Long Diagnose Poems
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I don't know what I am going to write
But I'll write something
I am going to write about what the heck are you doing?
What the heck are you doing
when you leave a whole string of people hunger after you?
What the heck are you doing when you don't even cause it and don't even care?
Are you that cold?
It's summer you know
Oh it's still winter
The last brrr I had I was thawed out
There's no telling this time
What's the heck are you doing
when you are hot one minute and cold the next?
Who know?
And who cares?
My little doggies care
Their love is unconditional
Lol maybe
With a treat
What the heck I am doing
when I don't even know what is going on?
Whether inside me or out of me
Ahh leave that to the psychologist
And there is only one who can diagnose me
- God
And I am full
Full of His bull s
Full of His forever
Full of His promises
Full of His junk
I am taking a leave of absence
Because I cannot deal with this
He can rally
He can hooray
Who cares?
I don't
Cheering on
Because this one is missing
To the other world
I’m always poorly
be dead before forty
As the doctors surely
diagnose before curing
and that is hard work
as they forever search
me naked like a perv
as their fingers insert
in their protective overalls
they flip me once more
still wearing bugger all
they play with my balls
touching me here
touching me there
touching my rear
touching my pair
at least the doctors a woman
oh dear I'm wooden
drunk when it wouldn't
now when it shouldn't
then sounds from the woodwork
where old friends lurk
with their amazing nerve
I thought I was a jerk
and it's slowly dawning
I might be no more
for some quite daunting
as they know for sure
a haunting's instore
"To those still confined in the worldly
realm, no legacy I leave, just a kiss
that carries rapidly vanishing memories,
my final farewell" _ Carolyn Devonshire
___________________
since your death Carolyn ...
I have been in ... a void unfathomable
the diagnose of cancer a few weeks ago
had left me in shock and denial
and there was no hope ...
~ the cancer had spread all through your body
and your fate was written
in the book of life and bargaining was useless ~
so I have been meditating
as I often do when I feel hopelessness
I breath in and out like ocean waves and close my eyes
and I am falling into emptiness ... until I see blue ocean waves
crashing on a beach
~ and you are barefoot and carefree ... kicking the waves
you look up smiling and wave to me
and then one thought to the next merge and mingle
as I reverie our friendship over many wonderful years ~
in a trance I write words to honor you
and abandon myself to pockets of time
words we said and words you have written
and flickers of your memory that will haunt me evermore
oh, I have been in a daze ... a void of grief
in a waking dream where I stumble lost
~ you are at peace now free of all pain
walking some heavenly ocean ...
Carolyn, I must accept your death and these flickers
and memories ... holding each one inside my heart
where reveries and reality meld
and I will treasure each gift given
... especially the ocean shells ~
_____________________
August 8, 2021
Poetry/Free Verse/Grief: A Tribute to Carolyn
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1379-509-08
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The Void
sponsor, Unseeking Seeker, Judged 08/11/2021
Eighth Place
You’ve not encountered either in a while;
you may not have described yourselves as close.
On social, it is easy to revile,
to Monday quarterback, to diagnose.
From outside, looking in, you wonder why,
with fond reflections on the times they had:
a life together, aiming for the sky,
that somehow missed and leaves you feeling sad.
And when you’re still, you hear that inner voice:
a marriage built on eros won’t suffice.
Agape’s not a feeling, but a choice
that often requires pain and sacrifice.
A wanderlust can tear soulmates apart;
the work’s ne’er done to synch two beating hearts.
The abstract disease that doctors don't diagnose
to the grave, it has taken many without the attention of morbid anatomy department
Danger, daily in our community it poses
Marriages it has destroyed without any consideration for the expenses of engagement
The addictive demon has made those on the horse to lose popular applaud
And those on legs, their early grave
A disease of no drug, yet on it every day is spent thousands
Anger, a very good bad nature that comes with more disadvantages than advantages
It has been in existence for long ago ages
Nature found both in humans and spirits
No wonder even the Almighty did and still do get angry
Yes! Jesus as well was at a point angry
While it is an indispensable companion of humans and spirits
Good use of it then becomes inevitable
It is why it was said...get angry but sin not
After all, when the purpose of a thing is not known, abuse is inevitable
Telling you not to get angry is like pursuing mosquitoes to catch the one that last sucked one's blood
But note!
Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will forever regret
Act when angry and you will perform the best drama you will never want to see the replay
Therefore, get angry but with your sense of reasoning and not your emotions
Best of Luck!
ABSOL
All of these questions circle round in my head
they are the barriers that keep me from bed.
Sat here before you, I’ll lay it all on the table
keep me from guessing, if you are able.
How long will it be, till the chosen one is me?
Are there roses just around the corner?
What is his name? Does he diminish my pain?
Are we bonded, but not by trauma?
Do you see an office, adorned with high profit or at least a better place to be?
Will I stop feeling that I’m watching the ceiling and waiting for it to collapse, on me?
Can you diagnose wealth, or even good health?
Do I get a place in everyone’s race or will I forever be miles behind?
All I need, just a few promises that what once was dull, will shine.
Will I get that something that I can call mine?
Will the clock stop racing and I’ll finally have time?
Will it just hit me, one day, all at once?
Or need I be patient, wait for years that were months?
As much as I know, it’s the seeds that I’ll sow
that will allow me to escape wilted blooms,
I just need an inkling of your wishful thinking so I can expect a change of tune.
We have too little time not to use it wisely
I was enjoying lunch
a sandwich with some potato chip crunch
when it hit me like a rush
- I’m in a cult!
