Long Disease Poems
Long Disease Poems. Below are the most popular long Disease by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Disease poems by poem length and keyword.
In mind-body urn, a car that we drive,
allotted this time around for our use,
we toil and struggle and needlessly strive,
offering ignorance as our excuse,
heeding not our conscience, the voice of God,
touch of love, so tender and intimate,
as mile after mile in stupor we plod,
refusing to enter heart, heaven’s gate,
even though we see head and heart estranged,
being the cause of our inner conflict,
we’re fearful that if love notes be exchanged,
we may perhaps be by other souls tricked.
Poised in staid silence, leaving fears behind,
in time we see that we’re not body-mind.
In time we see that we’re not body-mind
but rather a presence aglow within,
eye of the eye that cannot be defined,
found when we silence mind’s deafening din.
Discarding all vicarious knowing,
choice of cessation invokes divine grace,
whence feeling magnetism in form flowing,
benign bliss burns hold us in close embrace.
Finally free from mind’s thinking disease,
vibrant thus as awareness self-aware,
fetters of desire as we so release,
with the heart of God we seamlessly pair.
With love as our mainstay, silence the way,
we remain bliss drenched by night and by day.
We remain bliss drenched by night and by day,
transfixed thus in all-time meditation,
which, call it of you will, the way we pray,
each breath intake, a joyous celebration.
The seeker who once sought has disappeared,
in whose place has emerged a smokeless flame,
resisting not currents by God’s hand steered,
with no demonic desires left to tame.
It’s said man proposes, God disposes
but when we both are one, boundaries blur,
so as we walk this path strewn with roses,
all we do is, with pulse of love concur.
Flame of consciousness we thus do revive,
in mind-body urn, a car that we drive.
Addiction is a disease,
there is no cure.
It's not a road we chose to travel,
or a detour.
You can't beat it up,
the addict will struggle,
On a daily basis,
he must go out and hustle.
I hear people say
that addicts are weak,
They are not,
just up a different kind of creek.
Every day,
the addict faces life or death,
The people are un-stable,
when you're trying to buy Meth.
You can live with your disease;
you manage,
It is painful and messy,
and there's a lot of damage.
Every day,
you fight to achieve sobriety,
You struggle,
to be a pillar of society.
The addict,
fights in his own inner war,
The head screams feed me;
heart says no more.
Your monkey,
is bigger than a gorilla,
You feed the lizard;
you get Godzilla.
Messing with the dope,
is a vicious cycle,
Your head tell you it's cool,
you live in denial.
It is a lifetime,
before you figure it out,
Your sixty when you,
have second thoughts about.
Where the hell,
can you go from here?
The directions and,
words were never clear.
You find yourself
at sixty and all alone,
Still searching for that
comfort zone….
Turbo1904
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You turn and risk two smiling eyes my way as I walk in..
how pretty you look sitting upright in that little bed.
Quietly whisper, how well your bridal gown now would fit,
imagining our dream wedding dance in your fever'd head.
And do you still hear the sweet music of the love we made,
in a different room, full of flowers, where children bloomed?
Those memories savored now, where you, my heart's saviour laid,
the shadows drowned by your brilliant glow in musky perfume.
Tired nurses and CNA's steal a glance behind misty glasses,
at a star'y eyed groom longing to see his bride in prime.
Unafraid of death's grasp, I pulled away your tear-filled mask,
dared kiss two lips in precious life that hugged me one more time.
If loving you proved lethal, or a lingering disease,
then let it linger. I need no cure for what's shared within.
Warm hands and laughing eyes so cherished., I'm now loath to leave..
so please stay here with me, sharing in all that love was meant.
