there is no text
My psychoses are really psychotic
My episodes are episodic
I am a narcissist who hates himself
Bi-polar must be contagious, because I know I caught it
I think I failed the ink blot test
All I saw were big ink blots
I am haunted by my memories
But my memories have been forgot
I am sick of being a hypochondriac
My narcolepsy keeps me awake
I am a non-practicing masochist
Because the pain I cannot take
My abnormalities are really abnormal
My multiple personalities are all the same
My psychiatrist says there are explanations
For these conditions he cannot explain
No other choices left to go
Words and advice have been to slow
Doing their job would of prevented this
Every communication into the abyss
No cruelty no care
Treated not nice of fair
Just the vast expanse of nothingness
From those who promote healthiness
Being paid large salaries
Preaching to those with abnormalities
One appointment every year
The rest of the time living in fear
I cry and beg for your help
Yet they leave me crying ready to yelp
They like to kick you when your down
Beg for help and they frown
Her silence has left me more devastated
Mood so low and deflated
With no choice just a last resort
A drug for the mind it may support
The outcome may have been different
If they weren’t so rude and ignorant
But for right now I have the last resort
#Was_just_a_fling
How confused am I now , when both my mind and heart presents a different version, to my sense, as I struggle to draw sense and understanding from this matter but there are just so many blanks and gaps, there's no coherent patches of my clearity as they are dispersed, I wish I could say yes but this just don't soaks in
no attachments! Why am I sensing roots underneath my heart, what's this collision of waves and frequencies, my body and mind catches, when a stroke of you flashes to my thought. Please don't tell me, I'm caught up in my own abnormalities, I wanna believe that but theres just too many uncertanities, blocking way to my acception, I wanna say yes but the 'no' in me, keeps changing the meaning of 'yes'
I wanna be honest but there's no honesty in denial, I wanna forget but that thought serves as a lid to my thoughts, then how could I, I wanna accept but then I don't understand, maybe I'm dripping, myb I'm illucinating, maybe that's the efffect of this confusion in me, this imbalance, this attachment, these roots, maybe it was just fling
#Poetic_Ink
I feel I have appendicitis,
Or a bad case of bursitis,
And I think I need another tonsillectomy.
I'm sure I got a staph infection
From a tetanus injection
While I was prepping for a hemorrhoidectomy.
I've got cataracts and shingles,
When I cough my kidney jingles,
And my muscle tone's diminished due to entropy.
I have a lower disc displacement,
I need a knee and hip replacement,
And I'm scheduled for my umpteenth colonoscopy.
With my doctor's full compliance,
I will donate my corpse to science
To see if reasons can be found for all my maladies.
No doubt that when they disconnect me,
Vivisect me and inspect me,
They'll find a host of medical irregularities,
As well as hitherto unheard of abnormalities
That may account for part or all of my infirmities,
And might help to explain my PCP's enormous fees.
Author's note: After reading Ilene Bauer's delightfully insightful "A Certain Age", once again I delved into my archives and disinterred this bit of nonsense from 2017. I apologize, dear readers, if any of you who might be suffering from medical conditions find it insensitive. It is certainly not intended to be so. Although I don't think it's been scientifically tested or doctor recommended, I firmly believe in the homeopathically therapeutic value of humor and laughter. And I know that after writing this piece, I felt better about my own health issues.
Our suffering merits the celestial, gentle waves bearing the message of love.
I venture not to fall sleep, and keep absorbing nature's enchanting spell, enough mourning in anguish, and revive!
"The old world keep unfolding in your soul, need a new garment." I pay generous attention to abnormalities. In my oceanside inn, nobody inquires about the pandemic, though they prefer to mingle with the seagulls than the crowd. Have we stemmed the tide of the plague at last? The patients go on dying, an obese lady brags she was healed, I sense a quiet uprising against the quarantine here, rich in confidence the hounds of pandemic have lost their tracks. We're thrown in this world for self-concealment. In all the hoaxes we use, paramount is our eternal hope, lost in its boundlessness. But, through my open window, the gentle waves loudly challenge us to new living, at night a meteor nurses the sky with its flame, an errant voyager from alien destinations. Sky remains the untouched domain, like a castle above calmly holding its own.
"A star's gaze, now that would be a sight," I murmur, let the thought boldly snatch the moment like a shrewd brigand.
"Who's profiting from this gruesome horror? And who's the wicked in the guise of benevolence?" Ah the aroma of beachside fire, and a tiny bird floating in the air, obviously pleased to hear the tongue of ocean splattering on the rocks. The moon's sacred dim rays add to the cozy aura, nimbly moving into darkness. I'm expecting to run into a survivor of Poseidon adventure tonight. A timeless flood of images and then the question: What do you make of survival? An irkesome sport, imagining it was worthwhile. Death is at our back, its treacherous stratagem is to frown at its intrusion, has this scent of never approaching too near before its time. But I have built an impregnable bastion, a lion's citadal, that will never succumb. And don't give me the baloney of illusion. A man has the right to deceive himself. Stubbornly besieged by sleep, I surrend to the Queen of Comfort and its stately limitless inner, infernal ocean. "Save yourself in dreams."
Inventory yourself.
Who are you? How do you measure up?
How close are you to what we think you should be?
Then, like sun-ripened raspberries, pluck the abnormalities.
Put them in a jar labeled, INSECURITIES.
You can’t discard them, of course.
Your quirks are part of what make you unique.
They make you you—preserve them.
But we don’t want to see, so bottle it up and put it in a cupboard…
or better yet, a cellar.
Keep the jar in case someday the world wants raspberries;
or if not the world, someone.
Perhaps in vulnerability, that someone will open their cupboard
and you’ll find a loaf of dry bread hidden there.
In a box labeled INSECURITIES.
Thus, it stays concealed.
In vulnerability, you’ll reach deep into your cellar.
You’ll accept the bread, and they’ll accept the raspberries.
That’s the hope, isn’t it?
That your insecurities will compliment?
That you two can be open with one another
and find happiness in spite of us?
But that’s not how it works.
As you work to appear as you ought,
or as we think you ought,
or rather, as you think, we think, you ought,
you’ll find your raspberries are not preserves.
Call it a short self-life.
In the darkness…in the jars
your vulnerable parts suffocate.
They spoil. They rot. They die.
But “they” are what make you you, remember?
So you change into something not you.
You hide your unique attributes, to be normal.
To be like us.
But you fail to realize
that we are like your spoiled raspberries...
bitter.
05/09/15