Long Hypothermia Poems
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There was a man from Donbas
There was a man from Donbas,
who sat on a headless ass.
"Hey! You're going the wrong way!" he did say,
"and your breath smells of foul grass."
So, moved to the States he arranged,
dreaming of the wide open plains.
There, he too rode the same headless ass
and complained the view never changed.
So, he rode north to Canada,
where pike swims in lakes over tha.
But alas, he rode the same jackass
and nearly died from hypothermia.
Now for the south, he done rode,
way down to ole el méxico.
While riding his preferred headless steed,
he complained of the same poop show.
Let this be a lesson, dear friend.
When you roam to the ends, with no happiness to lend,
and find yourself riding a headless ass,
It's not the world that offends.
You simply mounted the wrong end.
And you must change before you die from the gas.
by, Martin Braun
August 22, 2023
The names have been changed to protect the innocent. Any reflection of the Democratic Party, socialists, the left, or communists is simply a coincidence.
CPR
Not again call the code
Again in life saving mode
Grab the patient from the dark abode
This is a burden and heavy load
My heart is hard and callous
Working for years in the medicine palace
No criticizing you’ve your own malice
You’re not ready to drink from my chalice
Get on the chest, push hard and fast
How much longer will this last
Push the epi again they’ve not passed
Someone do compressions I’m gassed
You feel a pulse? NO! begin CPR
Eyelids open, pupils dilated, bizarre!
Cracked ribs, circulate the drugs intravascular
Hang another liter to the 18g catheter
This isn’t good the lips are blue
Running the code we aren’t through
Good bag mask ventilation through the tube
The bowel evacuates diarrhea, pew.
Still no pulse felt at all
Continue CPR in for a long haul
Did we update family give them a call
They’re in for a huge curve ball
We got a rhythm that is shockable
Charging 360J, stand clear, loud and audible
Hope this works anything is possible
Feel a pulse? YES! Phenomenal
Post-resuscitative effort in full effect
Titrate the Dopa and Levo for affect
Secure the ETT make it perfect
Debrief the H’s and T’s lets inspect
Order chest x-ray and head CT
Get an ABG, H&H and blood chemistry
Start hypothermia and begin the freeze
Lets clean up the patient provide dignity
Another patient kept out of the grave
The team members supported and gave
Staving off death and being brave
That’s what we do, for the patients we save
By:beardedjarhead
Whoever finds themselves alone,
To make their bed a slab of stone,
Goes there but for the grace of I
To contemplate the reason why.
Who knows the journey each have led?
The horrors which they may have fled.
Financial ruin is one such fate,
Or just hard luck, the loss is great!
And so, a life where pride is lost
To forage bins at any cost.
Where passersby will turn their heads
To go home to their comfy beds.
A placard scratched out more in hope
Disguises that they fail to cope
And thus, the empty cups reveal
The hopelessness they can’t conceal.
The cold and bitter winters night,
The cardboard box for which they’ll fight,
May stave off hypothermia
But do little for insomnia!
It’s miserable to say the least,
The fact that they will never feast
Or just to shower, enjoy a cuddle,
Instead a lowly fire they huddle.
Have we now become so cruel?
Whereby society will often drool
On celebrities who matter not,
Whilst these poor souls are thus forgot!
the smell of her perfume is still in the air
internal rolling hills with large stones give me blue relief
it has been a few weeks and i am still on the sharp edge of last night
melted snow falls from the sun's red eyes in the sky
my pain worsens, and i know that i have just been fired several run on sentences ago
i am a victim of the hypocrisy of my own advice to previous hypocrites
nothing has been moved but the obtuse angle of my broken heart
i try to move, but the oil to the tin is defiant like hypothermia taking directions
i pray for her to come back, but only the devil answers
attention provides her book of directions on wilted late bloomer time
now the smell of her perfume is like poisonous furies singing teasingly to the smart part of my brain
all i write now right now are poems devoid of solid rhythm
my existence is nothing but a vapor far removed from former glory
i now have a life sentence at a snail's pace with the tortoise winning at hare brained speed
i slide down black hill mountain......white is the bloody fire of regret and shame
The Mary Rose, Andrea Doria, Estonia,
MV Doña Paz, RMS Titanic, and the Endurance
Wasn't, in techno craftsmanship, each a utopia?
Wasn't, yet, the cause of their wreck been soft luxe sentiments?
Could they, in cores, cope with collisions with the ice rocks?
Was immersion hypothermia humanly handled?
In times of perpetual physical and psychic blocks
Wasn't the divine enlightenment and wisdom trampled?
As though hunted and haunted whales, the ship's skeletons swayed.
Spirits of the dead, with the synchronizing sea waves, dance
Neither the lighthouses nor the stars could show them the way.
Doesn't, yet, the strife of each life, before God, get a chance?
In games of gain and loss, did they gain and lose by themselves?
Are the shelves of the ships that are wrecked mere shelves of elves' delves?
