Long Diabetic Poems
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It is night yet in the West
and the planes land between listlessly burning tarmac lamps
stealthy fingers scurrying through diadems of neons halogens and amber
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The cowherds’ bare blistered feet already trample yesterday’s dust into mud
and cartwheels strain in crusted fissures where rains fell only once or twice
while dreams fester in cosy centrally-heated silken beds in luxury flats
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Tomorrow is yesteryear’s planned strikes
buses trains taxis office machines lie soundlessly asleep
and will not wake until the battle over psychic comfort comes to an end
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
For You there is no respite no pause
no tea-breaks with cheese biscuits or croissants
there’s only the last container to crane over the dock in unpaid overtime
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Your eyes will hurt in the twilight’s hazy glimmer
no time to brush your teeth nor shave in hot and cold running water
nor the right to flush a toilet nor heedlessly course through in cosy tubes to work
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
The sirens rave through boulevards in broad night-light
rushing hypertensic cardiac cases from their delight-full beds
cholestrol and diabetic cane sugar within reach of every child in supermarkets
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Let those who succeeded their former masters
sip their sweet sweatless porto before the hors-d’oeuvres
and flap their tabliers hiding their secret shame under cabalistic arms
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! there’s little time left for your own bickering differences to fester
the dawn signals the tasks that lie ahead unfinished
and the carrion hunters trained in their old master’s image club together
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 2)
The Poet in His Casket
Well, look at you lying there!
In your brown suit and gold tie.
How I want to hug you now!
You can't be dead, you're only forty
years old!
We lived together till you took a new
wife!
Her name was alcohol and that ended our
happy days and our life.
She was the apple of your eye, she took
all the money and happiness we had!
She destroyed your morals and see, your
once great body,too.
And as for your writing skills?
Out the window they flew.
The world is filled with once innocent,
unaware people like you,
Thinking what's wrong with a drink or
two.
What's wrong is the simpletonian thinking
Is the ignoramus belief
" There's nothing wrong with a drink!"
I tried to control you, how sad in retrospect.
I know far better now!
You never heard of the twelve steps neither
did I!
You are buried in Marin County now.
I try to tell this brief story here.
If any poet here or has a family member
with a problem...
It can end. Not in a grave, no.
I realize he had a disease, full tilt.
Heavy drinkers can quit easily!
Alcoholics cannot, they have a disease
and need help.
Three weeks in rehab for true alcoholics
simply won't cut it.
This is a mental and physical disease,
quite a whopper!
We feel soory for the diabetic or cancer
patient, don't we?
But just Tsk,Tsk, when we see a man or
woman walking drunkardly.
It maybe someone just high for one night.
But for many it's more than than that.
When alcohol is the love of your life.
Know that No person sets out with the
goal to be an alcoholic.
If you love them, keep loving them!
Get to an Alanon meeting if family
Or friend.
You must understand the disease if you
truly love them.
Best wishes, good luck and indeed, that
poet in the casket was my husband, indeed.
The last time I saw him, he recited a
poem dedicated to me.
And now that poet....is history.
Forever lost to me, living in eternity.
Panagiota Romois
5/22/2019
7:15 pm
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find the
Gypsy encampment.
Do you have an inquisitive mind?
They have all kinds of entertainment
That has to be lucrative for them to stay
Alive you'll find.
Some people say their fugitives which
Keeps them on the out skirts of town
To where their confined
Yet, through their travels they've become
Quite intelligent.
They make honey sweets with no
Preservatives that are just to a dieter
Or diabetic unkind.
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find the
Gypsy encampment.
People arrive to have their fortunes told.
They see the signs in front of bright
Colored tents where the palm reader
And the targot card dealer gives them
Some enlightenment
To take them away from their daily grind.
The tamborine shakes and a long haired
Gypsy girl with green eyes will mystify
Any passer by steps in to the circle which
Is the cue for the instruments.
Do you have an inquisitive mind?
I guess so. The crowd moves in closer to
See rose colored lips, pearl white teeth,
Provocative hips, that are really defined.
Sway to the beat as waist length black
Hair with just the right amount of curl
Swirls with abandonment.
Her ankle length bright colorful skirt
Shows off tiny dainty bare feet and
Shapely legs as it unfurls unconfined.
See they have all kinds of entertainment.
Watch her spin, the way she tilts her chin
As you take the dance in it gets under
Your skin as a testament
That nothing can compete with the Gypsy
Girl when she has combined
The twirls and whirls to the music in her
World she is definitely in her element.
It has to be lucrative for them to stay
Alive you'll find.
Her dance is designed
As a convenient
Way for all to hurl coins of any kind
To help support their wonderful life of
Merriment.