Not sure why
USA red
relentlessly white
and not so much blue WholeEarth patriots
have consistently
selflessly supported
medical missionaries
vaccinating against every unmasked
health threatening disease
erupting in tribal life
of darkest social systemic Africa
Yet fail to co-empathically embrace
basic
fundamental
win/win evangelically redemptive
bipartisan public health care
here in domestic
Straight White
USA Christian
flag-waving homes
Where live and breathe
our own at-risk children
And climate threatened grandchildren
And pandemonic RightWing denihilistic
degenerating public and private health prospects
for great grandchildren
Who might hope to survive
for more than another wealthy
humane-divine
nature-spirited century
Sacredly meaningful
unmasked
transparent
and multiculturally vulnerable
co-empathic
polypathic
EarthBound public and private
eco/theo-logical
Celebrating systemic
global inter/inner-connected
good-faith health consciousness.
Earth Eulogy
By Mark D. Stucky
She was a good planet,
put to death in her prime
by a pandemic of people.
Homo-sapiens was a disease
with mutating and metastasizing
technological and industrial pus,
emitting environmental toxins,
exterminating flora and fauna,
until the infection’s surge
triggered its own extinction.
Vaccines of ecological education
and environmental regulations
could not overpower
the pathogen’s resistance.
When the global viral load
caused ever-rising fever,
Earth suffered convulsions
and, finally, Gaian coma.
Other sentient souls
amidst the starry galactic mist
will surely miss you very much.
Rest in peace, dear Earth.
(Image by Gerd Altmann on Pixabay.com.)
The hands circle the clock
as I watch the minutes pass
into soundless history.
After a time or so
his eyes speak and vocal cords
try once again to master
that foreign language spoken
by both the aged and the young
when thoughts cannot find the words.
My hands cradle his face
as I kiss the salty brow
of his altered memory.
While teardrops freely flow
our eyes meet and two soul mates
sing an old refrain together
in a language understood
by both musicians and poets
when rhythm strikes the right chords.
June 26, 2019
contest: Poetry Anthology, Music Theme Poetry Contest by Geraldine Taylor
to honor the work being done in using music to spark the
memory of patients with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia.
written originally for an online newsletter, Music Therapy Matters, Spring 2008, Angie Elkins, editor.
Jennifer Brea had encephalomyelitis
She was examined by the best and brightest
She was told that anxiety was the cause
These kinds of mistake should give us pause.
Heide Ferrer got tremors and vibrations
Told it was depression, imagine her frustrations.
She took her own life, long covid is now supposed
Another disease dismissed, not diagnosed.
Alison McCabe was in severe pain
She was told it was the flu, so why complain
But it was the side effect of iron infusion
It was the doctor, not her, who had the delusion
There are other cases, if you search you will find
There's a catch all basin of "all in your mind"
some patients even accused of seeking attention.
If docs don't know, maybe best course is abstention.
The process of elimination can be a dead end
If you assume its mental, patient may not mend.
But don't make the mind the dumping ground
For every mystery not yet found.
Disconnected
No judging
No touching
No talking about feelings
No friendliness or greetings
No physical contact
Just a massive contrast
No eye contact
Just lost context
Every word is spoken in a flat dull monotone way
Stepping on egg shells to avoid mind decay
Like speaking to a different person
Who is going deeper into immersion
OCD flares, fear of spreading dust and germs
All done in order checked to confirm
Terrified of the things that arent there
Realising life is cruel and not fair
What is real and what is not
Inside the head it could be a plot
It’s just an illness accompanied by a shadow
Thought process cloud and narrow
Feeling unsafe inside crawling skin
Mind in a spin knowing it’s all within
Another’s fears isolate those around
Trying to assist and help you feel the ground
Their mental health affects others
Patiently waiting until you recover
Ideas and logic shot down hard
No care for other just disregard
No advice taken just more grief given
Trying to keep you safe without recognition
No love or friendship
Just words to break companionship
Only hate and sadness
A black hole with no happiness
Misery rippling through every phase
Every calm and decisive moment eyes glaze
Attempting to help you through
Meanwhile enduring the hatred you spew
The nature of this is just temporary
Every soul destroying phase necessary
Remembering this isn’t a personal attack
Just your demon shadow fighting back
The shadow is afraid of when you take control
Of when regain your mind and soul
A day a week a month or more
Life will not return to what is was before
Scars are left on the surface and deep
Knowing one day the shadow returns to critique
Every time they reappear you become disconnected
Every time you feel defected
The only thing defective it’s the disconnection
It spreads like a disease or infection
Talk and ask for support
Don’t get lost in your own thought
I will be here for you every single time
Some communication and it will all be fine
Written: May 11, 2025, for contest by: Sara Jama
Quote: “Let the beauty of what you love be what you do. Sorrow prepares you for joy." By Rumi
********************
Sky unveils a deep, katabatic chasm
Fuchsia flames ignite blooms, slicing in layers of strife
Brilliant yantras reside in our mental spaces
As we boldly paint our stories upon chattered hearts
Harboring emotional shrapnel and sorrows.