The girls at my table
Emma, Léah and Chloé,
my solid, study group three
all dress alike, more or less
we're all doing the same things
we study, laugh too loudly at nothing,
we romanticize burnout as a sort of chic
we compare our grades like horoscopes,
and we're all somewhere on the caffeine curve
To join our little group
you must know what an osmole is
and you must be slightly behind
but never admit how far
Like all cults there are rules,
we must pretend it’s all manageable,
and insist, to everyone, that “I’m fine.”
Emma says she dreams of Anki now.
Léah hasn’t texted her mother back in three weeks.
Chloé swears she’ll quit after this year,
which we all accept as part of the liturgy
because she's not even trying to leave.
As we eat, we scroll, and diagnose each other casually,
triaging the stages and conditions of early 20s life
“Did that guy ever call?”
It's hard to find a guy who understands
why you'd cancel plans to memorize something
We say, “it’s probably nothing”
with the authority of girls who know it's probably everything.
Anyway, my sandwich is gone, the chips too
someone mentions exams
(We’ve 13 days until first year final exams)
and we all stand up at once,
like we’ve heard a bell.
.
.
Songs for this:
BIRDS OF A FEATHER by Billie Eilish
WHERE IS MY HUSBAND! by RAYE
Fortnight (feat. Post Malone) by Taylor Swift
.
Anki - a flashcard app for spaced-repetition memorization
Can I can expound, like an oracle, both embodied and metaphorical,
holding collapse and pattern together at once—in a one-two punch?
Poetry has an awkwardness that makes grammar feel hazardous,
there’s a tired slipperiness to poetic form that’s seldom rapturous.
I stumble blind along a boulevard of uneven sentences,
tripping on rhyming rubble, dodging puddles of punctuation,
parked beat patterns, broken themes and literary pretenses.
I drift half-awake down corridors of clause and clutter,
sidestepping commas, cracked cadences, the debris of technique
and the stalled traffic of half-finished thoughts best not uttered.
Poems are concerned with stanzas, form, pace and sound,
that flow rather awkwardly, when the rhyme is unsound.
No GPS can map grammatical faults, predict didactic turns
or diagnose a disordered phrasing, as if physical curves -
thus avoiding the flaws of internal rhythm and rhyme in my words.
I use vignette as my prescriptive technique, trying to build clearer
thoughts, through the architecture of sentence - offering rhetorical mirrors
that smooth over fractures - generously layering narrative with example,
evidence, and explanation - with controlling literary tricks, like preamble.
Which should win—which is better—the poem or the vignette?
Step right up—readers—place your bets.
.
.
A song for this:
Go Left by Radiant Children
.
youtu.be/nY60hmGcSYk?is=pox6fHBACQ_bsP3j
The day my life went bizacko,
I had me a brush with “big C”
“No biggie; just radiation,” they said,
“after lumpectomy.”
“No, wait,” said the surgeon,“Your cancer’s genetic!
Let’s have you do chemo too.”
A doctor friend wiser said that would be
a ludicrous thing to do.
Chemo just for prevention?
How wackadoodle is that?
Despite the fact I’m “genetic,”
I turned down their chemo flat.
Did radiation and thought I was done
till my bones were then given a scan.
“Keep your bones strong. You must take our drug,”
said my doofus oncologist man.
Prolia shots every six months.
Four times I did that in all.
Come to find out – folks going OFF it
are breaking their bones when they fall!
I went off it anyway.
Rare side effects were making me feel insane.
Two years since then and still I have got
Prolia on my brain.
My mouth is bizarre -half-numb and plain dumb
like my outer lips aren’t even there!
Like plastic or wool my mouth feels inside,
so an old worn-out mouthguard I wear.
The mouthguard’s my comfort, but it’s gotten yellow
and I look strange when I smile.
Good thing for me to NOT be in public
but stuck in my house for this while.
New doctors I visit will not diagnose me.
One of them thinks I am whacko.
Doctors look after each OTHER while I
keep living a life bizacko!
April 1, 2020
239 words for Caren Krutsinger's The Day My Life Went Whacko Poetry Contest
Intuitive Clones of Progress and Dying
Obsidian stones for some contrite emotional relief
Oblivion clones marching in combined technocratic belief
Meridian moans of melancholy surging with existential grief
Davidean tones of allegory forming from a holy belief
The lack of any certainty that defines someone living on the edge
The cracks in processing modernity that leave you lingering on the ledge
Of epistemological thought forms that internally shake and form a philosophical wedge
Between the notion of absurdity that’s revoked as you keep persisting through the dredge
Improvisational expression after structural defeat
Confrontational confession that forces innocence to retreat
Congregational repression that sweeps the gullible off their feet
Recreational intercession as the holy scriptures start to deplete
We consummate the future plan by banning everything but more emphatic laws
While we promulgate the sounds of progress and demand more and more
As we innovate the underprivileged in their loneliness and mass exploit the poor
I try to communicate the brokenness while I ask what all of this is for?
Competitions and renditions of trauma that ask how much have you been exposed to suffering ?
Depositions of technicians that redirect the internet for all its buffering
Precognitions of physicians that diagnose you while they’re stuttering
As they decommission the transitions that they claim need moral covering
Premonitions of grace falling down from a radiant evening sky
Expositions of a face that is always inclined to cry
Inhibitions of the disgraced as they look at who they can now buy
Intuition that is laced with the ability to embrace life before you die
The End Elizabeth Moroz Copyright