Long Clinic Poems
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She walked to the clinic
Her legs trembling
Her heart pounding
She had no choice but to agree with him
Its a decision my made together to do this
He was quite
yet a lot of noise was in his head
pictures of how many times he had done it
were playing in his mind in HD print
He remembered all the kisses
All the different romances
with different lovers
And felt like running away
From this sweet sixteen
They had no choice
he had promised her many times
never to 'release' into her
this time it had happened
Two weeks back
At the Casino
where she smoked her first cigarette
as he enjoyed the pipe
She was scared that her dad would kill her
He was afraid his faithful wife would find out
They were afraid of the disease
They walked together but like strangers
She remembered the first kiss
with him and felt strong
He looked at her sweet eyes
and courage flowed in his veins
like the Nile into dry Egypt
This was only temporary
as they reached the clinic
and met the physician
who looked at them and asked the man
Is she your daughter?
He didn't say anything
She looked down shying away
The doctor got all answers
As he stated the test
She prayed: Dear Lord if you get me out of this
It wont do it again
He prayed: Dear Lord if you only pardon me here
It will never ever happen AGAIN
A prayer God had answered
More than seven times
On different teenagers
She wished If all comes to the worst
at least she walks HIV positive without the pregnancy
He wished at least they find her pregnant than HIV positive
The doctor did well what he was being paid for
As he tested the blood did the urine pregnancy testing
Then came with the results
The way he stood before them it was hard
To predict the result
The man's heart beat faster
The girl breathed harder
The doctor stammered something
None of them heard it
The doctor decided to do the right thing
Give them counsel before the results
They sat like the saint peter's monk and nun
As the man he held paper that had the fate of there future
Spoke for one full hour
They all promised to take the right path
Then he gave them the results
ALL Negative
That night they chose to celebrate
The results together
And
They
Did
IT
AGAIN
In the clinic of cold conclusions,
steel speaks, sterile and certain,
microscopes measure mysteries
until wonder wears a white coat.
Yet in the shrine of silent supplication,
knees negotiate with the night,
candles carve courage from darkness,
and breath becomes belief.
Between data and divinity
dances a delicate doubt
numbers naming nature,
while spirit sings the unsayable.
The atom splits with surgical precision,
a prophet of proof and particles,
but thunder still trembles like Sinai,
echoing ancient awe in modern ears.
Satellites circle the skeptical sky,
charting the choreography of stars,
yet shepherds still search the heavens,
reading revelation in radiant constellations.
In glass towers of technology,
time ticks to the tune of theories,
algorithms argue against altar calls,
and circuits compete with psalms.
Still, in villages veiled with memory,
drums declare the divine in dust,
ancestors answer in rustling winds,
and tradition threads truth through time.
The winter night in Kachikau does not offer a gentle frost;
It drops like an iron sheet across the unpowered cattle posts.
And I am buried alive in the familiar dust,
Wandering the perimeter of a village that sleeps while I disintegrate.
The stars above the Chobe sky offer no map, no light;
They are just cold, distant eyes watching a man lose his grip.
My own chest became the traitor that signed the contract.
It traded my sanity for a handful of plastic illusions,
Hurling me into a darkness so heavy, the local clay refuses to absorb it.
Psychologically, the skin still walks, but the inside is a carcass.
I am a hollow gourd left out in the sun until it cracks,
Stumbling down the unpaved roads, dragging the wreckage of my own name.
My thoughts look like the red mud after a slaughter,
A mind reduced to the cold white ash of a fire that ran out of wood.
There is no clinic in the district that stocks a cure for this type of rot,
No traditional elder who can read the ledger of a ruined soul.
I just carry the weight, step by heavy step, into the dark,
Knowing the soil beneath my feet keeps the receipt of everything I lost.
Form:
I went to Uganda
a number of years ago,
to the Gulu District,
way up north.
Near where Joseph Kony
and the LRA had been.