In wooden covered wagons on the out
Flanks of town is where you will find
The gypsy encampment.
I remember how
you used to roll
your popcorn popper
across the floor grinning
and not paying attention
to where you were going—
and how happily you
pretended to drive
the rusty ’49 GMC pickup
I was still trying to restore:
Rosie, we called her,
after Rosie the Riveter.
Remember the didgeridoo?
I bought it for you after
we saw a performance
of a didgeridoo quintet
from down under.
And you played it too
for the rest of the summer.
By winter, you’d turned it
into a makeshift bong
which I discovered
accidentally one night
in the basement.
We took a roadtrip through
Mexico once, just the two of us.
Boy, was I surprised
when needles fell out
of your backpack at a
military checkpoint.
Luckily for you, they believed
your story about a
diabetic friend who borrowed it—
must’ve forgotten
to remove his insulin
syringes by mistake.
Then there was the time I found you
passed out on the basement floor,
with the needle there beside you —
next to the tackle box where you hid
your paraphernalia.
Your breath was slow and shallow —
a frayed thread unraveling —
and we didn’t have naloxone
so we hauled you to your feet and
walked you round the living room
as your eyes blinked slowly open,
not quite sure where you’d been.
And then came the day
they said he couldn’t stay with you—
not after they found him
wandering barefoot down the street—
again—
sticky with juice
and no one watching.
Child protective services
placed him with your mother—
but I still felt the rupture
when I learned of it
after the fact and you didn’t call.
I still see you sometimes—
three years old again,
popcorn popper clattering
wild across the hardwood,
grinning and not watching
where you were going.
I don’t know where you are now.
But I hope the light still finds you
and brings you an epiphany
because your son needs you back
and so do I—
More than you know.
MY SHORTCOMINGS ARE OVERWHELMING - HOWEVER MY STRENGTHS ARE DEFEATING THEM - POETRY CONTEST
I stood there,
...slowly...
I removed my clothes...
you could tell that my date who was
about to see me naked for the first time
was...was...well...EXCITED!
I was worried she would slide off her seat.
shirt?
gone!
sexy...
pants?
gone!
sexy...
one piece
long underwear?
an obvious crowd pleaser
I did not time it
but it was a long time
for her to get over her joy.
at one point I think she stopped breathing
she was definitely moved
there were tears in her eyes
I believe her hysteria was a nervous laugh
she was laughing
hard.
long underwear?
gone!
finally naked
I stood there exposed
the look on her face
was not good,
I am sure I could hear,
a song blaring loudly in her mind
"Is that all there is, is that all there is..."
My shortcomings are overwhelming,
I was embarrassed
I was angry
I wanted to be mature about the situation,
immediately,
instantly,
I stuck my tongue out at her,
my twelve inch tongue,
I think she noticed I could breathe through my ears
her face lit up
once again she fell off her seat
My shortcomings are overwhelming,
both naked I started pleasing her
she yells
"there is a God!"
However my strengths are defeating them.
that's it,
Ok
you can leave now,
Goodbye
excuse me this next part is private,
LEAVE!
17~10~2014
I am entering this write in the contest.
When I saw the title of the contest this came to mind.
I thought humor being my greatest strenght I would
write this in an attempt to overcome my deppression
thank you for the oppurtunity Verena.
Laughter is the best medicine...unless your a diabetic...
....and then insulin...insulin is the best medicine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
Daddy promised to treat,
Only if I didn’t leave any beet.
Mummy kept it high up on the shelf,
So that I couldn’t take it by myself.
The teacher announced it as a prize,
Only if my grades gave her a surprise.
The kindest of all, was granddad,
Who, would incessantly gratify my fad.
The treasure of every sweet-tooth is the chocolate,
Whoever made it must be really very very great.
It has many different species,
Like shakes, cones, sticks, scoops, and lollies.
The dentist would recommend it the best,
Because that’s how his business would crest.
Chocolate sparks battles,
Friendships, it rattles,
But in the end, it breaks into two, and settles.
Sometimes, it’s bad for the tummy,
Yet it fills in for a chummy,
Alas! It is so yummy,
Let me have some more, mummy!
The éclair is sticky,
The dairy-milk is tasty,
Five-star is rich,
Perk doesn’t have any glitch.
The diabetic has it in privy,
The naughty kid has it bravely,
The elder sibling snatches it,
The younger, fights for a bit.
A little girl there, hides one in her doll-house,
It’s not safe, lest her brother takes it, like a mouse.
The chocolate dresses up smartly on a cake,
For a nice celebration, did someone bake.
Aunts and uncles bring them from abroad,
You know?
