Long Concussions Poems
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I know that silence you hold in your chest,
The scream behind smiles, the ache in your rest.
Where love means walking a thin wire line,
And his “I’m sorry” feels like a red warning sign.
I know all the lies and the secrets you hide—
what would they say if the truth got outside?
You map every bruise like it’s something you earned,
Like pain is a lesson you somehow deserved.
Wiped your own blood off the floor with numbness and pain.
Convinced you’re at fault for his anger, his reign.
You trace every bruise like a map of your blame,
While he walks unbothered, untouched by the shame.
But I’ve been there too—with concussions and shame,
Convincing myself I was somehow to blame.
If I’d only been quieter… better… more kind,
Maybe the monster would leave me behind.
But he never left — he just shifted his role,
Love became silence that swallowed me whole.
I defended the hands that left bruises behind,
Told doctors and friends, “It’s nothing — I’m fine.”
He broke more than bones—he rewrote my name,
even taught my children I should carry the blame.
He shattered my voice with each cruel word,
Until I no longer trusted what I even heard.
Threats, control, and all my things smashed,
Every piece of my dignity he slowly trashed.
He twisted my thoughts, erased who I was,
Still I stayed, claiming he had a cause.
But I finally broke free though I bled, crawled and ran.
Now I rise not as his—but as my own woman.
And to every woman still caught up in that storm—
a whole world awaits where it’s safe and it’s warm.
I know you feel broken. You’re not too far gone.
it doesn’t mean you were weak just because you held on.
You believed his words you’ve heard many times
Felt your wings break, felt your worth decline.
I’ve been there dear girl, right where you are-
It cuts like a knife and it will leave a scar.
You’ve done nothing wrong, please understand-
He’s the one with the problem, only yours to withstand.
Stand strong girl, be brave have courage to cope-
Get your thoughts together and grab on to hope.
There’s laughter, there’s love, sunlight awaits your face,
A future that’s yours—your truth, your own space.
He is not your destiny. I’m sorry, He never was.
You are a miracle, not born to his laws.
You’re still breathing, still standing, still strong.
And one day, you’ll prove he was so damn wrong.
The True Form of Life
Life: A timeless adventure from beginning to end.Beginning as an infant with no worries or secrets,To an elderly senior with desires to live and explore, More than it’s given time.Seeing the great values of life and beauty, Through the eyes of which never grow old,And is the strongest muscle in our bodies.Using our voice to make an input into the world,To finding the answers hidden deep in our souls.Our minds take on the hardest quest,Than any life obstacle could ever thrust before us.But in time, our minds will disintegrate,And all those adventures will never be told nor uncovered.The memories will fade, and the love and strength we control, Will cease to exist.It is the greatest struggle we all fail to accept.Life ends one way or another.Our lifeless bodies become grass and get to live on whether we know it or not, Until the world ends. From traveling coast to coast and,To clinging on to life possessions earned overseas.It is the ruins of the adventures and passionsthat we try so desperately, to express.Seeing your thirst for beauty expand,Then learning gratitude from our hearts and minds. In a new perspective.One day, the concussions and internal memories,Shall be fulfilled and placed into an eternal tomb.The secrets, hopes, and dreams, may never be fully reinstated,But it shall be recognized.Once you tell someone,Once, you let your guard down,Once you let your person be known,May you truly share a place in this world.It is known as the true form of life.The journey you started and want to continue for years to come,Will be not forgotten,But embedded into the minds of the new generation.Then, finally the struggle to life, Will be no more.
A walk in the rain
I took a walk in the rain today.
Looked down at wet pavement under my feet.
Not wanting to slip and fall.
Two concussions in a year was too much for me.
A brain bleed too, they called TBI
Then they call it Post-Concussion Syndrome
When the ears keep ringing, head keeps pounding and spinning.
I sigh.
I didn’t like their idea of resting the brain.
No writing, no reading, no phone or TV.
Not able to think?
Almost a place of nothing
Except what to see.
I kept on walking in the rain today.
I kicked some acorns out of my way
Like regrets I have inside, to be gone.
My dog kicked off her rain coat.
I guess today, she felt the same.
Now her fur is wet like my hair.
I guess today we both didn’t care.
Heidi Sands
Madness, the Mad Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's Complaint*,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on the wicked witches thighs.
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Poe's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
It drive me crazy just to think!
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome.
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist [has autism]
he extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.[Really!]
How Do You Feel?
I don’t feel great on any given day,
I know that’s not a too great thing to say,
but were you in my shoes, you’d understand, I’m sure
because I’m cursed with something for which there is no cure.
Therefore, don’t ask someone, “How do you feel?”
The answer you get back might be too real -
leading to in-depth and boring discussions
like talking about the person’s concussions.
To ask how someone feels is just for a good friend
or siblings you know who’ll be there till the end.
But with anyone else you should simply say,
“Hello there. I hope that you feel well today.”
Jan. 23, 2023
for How Do You Feel Poetry Contest of Mystic Rose Rose
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Madness, the Hatter blinks.
Madness, Oz's link.
Repercussions of concussions.
Madness was Portnoy's complaint**,
Madness must reciprocate!
Hallucinations filter by....
Leary* winks at Dali's eye.
A house lands on Dorothy's thighs...
Chicken Little wanders by.
"Madness," Hitler's honcho’s sneer.
Madness splices genes with fear.
"Lobotomize!" becomes the cheer.
Kellogg’s* enema's find waiting rears.
"Are you the ass? Or is it me?
Have I ears and a nose? What do you see?"
"Hehawww," said Pinocchio's friends.
"Heeehaw," said Darwin* back again.
Round and round went Steven Hawkings*.
"Madness," said Lenore's raven* squawking.
"Madness," said Einstein* in a blink.
"Reciprocate!," said the missing link.
Reference Poem Knock Knock by The Archaic Poet - topic madness
* Art by Salvador Dali
* Portnoy's Complaint by Phillip Roth states
if you know you are crazy than you must be sane.
* Timothy Leary explored LSD and other hallucinogenic drugs.
* Kellog [of cereal fame] proposed enema's as the cure to
all health ills, plus loads of sex!
* Darwin proposed man evolved from apes.
* Edgar Allen Poe was mad when he wrote The Raven.
* Einstein had aspergers syndrome a type of
* Steven Hawkings is a wheelchair bound scientist who autism.
extrapolates on the edge of mathematical reality.