A memory prison beckons us to descry
Heart-hyacinths, mysterious luna
As sapphire armor shields my spirit,
While magnolias, mist—bereft of magic, wafts rot in time.
I no longer wish to conform to the lamenters
I feel like a ghost playing pranks after being imprisoned
Surrounded by shameful shards and a gloomy silence
Soft sighs leave emotional marks on the skin
As I grieve and descend into the abyss.
Hope hatches a hopeful heart while malaise mourns
Struggle and bloom quarrel in my heart's heavy cloak
A kismet-woven quilt groans as it falls in harsh brooks
Wicked words scatter like venom in a broken glass.
Vehement rants veiled in vivid visions of the soul
Everything hurts, and shrapnel pierces my core
In a heated chaos, whispers sprout Kenospia kernels
In cosmic calls, I gain wild, wielding a quill to sever ties.
How can love bear pain or looming ruin to serve solace?
Heat fuels molten bronze as heaven whims.
Painful pillars tugged at my chest, luring my torn spirit
Lost lifesaving light wanes as lethal rise dims into the chasm.
Little hurts cross defects, sparks ignite a vast blaze
Torn souls find a stern shelter, and an icy stream kills chaos.
Shame glistens in the moonlight, and stampeded disease stings.
I was crying last night because I understood,
Everything that Gordon Aikman said and postulated,
It was mega, a long-awaited viewing, was food,
As I could relate to the things that he had tested.
The BBC did an extremely good and profound job,
Of letting us in on Gordon’s life, condition and disease,
What it means to live every day with MND, no snob,
And the ways that you can help to cure and release.
When he was on his own in his house without a carer,
And wanted to open the curtains, he used his teeth,
But fell out his wheelchair onto the floor, terror,
Was sick, felt death, got his legs twisted underneath.
He said that his disability felt like a job sometimes,
It felt like work ‘cos you had to concentrate so much,
Just on small actions, minute tasks and daily times,
That you felt exhausted by the day’s end, a smutch.
Advocating hard for the cure by medical research,
Gordon’s raised money and made more people aware,
And so tears ran down my cheek as I did silently smirch,
About the Christian’s quest for healing through prayer.
I had too many fights with my parents over James,
I said that god wouldn’t cure him, but he could be helped,
By doctors and by the NHS who would have no stains,
‘Cos they’d give all they could, James would be schlepped.
But my parents insisted on pouring oil on James’s head,
In a healing service at the Faith Mission Bible College,
Where James was laid hands on and a prayer said,
For him to be instantly cured of CF, his suffrage.
A few days before the healing ceremony occurred,
Mum and dad told James that just after the prayer,
He was to look up, say “yes” or “no” for what concurred:
So obviously he said “no” and he still required care.
I couldn’t ever cope with their beliefs or behaviour,
Those feelings and attitudes which so engulf religion,
And so really appreciated Gordon and his endeavour,
And I cherish his spirit so indomitable, a pavilion.
5th January 2016