We set up a clinic
in a school
that had been built
on one of the killing fields.
We brought in all our food,
slept in tents,
and cooked over propane.
The sunrises and sunsets were amazing.
We took pictures every morning and every night.
The Ugandans laughed,
“Don’t you have the sun where you come from?”
The field where our tents were pitched caught on fire.
A line burned steadily towards our stuff.
We rushed to move things out of the way.
The Ugandans laughed,
“It will rain this afternoon and put things out.
If not, we will put it out.”
That night the rain came.
The Nile diverted beneath my sleeping bag.
Some of us were a little discouraged.
The Ugandans laughed,
“The sun over here dries our clothes.
Doesn’t it do that where you live?”
They asked us to bring stocking caps.
We thought that was strange, but the women
in our church knitted dozens and dozens of them.
I sent back a picture, "Look! They like them!"
Later I found out they wore them because
malaria gives you hard chills even when it is
90 degrees outside.
We brought Bibles and taught their pastors.
They brought drums and taught us how
dance with abandon during worship.
I think what I learned from the Ugandans
was better than what they learned about me.
Counsellor
He was an independent therapist
for people who thought they were drinking too much.
His first question was: why do you drink so copious?
The answers were varied; he asked them to address
their problems, and desist from alcohol for six months,
Sometimes it did the trick.
Those who could not see he sent to A.A.
He had experience from working at a private clinic
where the religious aspect played a vital role.
The expert rejected his system, lost his licence
to practise his amateurish an uneducated views.
He has met people who thanked him for finding
they were not alcoholics and by those he had
directed to A. A.
It's inauguration day, January 20, 2021.
I could be at home, watching the TV presentation
pomp and pageantry. But old, achy, onerous and
anxious, bladder full with no toilet near, I wait
in a chilly car in a VA clinic parking lot,
entry to warmth and light prohibited by
the COVID pandemic.
Inside, my life-partner -- afflicted by
diabetic, infected purple insensate
second toe, left foot -- seeks news
of its possible fate: to be treated
or scheduled to be permanently removed
from its too snug position among
the other toes. Fidgety, I have settled
upon re-reading for the umpteenth time
selected pages among my (now) collection
of loose sheets between two crumbling
covers held together by rubber bands:
what's left of my copy of The Vintage Book
of Contemporary American Poetry, edited
by J. D. McClatchy. Many of these poems
(all perhaps?) are no longer "contemporary" --
this is a 1990 paper publication with poetry
from the preceding 40 years. I still treasure
many of the poems.
My custom, when alone, is to read out loud, and
to mark or circle poems, selected phrases, lines,
or passages that I choose, for whatever reason,
and often to think/fantasize how or whether
I might (or would) have written and then recited
in my own words, in my own voice, my own altered
poetic echoes of those lines, those thoughts, those
rhymes, those carefully or recklessly considered
pronouncements and descriptions.
And to wonder whether my own contrivances
would blend well with the originals that fostered
their appearance.
I conclude: my ersatz poetic products might be
somewhat like an infected toe that could be
snipped away -- or treated and tended, nurtured,
cured, made healthy, worthy enough for a place
crowded among those others.
As I have tried (fitfully) here to do.
I was leanin' on the fence slurpin' a mug o' joe,
Admirin' my neighbor's garden and watchin' Harry hoe.
"Harry, Harry", I asked, "What makes yer garden grow?"
"I spread oodles of fecal matter on each and ever' row!"
Clyde spent an afternoon guzzlin' Coors in his neighborhood saloon.
He swore he saw a cat play a fiddle and a cow jump over the moon!
He was so sozzled that he was taken to a clinic to recover from his swoon,
And it was there that he was certified to be wackier than a loon!
Humpty Dumpty fell from a balcony splattered upon the street below!
Was he shoved, was he soused or suffered an untimely bout of vertigo?
He was a fairly 'bad' egg from what is heard from pals in the know.