That’s why they are welcomed with applaud.
Along with roses they go, as a sweet messenger of love,
And, unfailingly, put a smile, just as into the mouth they shove.
The chocolate is very delicious,
Whoever has it cannot be very malicious.
In a limit, it is nutritious,
But beyond that, it might make you anxious.
Whoever has a frown, give them the chocolate,
And watch their faces bloom, and,
capture it before it is too late……
Between You and I,
What's going on?
torn stitches,
Girl!
Smiles of diabolical impression,
brutally appealing,
gestures of charismatic sweet melodies,
best described: very dangerous indeed,
on this brown wooden bed,
over the same bloated pillow we sleep madly in love,
within the blanket of velvet furs and moonshadow,
the nightsky so dark,
seeing everything,
yet we feel miles apart inside.
Funny how it seems,
we have been longing for our warm embraces,
listening to the same jokes and new wave songs,
hanging beneath the music of pure love songs,
dissecting every quote of Milan Kundera,
contradicting the dialectical thoughts of marxism,
eating green mango and octopus that give us indigestion,
taking refuge under the heat of our long kisses and laughters,
turning the December chill into summer,
but deep in our hearts,
we are still perfect strangers with each other,
such a perfect combination.
I can see from the shadow of thought in your eyes,
it shelters me from harm,
you give everything,
mind,spirit and virginity,
but I crave for more,
grabbing even your soul,
Sorry!
An insatiable predator comes out of me,
it gives you so much pain,
bitter agony,
worst than a diabetic wound,
an atomic bomb in your brain,
putting our love in the cauldron of bleeding constipation.
Girl!
Beauty of classical seduction,
it turns man into the verge of insanity,
but if you just can read the poetry of my soul,
every letter of it says how I really love you,
its rhyme weaves a rope of soothing lyrics and notes,
to tie you forever beside,
only death can separate us,
that is the love I render for you.
He's in the line for a quick pick up,
it's early in the morning and not much of a line
and he needs some milk and toilet papers, says
“I've had better days, this shall pass.”
He's said that line to himself a hundred times, sometimes
with an Irish Bostonian accent that advertises his background.
“If they have eggs too, get a couple of dozens,” he reminds himself,
even though he stopped eating eggs to lower his cholesterol.
“Hey check this out. They're giving a 25 dollar coupon, maybe I can get
a carton of camel's cigarette," until he realized he 'd missed his chances,
setting into a state of quiet panic – “and what if they ran out of milk too,
can't have black coffee, never.” Thank god he was not a diabetic hyperdermic like the fellow ahead of him, who held onto his cane anxiously, cursing under his lips at the parade of cars. “Those sons of es drive luxury cars begging for food, ain't right brother.”
He agreed. “They ought to be shopping at Cosco” though their abundance assumed desperation.
“Amigo move over,” a heavy-set lady screamed pushing her cart forward undeterred, plowing through the line with meshes of anger and energy.
But he didn't care, thinking he was in waiting rooms with buckets of dental pain, the kind of places patience survives, pulled down his face mask for a deep breath, standing next to a German automobile,
admiring the driver's audacity to risk it on the highway. His luck a rain started and wind blew off his old hat, as if God was sitting on an upper-story chuckling with whirls of irony., watching his beloved children riding a ferry to
nowhere.
Antonio Lobo Antunes
Writes a chronicle, which he claims is about Nothing that, for us, ( Nothing ) encompasses a mountain of words
reflecting the need of the needs ofman
Antonio protested against the Portuguese wars in Africa
“ He was an officer in the army” sending innocent farm boys from the interior of Portugal who could hardly write and read, fighting for
a corrupt colonial power.
so many of them died for
a lost business opportunity for the powerful
For parents, a faded photograph of a soldier, a medal
for bravery, a letter written by an employee with
a Remington typewriter, hastily written as the writer had to send a hundred messages more before the end of the end of a long working day
Antonia, yes, to be a collegian, although
I am not is
a practicing psychiatrist, or was a shrink, I refuse to
spell the Psych again, is in his delusion why he
refuses to stop smoking
Here we go again, me noticing things of no consequence
I have read one of his books. “Memoria de Elefante.”
in Portuguese, a struggle, and as a not an academic
I did not know the Luso language was so rich.
Lately, he, on my FB page, write about life and also about the thing he has written in his novels
One of these things is about obese diabetes people and
I feel he does not understand how extremely difficult
it is for a diabetic person to stay slim.
However, he is a wise person with few
vices, except
from his smoking, his humor, or his contagious
laughter
and as a great man, he has many flaws
But I am not sure if his academic knowledge will
not collide my ironic skepticism.