Long Hospital Poems
Long Hospital Poems. Below are the most popular long Hospital by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hospital poems by poem length and keyword.
I’ve got no beef with McDonald’s or Jack
‘n the Box weighing down American towns
with greasy sacks in thin hospital gowns.
They’re just a couple of clowns selling crack
to cavalier carnies who’d like fries with that
six thousand calorie corpulent noun
with a large diet Coke to wash it all down.
Where I live (Houston) everyone is fat.
Me, you, black, white, brown, yellow, straight, gay, trans:
fat, fat, fat. Even the bum, with nothing but
a cardboard savior and his corporate name,
who begs from corners with two open hands
that dropped Vietnam, is blessed with a gut
that knows for greed to starve would break the game.
The enemy within
There has been a war up North but after some times
the occupying forces surrendered and took the train
back where they came from.
Newspapers and magazines were (for a while) free
of censors and horrific stories and pictures emerged
which the boy didn’t grasp and soon forgot.
75 years later, the boy, now an old man laid up in
a hospital ward gazing at a white wall remembered
the horrific photos he had seen.
Pictures of sexual deviations, torture and murder
not committed by the foreign occupier but by
opportunists who thrive in the shadow of wars
Sociopaths for whom other lives do not matter
to enrich themselves and indulge in obscene sex
that cumulate in strangling their unlucky victims.
Sociopathy is not an illness, is for them normal
as they are not humans and therefore lack humanity
love is for them, feelings of scant importance.
They, the sociopaths, are well-educated people
found in politics, the clerics, armed forces and
business, where they can exercise power over others
The war in Ukraine is a good example they are
pumping in weapons and refusing any peace negotiation
to the extent of risking a nuclear Armageddon.
This tanned wee white child of Welsh-English
With a bit of American Indian flowing
like a creek running through the meadow;
p-h-y-s-i-o-l-o-g-y spelled out loud
Daddy was proud of his four year-old girl
raven haired, black eyes flashing with pride
feed sack dresses in pretty shades of pinks
the only thing country about me
other than pinto beans corn bread and iced tea.
I grew to be sixty-five inches tall skinny as a rail
committed to serving the Lord as a nurse
I’ll go where you want me to go. Dear Lord
On some far away mission field—
Didn’t know where
Just a dreamin’ and flutterin’ butterfly
Touching one beautiful spot then another
Where He leads me I will follow…
I’ll go with Him thru the garden
Just knew it would be by a hospital someplace.
Mom wanted to be a nurse but wasn’t
maybe she passed on her thoughts like
a momma bird feeds her young
bit by bit each day until full growth taken place.
Finally I was a grown up Registered Nurse
Running down the halls like a racehorse at times
Taking care of the down and outs or the up and ins
all of them had the same needs whether black or white
man or woman – they all had needs
I walked proud – white in white
Shiny black hair only contrast.
I wanted to be a nurse
crying when crying needed
laughing when laughing came
praying to comfort or praying to make it through a shift
helping as best I could
to make all better –
Ebony, white, red, brown or yellow
Mankind’s color wheel
generation following generation
hurts, healing, sorrow, gladness
rotating compassionate care
Through the stages
Throughout the ages;
A butterfly touching lives
Gently
hushing the cry of a newborn baby
Lullaby and Good Night
closing the eyes of the dying
Near to the heart of God
Sue doesn’t sit so demurely in her motorised wheelchair.
She’ll tell folks to stop gawking as it's very rude to stare!
Beneath her tenuous frame is quite a formidable young girl,
born with brittle bones but in her wheelchair she can twirl.
Sue’s parents sadly told her that her condition is immutable.
She is bereft of strong limbs, but her courage is irrefutable.
Despite a recent interlude in hospital, she's always cheerful.
Don’t treat her like she’s invisible or you may get an earful!
She loves to sketch caricatures in her artist’s drawing book
and in her specially adapted kitchen Sue is learning to cook.
Her physical disability will not prevent her from achieving
and her aphorism of life's always been, ‘Never stop believing
Sue loves to spend time wheeling around the garden paths,
watching chirping sparrows joyfully splashing in bird baths.
She paints canvases filled with butterflies and lovely flowers.
Sometimes she is quite content to sit there and read for hours.
If you are feeling sorry for Sue, don't give it another thought.
In her scarlet wheelchair, she's accepted what life has wrought.
Each day she finds something to appreciate that gives her a thrill.
In truth, she sees more beauty in life than most of us ever will.
Eight word Challenge 5 Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
Required words: demurely, sketch, tenuous, brittle, formidable, interlude, bereft, immutable
10-23-17
Those sapphire eyes and kissable cute cheeks -
I held you and I knew I was in love.
The moment I'd been dreaming of for weeks
was perfect, and it came from God above!
Home from the hospital, how our life changed!
Though challenging at first, it was worthwhile
to have our sleeping patterns rearranged.
What precious memory was your first smile!
And now you've grown. We're many miles apart.
How wonderful you are, my darling boy!
Do not forget you're always in my heart.
My precious son, you are my pride and joy.
The loving feelings that I have for you
will stay with me, dear son, my whole life through.
10~30~15
I was on my way to Heaven one day
or so I am told . . . but I was sent back
and I have a dream so beautiful often
it begins in a forest lush and green with dripping wetness
I am walking beside a flowing crystal stream
when, I hear my name being called-
it floats among the canopy of trees swirling
and the voice is my mother's !
