Long Hysterectomy Poems
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Mother Earth
is due for her hysterectomy.
Soon she will lap dance
in a crystal-clear sterility
far from her blood-soaked fields.
She is done with nurturing,
done with death and destruction.
She gave her all,
but that was then,
now the soil is blistering
for want of her winnowing,
her threshing.
Her attention
is upon herself alone.
There is a place
a lit-up stardust dive
where all fertility deities
eventually arrive -
there they
gyrate and twerk
for those
who,
quite by chance,
have dug their way out
of their own graves,
yet even they must pass away,
as she strips down
to her last scant garments
then yowls with glee
knowing
she is free.
After about fifty years as married wife
the last three fraught with strife
obvious telltale signs of terminal illness rife
hysterectomy irrevocably didst jackknife
at the least severely incapacitated
think pitted, riddled,
and rounced her tortured life.
Ovarian cancer affliction
on par with megadeath
bald pate (color of bleached skull),
and crossbones characterized mortal death
oxygen tank to sustain each measured breath.
Nonetheless her angry spirited accursed
ferocity, ejaculatory, denunciatory burst
expletive and epithet
peppered preponderant rant,
(no kidney you) laced
and dull livered worst
fulmination, exasperation,
(albeit feebly faint)
damnation well versed
lips mouthing implacable thirst
to defy grim reaper uber
lyft driver analogous hearst
jubilation immune to
interrogation and/or humiliation
diatribes interpreted glorification,
remained scythe lent bore
scathing rebukes hurled regarding
her sole son (courtesy
miraculous biological reproduction)
dogged with financial perdition
eased series of unfortunate events narration
blessed nonagenarian widower husband
generous father gave male progeny
eased (his/mine) absolution
availed immense monetary boost,
she (envision banshee)
voiced abhorrent objection
regarding liberal outpouring
triggered her vitriolic remenstration.
Similar with pointed gesticulation,
excoriation, cannibalization, abomination...
against reducing his albatross
yoking penurious defeat
her livid hostility displayed, decried,
damned how Matthew Scott,
(I shoal mussel metaphor
without clamming up, how
said offspring coasts) along easy street,
while she sorely protested (thankfully in vain)
even after succumbing to painful demise,
she vehemently, obstreperously and helplessly
loathes handsome handout
to yours truly forsakes Pete.
The movers came to clean out my house,
And said to one another
“Let’s remove ALL the furniture!
The baby carriage and accessories
have served their purpose.
That old stuff is nothing but clutter now.
Don’t let the mother see us
take everything out.
She might want to save her heirlooms:
uterus, cervix, tubes and ovaries.
They really must go,
and it’s better to move them all at once.
Let’s make it quick.
We’ve got other cleaning jobs today, too.”
My baby’s room is empty.
The movers sealed off the space and left.
Where did my baby furniture go?
Was it handled with utmost care?
Will it be reused or recycled?
As owner for decades,
why did I believe their “better out than in”
prevention strategy and problem-solving remedy?
Who decided that I could live
without furniture anyway?
Will that area of my house shrink
for lack of occupancy?
Will the vacuum bring ecstasy, grief or pain?
Will the plumbing to my bathroom expand?
Hist er rec to me!
Does anyone understand why the head of my house
grapples with questions at hand?
My mom has surgery this afternoon, a hysterectomy, to remove cancer. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you!
He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.” Mark 5:34
STORMING THE ROCK
such lonely life in the dumplings,
clingstone as a cancerous mass —
robotic fingers
like a precise hurricane
must excise, smooth out, set straight
12/15/2020
From wikipedia: Clingstone is a house built in 1905, perched atop a small, rocky island in an island group called "The Dumplings" in Narragansett Bay, near Jamestown, Rhode Island. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clingstone
About five years ago, I had a surgery and wrote this while in the hospital. I actually
quite enjoyed myself and the surgery was not painful for me at all! Just came across
this in my files and thought I'd throw it on here, for anyone worried about surgery
before Christmas time. It can actually be quite nice!
(Sing to Jingle Bells)
Refrain: Oh, IV drip! I sit and sip a juice or diet Sprite.
With each meal, I’m sure to feel more and more all right.
Oh, Bless my soul, remote control right nearby my head!
I watch TV, though groggily, right here from my bed.
1. A day most winter-y, I came for surgery.
But I felt nice and warm as drugs went in my arm.
It’s been so comforting to not recall a thing.
Of pain I hardly can complain while I’m recovering!
Oh. . . (refrain)
2. I’ve been here just a day and sure enjoy my stay.
I just turn on a light and take some time to write.
I’ve not yet had to pee. It’s being done for me!
Too bad this visit’s not all free, it’s like a luxury. . .
Oh. . . (refrain)
3. If I keep doing well, I’ll have a great Noel.
I’ll leave new and improved, this catheter removed.
My hysterectomy is what’s the best for me.
So minus “womb” I’ll leave this room and Christmas merrily!
Refrain: Oh, IV drip! I sit and sip a juice or diet Sprite.
With each meal I’m sure to feel more and more all right.
Oh, bless my soul. Remote control right nearby my head!
I watch TV, though groggily, right here from my bed.