It was just 'rotten' luck that his fragile shell couldn't withstand the blow!
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner devourin' a large pizza pie.
He furtively sipped some brew and was gettin' rather high!
His momma was aghast at such behavior and confiscated the beer.
"Just wait 'til yer Pa gets home" said she and boxed him on the ear!
ODE TO THE RAIN
A rare happening here, this dreary drought:
The dry earth chokes and trees are fast fading,
Reservoir water stock is drying out.
The dry weather is truly worrying,
We bear the foul odours of wind-blown haze,
Health concerns with ash now escalating.
We feel the choking air in smelly daze,
See long clinic queues with breathing ailments,
Polluted smog and hazy fare spurs craze.
Our dry ordeal lingers with harsh statements,
Our nearby neighbour's post-harvest burnings;
Political talks brought vain agreements.
No amount of talk brings clear resolving,
So here we sit and wait and pray for rain,
Our medicine men are busy chanting.
Forty days of drought feels enlightening,
And suddenly a burst of wetness falls:
Due change of healing moisture now drowsing.
Truth heralds clear that prayer brings rainfall,
Faith still moves mountains and wet clouds charade,
The heartfelt word goes forth to echo call.
Drenching rain and more rain on our parade,
Happy children rain-dancing wildly free,
For water pools and cools and moves all trade.
This aqueous spring revives all greenery,
Smiles and sheer delight for wet weather shows,
See wetness bring freshness that now sets free.
An attitude of gratitude funds glow,
A sparkle of delight now flows and grows!
Leon Enriquez
16 Mar 2014
Singapore
(I had severe endometriosis that led to infertility. Through years of treatment and after a laser surgery, (not common in India at my time, so got it done in the U.S.) my condition improved and had two sons born to me after 12 years. But endometriosis came back with greater vengeance and at the age of 39, got my uterus and ovaries removed)
Ever since I became a 'woman', suffered from acute pelvic pain
After marriage, waited for years with rising anxiety, to fondle a baby
The boon and blessing of every mother, but for me, a bane.
With every menstrual cycle, I saw hopes withering away.
Running from clinic to clinic, doctors found endometriosis, my swain.
With laser surgery, the condition was more or less rectified
And two fledglings were born into our nest- two adorable sons.
Still the villain had his onslaught. In me, he continued to bide.
At 39, terminated the culprit that gave me constant aches.
Now with two organs missing, through life’s current, I peacefully glide.
THE PRANKER AND THE PRANKEE
Pranking might be a game to a pranker
But an unpremeditated shocker.
The prank might become costly
Cos when you presumed it'll be funny,
the fun becomes a life breaker.
The prank cost a life in an eye's blinker.
Night falls & the atmosphere turns bleakly.
Accosted a loved one with scary-headed pinky,
the prank victim screams and falls,
and we all see her motion turns to a pause
Clutching her chest & turns away from us.
An ambulance drove us to the clinic of cos,
but the doctor says he couldn't feel her pulse.
The pranker IS TOLD that the prankee
loses her life to shock & to his hanky-panky.
Bro Frank had poured prayers like a tank,
the pale faces of the nurses made hearts sank,
the universe via grace shows mercy
and accept a pranker's clemency;
Suddenly, he sees a life resuscitated,
the poor pranker's pacy heart fluctuated.
But a counter prank shines like gold.
Dumbstrucked by the news he was told,
Prankster couldn't adjust to the news untold.
Wild laugh breaks a joke that's never old.
Reversely, the prank of brother Frank
staged a set-up at night's brink,
marinates his own unpremeditated prank.
The hospitalised prankee rushes out,
feigning pains, laughing while chasing clout.
Oh! Twasn't real, an unplanned set-up,
improvisation that suddenly popped-up.
The pranker is pranked in the web of his prank.
What a scary few hours for Brother Frank.
That's the boomerang of his gimmicky;
The pranker becomes the prankee.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 16th May, 2023.