(I should mention mother is long dead)
yet, I follow the sound, running
and come to a golden bridge going into infinity
again mother's voice a whisper now
then . . .
I am at a golden gate looking through the bars
beyond is a beautiful garden
where every flower imagined is growing wild
the sky is forever blue
and there is a stillness and utter peace
it fills me with a feeling I have never felt
quite wonderful
birds fly and twitter and butterflies flutter
bees buzz and what is that delicious smell
and angels are singing
and is that my cat snowball and smudges
with mother and grandma?
I try to climb the gate . . . . I must get in
I believe this is Heaven, oh yes exactly
what I always thought it would be
but an angel appears murmuring_
muttering stop, STOP
no, no, NO this is a mistake !
go back until it is time not time for you
and I am falling, falling, falling, falling
until, I wake in a hospital bed gasping please
I want to go back . . . to Heaven
________________________
May 30, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/my trip to Heaven
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1256-881-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, Heaven
sponsor, Regina Riddle
Second Place
Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help,
as I lift my hands toward your Most Holy Place.
—Psalm 28:2 NIV
USHERED INTO THE MOST HOLY PLACE
Morning! Yawn! Stretch!
Arms rise, palms like cups
filled with holy oil.
Praise, thanks to almighty God,
no matter the circumstance.
Who has neither light, food, loved
ones? Who has neither arms, feet,
breath, heartbeat? Any number
of things to be thankful for —
the birdsong, the dawn, sunshine,
the voice of mom saying, “I love you,”
over and over again, just to make sure
that you know it now,
know it forever.
Morning prayers
uttered, ushered into the Most Holy Place.
My head’s on His lap, my tears
on His hem. His hand
on my head. Reassurance
that he is working in hospital parameters
doing all that needs to be done
as His people pray.
Lest we forget in our troubles
to remember
to pray for others, too,
our knees in touch and go
of holy ground
for you and you and you
and “I love you,
too!
4/11/2021
Accepting aloneness, incomplete solitude, imperfect rest. The garden
wasted, pumpkin patch planted late, potatoes untasted left in ground.
A thousand email addresses, each unique represents a flame of
passion, compassion, desperation or depression. To understand, to know's
impossible. It is therefore only reasonable to observe the shadows
on the mountain, the actions of the dreamer which tell us something,
little, nothing of his dream. It's a simple secret shared,
longevity. The half breed John Russell says it right, the
date and place don't matter, dry desert or cold mountainside,
lush bottomland, soulless or hospitable, contagious hospital.
The best laugh's death's, a perfect escape, perfect error, perfect
rest. Their solicitude's unnecessary, grief is temporary, life goes on,
you go under, underemployed, the undertaker's never unemployed.
Forensics prove an ovary with two chambers, ovule adnate to the funicle.
Depressed,
Heavily intoxicated,
Under the influence of drugs,
After taking anti-anxiety medication,
Barricaded with his dogs,
A gun beneath his chin,
He is ready to cross the threshold.
He refuses to cooperate.
The shop windows are shattered.
Cries erupt.
Curtains are torn down.
The gendarmes have forced open his door.
Handcuffed in the police van,
He longs for a cigarette.
He sees no way out.
He has escaped from the psychiatric hospital.
The flashing blue lights tear through the night.
The sirens plow through the silence.
His gaze passes through the walls,
Without meeting a single face.
Wrists scarred by steel,
A mind shattered by exhaustion,
Memories strike harder
Than rifle butts and van doors.
The dogs howl in the distance,
As if counting the absences of their traumatized master.
The neighbors close their shutters.
Rumors replace his dignity.
In the rearview mirror of the police van,
Years of shipwreck drift by,
Promises reduced to ashes,
Tomorrows without a shore.
The descent into hell pronounces no final verdict.
It merely piles up the wreckage of a shattered life.
And somewhere, behind the uniforms,
Behind the shattered windows,
Behind the anger and the handcuffs,
A breath still remains,
Fragile, almost inaudible,
Refusing to disappear.
Five years ago he joyously visited the maternity ward;
now it is the oncology floor.
Kindergarten will not be in the cards this year -
just lots of tears.
She has the same bald head she bore
when he coached his wife through
the Lamaze breathing they both had trained for;
the ponytails she beautifully wore in between
her hospital stays are long forgotten.
Cancer made her a motherless child two years ago;
now it promises to re-unite mother and daughter.
He tries to keep up a brave front –
but fails miserably.
It is hard to believe in the Saints for which hospitals are named
when these are the same buildings in which loved ones
are taken from us far too soon.
Unfortunately, he recognizes many of the nurses who cared for his wife.
“Hello, Daddy”, she smiles weakly as he enters her room;
“I am going to see Mommy soon, aren’t I”, she asks.
The lump in his throat prevents an answer.
“It’s okay, Daddy”, the sick child reassures her grieving father.
He cannot hold back the tears he promised not to show her.
“Now, instead of us missing Mommy, Mommy and I will be missing you.
And you can pray to both of us before going to bed,
like we do now to Mommy.”
“Tell her I still love her,” he manages to say through his tears.
“She knows, Daddy.”
“And …”
“I know, Daddy.”
She closes her eyes.
He has to walk past the Maternity Ward
on his way out of the hospital to the funeral parlor.
Written and posted on August 25, 2011 by Knot Telling