Long Bedridden Poems
Long Bedridden Poems. Below are the most popular long Bedridden by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bedridden poems by poem length and keyword.
She Gave Me a Bible
My mother-in-law, gave me the love of a mother.
A woman that dared to be different from any other.
She loved deeply and held every single one of us
to her bosom. She helped and inspired me through
rough and good times. I never had to ask; she always
knew the signs.
She gave me a Bible, the New International Version,
to find strength in times of need.
Baptists believe that the Bible is the only authority
because it is divinely inspired.
2 Timothy 3:16-17 16 All Scripture is God-breathed
and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting
and training in righteousness,
17 so that the servant of God may be
thoroughly equipped for every good work.
I was brought up old Catholic,
but she taught me another side
of divine love and compassion.
My heart broke when she had a stroke,
with it came Alzheimer. Imprisoned
in a rapidly shrinking brain.
As her brain slowly died, she changed
physically and eventually forgot those she loved.
Ultimately became bedridden,
unable to move and unable to eat or drink.
She finally passed, but she left a legacy of love,
joy, and compassion to everyone one she raised and met.
6/4/2021
He Gave Her A Book Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
Nahum 1:7 7The LORD is good, a refuge in times of trouble. He cares for those who trust in him
In the middle of the night, you came, oh, death,
Wishing my soul to harvest
Vehemently, I refused to surrender it to you
Fact, that made you so angry.
You said your divine right was to claim it
But still, your request I turned down
It was then that you thought it reasonable to incapacitate me
For your mission sooner to carry out.
The first step you took was my voice to silence
The second was my legs to immobilize
Thus mute and paralyzed, you fancied, I couldn't resist
So your prize would quickly be obtained.
For five days, in total muteness and bedridden, I remained
Yet, a gallant fight I put up to escape your embrace
But all my efforts in vain appeared to be
As the gates of eternity, I could gaze.
Late on the fifth day, a doctor of great character and skill,
He decided to empty the Hematoma formed next to my brain
Thus, a foot-long Craniotomy performed with great care
Hoping you, oh, death, to chase away.
Although now, slowly, I am recovering
Anticipating a few more years of life to enjoy,
I know very well in my heart, oh death,
That we together would be one blessed day!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
30 November 2021
* This is a biographical poem that narrates the events that took
place between the twelfth day of October and the first day of
November in the hospital!
Decades of a formula that only he knew about it and drew,
Cascades of his artwork came to a head in his last years,
Glissades of a swan in a lake that only a handful had seen,
Tirades made its mark on him, distant from fellow peers.
~~[Van Gogh]~~
Impressed of his art garnered some interest in his style,
Oppressed, a constant companion only he can befriend,
Obsessed by what he drew insanely violent he withdrew,
Distressed he found salvation in asylums to not descend.
~~[Wheatfield With Crows]~~
Crows, black gawking, feed in a meadow ache for harvest,
Know that art needs to be made, scheme food for thought,
Those sinister birds, a murder of crows festering the grain,
Throes a fit mocking 'em, flys, pained him more than aught.
~~[Starry Night]~~
Bleak sky of blues, stars gave rise to a miracle been made,
Streak of a sprawl unfurls his heavens tethered madness,
Speak not lest he loses his concentration, maintains focus,
Meek town his groundwork, lofty jewel amidst the sadness.
~~[Bedroom At Arles]~~
Red, that laid on a bed, table, chairs, paintings on the wall,
Said was where he severed his ear, water bowl mirror hung,
Head bandaged where he bled, he does a self-portrait of it,
Deadman walking, Gauguin part ways, no song to be sung.
~~[Self-Portrait Bandage Ear And Pipe]~~
Drew closer, when they were both young, be such friends,
Few friends Van Gogh had, Gauguin was at that moment,
Grew apart after Vince shaving Paul, Vince wanted to hurt,
Knew time together was getting just a bit grave and potent.
~~[House At Auvers]~~
Return to Arles made Van Gogh happy for good times there,
Upturn spirits was a rarity, too few and far in the middle,
Discern with him was questionable because he's unstable,
Concern for his good, art kept him busy, else is second fiddle.
~~[Doctor Gachet]~~
Fields back of the house, a pistol, he plans to shoot himself,
Wields his pistol, shoots, nobody hears, years gun lays hidden,
Yields his brother Theo to his side as doctor aides him little,
Shields truth futile, his art was world-renown, dies bedridden.
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
Song of Eve
Oh! This shutters of tears flowing
Listen to my unconsolable song
When everything begin to wither
And every guile in me begin to batter
With life starting at a dead end
Come, sing with me my dearest...
Oh! My bedridden utterance
I drown in this earthquake of choice
Torment to my feeble spirit
A day to dice, die while I breath
Embrace a new home, earth
For this shame, blinds my light...
Oh! This mortal being, Adam
On this day, I rain a curse
To die with grief a thousand times
But, this heart so delicate
Will brew my peace till it dies
And leave me weaken to my bones...
Oh! My king, immortal one
I cried, longed to bath in your mercy
For this flesh took away my sanity
Behold this detail in your hands
Save me! From this hell of flame
And put a stop to this Eve's song...