I remember…
The long rocky finger I lived on that stretched
out from the mainland in the Bay of Fundy and
the soggy little white house covered in ocean brine
that did its best to shelter us from the great bi-polar Atlantic Ocean
that would on some days roar and thrash and throw itself against
our rocky foundation, splintering itself into endless liquid shards
that would climb high into the sky, then fall on my up-turned face,
drenching me into a state of near hypothermia.
There I would stand, squinting through burning eyes,
unable to pull myself away from that wrath, when suddenly -
the sun would disappear from the sky, causing the air temperature
to plummet, leaving me shaking like a leaf as the Great roaring Atlantic
fell silent and laid itself down as flat as a sheet of glass as that massive
grey monster approached.
Off in the distance, I would hear a buoy-bell timidly ringing in a feeble attempt to warn me of the impending danger that was quietly devouring the mainland, our little house, and the Great Atlantic, as the FOG came silently creeping in.
We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails," by Dolly Parton ,
Hot summer was over. A mighty wind roared
out of nowhere bringing back the nasty dark clouds.
Where did the wind come from? No one really knew.
I did not know nor did I care, so long it brought
no rain, for then the wind would wet me all over.
That's when I saw a woman huddled near a bar.
Raw wind whipped around, so detrimental for her.
I could see her trembling with cold; her clothes tattered.
She was quite near of getting hypothermia.
The wintry wind was of no actual help.
I got her in the bar where at least there was warmth.
Two women helped and I paid for a tot of scotch.
I left the bar, the wind was like a breeze now.
I wandered round the area, heart-broken,
the cold breeze wrapped itself around my heart.
Its gust echoed in my heart calling for Rose.
How could I find her in such a wind-swept city?
The swirling wind insisted on its forceful call.
Listen to the wind, it churns her name in my soul.
Placed 1
SOMNAMBULIST
She stood before me in the mist,
That beautiful somnambulist.
Eyes open, yet I doubt she saw me,
In the mist she stood before me.
She was dressed in night attire,
Designed to set men’s hearts afire
And I was suitably impressed.
In night attire she was dressed.
Her feet were bare, he toenails red,
Just as she had left her bed.
She could die from hypothermia there,
Her toenails red, her feet were bare
I draped my mac around her shoulder,
Before the lass got even colder.
Then took her hand and led her back.
Around her shoulder I draped my mac
She lived at number forty-eight, I knew,
The one where white magnolias grew.
Her mother waited at the gate
I knew she lived at number forty-eight.
Next day she came to my front door
To thank me for the night before.
And now we are marrying in May.
To my front door she came next day
14th June 2020
Swap Quatrain contest
Sponsor - Emile Pinet
No doubt an Eskimo as fabulous breeze
feeling in their element with style, elan
while snacking on crackers and cheese
this spate of bitter cold doth not seem to ease
as Arctic air blast (oh riff you prefer Polar Vortex)
submerged much of the nation
in what feels like absolute zero,
and no matter the appellation,
the outdoors analogous to being in a deep freeze
brings state of emergency (designated as Code Blue
from drain on bare necessities sans:
energy, food, general habiliments
unable to traverse frozen waterways
obstructing tankers access
to key shipyards, thus imposing
engines of society (Mother Nature decreed
harshly lashed pact with ole man winter)
asper bitter cold temperatures
gripping sizable chunk of United States,
where one step outside induces chattering class
to shiver from hypothermia,
and scant number of minutes will witness rigor mortis
evinced by knocked knees
whereat authoritative figures strongly advise
(nee require) every person to stay home
lest (if heedless) within seconds
their body electric will seize
from unseen large area of low pressure
and cold air surrounds both of Earth's poles
chastising anyone foolish enough
to risk life or limb, thus take a page
from hibernating bears playbook,
and stay under warm covers
collecting countless z's!
CIPA or Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis
is a genetic disorder very rarely found among us.
They afflicted with this disorder have a damaged gene
and as a result, sufferers never experience the sensation of pain.
Many may assume that this would be a good thing
but they who are afflicted encounter much suffering.
Death from hypothermia among CIPA patients is quite common
because they never know when their body temperature is low or rising.
Some CIPA patients have had to remove all of their teeth
to prevent them from chewing on their lips whenever they eat.
There isn't any cure or treatment presently
for the few afflicted with this rare genetic disease.
I guess with so few afflicted, it's not a medical priority,
but maybe this disorder can be used positively.
Many bed ridden terminal patients suffer needlessly
with agonizing pain until they're deceased.
In my opinion, they ought to have the right to be
euthanized and put out of their misery,
but that isn't ethical among the medical community.
This is where I believe CIPA would come in very handy.
If research can figure out how to damage this otherwise healthy gene
responsible for allowing us to feel the sensation of pain,
perhaps it could be injected as a serum possibly
and relieve the chronic pain from dying patients permanently.
The patient would have a leisurely, peaceful exit completely pain free
and ethics wouldn't be violated within the medical community.
All terminal patients in chronic pain could all die humanely...
...but then I'm not a professional. This is just my theory.