The story always ends the same.
The love they promised turns to malice, leaving me to wonder:
why do people become so cruel the moment they stop loving you?
I say I don't want anyone anymore, but I am still here, aren't I?
Isn't that an act of love in itself?
I am not running anymore; I am here, bleeding on the floor.
I lie shaking, crying, screaming in the dark -
and when we fight, I hide,
because I cannot tell the difference
between your anger and the anger of the monsters.
I am wrong. I am stupid. I am selfish.
I am a useless waste of space that people keep foolishly loving,
hurting, hating;
and with each and every absence, I lose more and more of myself.
I am sorry for the times I fled.
I am sorry for my rage, and for how easily I break.
I am sorry I can't make you happy like they do,
for not being right in all of the right ways
and wrong in the ways you can still love.
I am sorry for hiding,
and I am sorry for showing so much.
As I lie bedridden from the damage,
I can't help but hope I haven't done that to your heart -
through all of the times I have run,
and hurt, and raged, and cried, and screamed,
and let out so much hate and hate and hate...
I no longer believe in anyone’s affection - I don’t even know how to accept it anymore.
But show me the depth of your love,
and I will lift you so high that the birds will compose symphonies in your honor
and the wind will rewrite itself just to catch your hair.
But the moment you change, my love -
the moment your gaze drifts to another, your tone sharpens, or you step away for even a breath -
you are instantly dead to my heart.
Not because my love died, but because I did.
Every slanted word, every fractured shift in your behavior,
every look you give someone else,
acts like a match to my skin.
It burns through bone and ash until there is nothing left of me
but two eyes weeping oceans,
and lungs drowning in its tide.
So, I ask you decide carefully.
Choose me entirely, or do not dare to love me at all.
A spider drank cider and was legless at breakfast
Now this placid arachnid with a shoddy wee body
Asked weevils so evil if they each had a needle
Could they just for a joke smoke while they poked
At erudite mites with myopic eyesight
And bedridden black beetles who bawled noon and night
At bow legged bees who could bumble and fumble
With wasps that were dishy but got into a tizzy
Watching high jumping fleas pee in the sea
Beside conniving cockroaches who approached in stagecoaches
Near trails of pale snails drinking buckets of ale
Sold by charming blow flies wearing spotted bow ties
In a dark damp old cellar with an ant storyteller
Whose sight had declined until he was blind
Who made up strange tales of fat whales with sharp nails
That fed on a diet of cat, sprat and rat
Carrying small bugs who never gave hugs
To horn-tailed yellow midges wearing red tartan breeches
And whopper leafhoppers sucking monster gobstoppers
So the spider could laugh like a three legged giraffe
And begin to grin at the insects chagrin
I can’t fake what I don’t believe
Can’t rejoice when I need to grieve
Won’t stick by what I’d rather leave
Like a past not keepin’ hidden
A cover is not the same as the song
A killer shouldn’t stalk where he doesn’t belong
No relativism of right ‘n’ wrong
Some fruit must hang forbidden
‘cause I know
In my heart of hearts
What’s true
I can’t speak the words I can’t say
Can’t look at the moon an’ call it a day
There are those of us hold no sway –
The feeble and bedridden
There’s a shadowy figure, come to call
Real as the claw marks on your wall
An’ you won’t have to utter its name at all –
That Satan comes unbidden
When I turned over
The ace of hearts
It was blue
But I know
In my heart of hearts
What is true
I can’t sleep where the bed is too hot
Won’t break stride in the Final Trot
When God asks me, “Is that all you got?”
I’ll say I coulda tried but didn’t
‘cause I know
In my heart of hearts
What’s true
And I know
Inevitably
What I must do
LOVING MEMORIES
My cousin sister five years older was so close to me.
She held a great polite heart, never thought to hurt anybody.
Neither cherished grudge nor complaint against those rude to her
Even she never used any harsh word to those who misbehaved.
I had special adoration bathed in showers of her affection.
Over and above she was the mirror of my childhood.
She preserved my most memorable happenstances
which I had left behind but she could rewind.
She is now counting days totally bedridden,
lying supine helpless, always praying for death.
Her only longing is now to draw last breath.
She was good, she acted good, fully devoted to family.
How and why she was passing through this miserable phase!
No proper precise rules of Nature exist to regulate life.
She holds a high rank in the list of my loving memories.
07/04/20
Silly old duffer, this Canadian dude
His name is Jester Jack Ellison
Those guys in white coats try real hard
To keep him sedated and bedridden
Don't dare let him out in the public arena
For fear he might cause some alarm
To ordinary people walking the streets
Making farting sounds under his arm
That's not as bad as pulling their hair
Or sticking his finger up their nose
Maybe annoying but harmless I guess
It's really not too bad I suppose
But when he sneaks up behind you
And yanks off your brand new hair piece
That's when we finally draw the line
Call the fuzz to get him to cease
Silly old duffer, he means no harm
Just wants some love and attention
At 78, some think he's over-the-hill
But he's been given a very long extension
© Jack Ellison 2013