Long Neuropathy Poems
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I now type with only a finger
For neuropathy makes me lame
Muscle spasms in hands linger
My hands seem to ignore my brain
It’s as if I never was a typist
Who flew 65 words a minute
Now I’m limited my gripe is
Takes me longer to finish
You’d think I’d complain I’m not vain
My other deficiencies are worse
But who wants an artist who can’t paint
Or a poet too hurt to word verse
I know my lupus has no cure
My asthma is no fun to me
But give me fingers fast and pure
To delight in the writing with ease
When I try to play piano
Fudge fingers suck the air
Notes yell like silver Soprano
A melody ruined by despair
I have mixed feeling about it
We all have a cross to bare right
But with fingers like mine I doubt it
Could complain and moan all night
Dear poetess had hip surgery
And has persevered despite all
So I say what the nerve of me
To complain of finger pain small talk
Suffering with a traumatic
brain injury nerve damage
traumatic headaches neuropathy
spalastity degenerative brain injury
it's a blessing to have medical care
out reach support groups balancing
pain my entire body filled with
crippling nerve pain sensitive to
light touch finding support groups
I find swimming helps in between
nerve blocks injections and botox
injections to give me some relief
keeping me comfortable during
severe traumatic pain it's a blessing
to have the neuroboxing team
on board amazing help for retired
boxers anyone Suffering with
head trauma like Mohammed
Ali Alex Ramos many other boxers
athletes my uncle Bob Satterfield
would be so pleased if he was alive this
legacy inspired me to continue
to fight through unsettling crippling
pain for my traumatic brain injury
traumatic headaches awareness
saves lives i know I would literally die
without my medication and treatment
God bless the USA
Leaving my car, I hasten my pace as
silent pain, screaming inside me
intensifies with the increasing movements made
by what I only can describe as an invisible snake
slithering beneath my flesh.
It’s felt by only me, and seen by no one -
the strange phenomenon
of a nervous system gone awry from side effects
of the “miracle” of modern medicine.
I know my conditions now by the title of Neuropathy,
but that definition does not come close to
describing what I experience unceasingly.
Mere “tingling or numbness”
would be preferable
to the feeling of a slithering serpent
squeezing or pressing down along my back.
Striding into the grocery store,
I find what I need as quickly as I can.
At any time, my metaphorical serpent
might decide to wildly strike,
perhaps while in the checkout line as I wait
with my silent screaming -
Please, line, move! Just let me finish here!
Afterward, with grocery bags in hand,
I scramble to my car.
Once inside, I press my back against my seat.
Ahhhh, relief!
The snake loses its momentum when I am reclined
or pressing myself against a surface,
and so I am not physically as active as I used to be.
People with chronic unseen disabilities
are not just a few.
When you chance to see someone fidgeting
in a line, looking as if
they’d like to “jump out of their skin,”
maybe you are seeing someone like me
with silent pain, screaming
from within.
Nov. 19, 2022
For Edward Ibeh's Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Poetry Contest
#3 chosen: Silent Pain, Screaming
Tasty home-cooked meals
A heater that works every time
Shoes that ease my neuropathy
My collection of Mercury dimes
Glasses that calibrate my vision
Grown sons who consider my advice
A computer that responds to my touch
A car I don't have to drive so much
Faucets that don't run out of water
A closet of clothes that fit just right
Tulips and daffodils bloom in my garden
Graceful birds perform pirouettes in flight
A quiet residential street in front of me
More children playing than cars passing by
Leaves bursting out on tree after tree
The sun yawning, traverses a pastel sky
Friends sound anxious to get 'out there'
They've an itch to wander and roam
As for me, I marvel at my vast fortune
The comforts and blessings of home
I walked with Colby,
he never walked with me
His spirit to guide us,
his love in the lead
We circled the globe
a time and a half
His tail was my compass
to guide us steadfast
In all kinds of weather
we stuck to the trail
Under sunshine and rain
our forays prevailed
In May of last year
he collapsed on our walk
And with valor he tried
but his body would balk
Its been downhill since then
with him not knowing why
The knowing inside me
his neuropathy slide
I knew it was coming
as he struggled to stay
And he fought till the end
on this very sad day
As I looked in his eyes
for the last final time
Willing to give up my life
for his health to revive
The fates were against us
his clock had run out
The pain in his parting
—the joy I’m without
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November 9th, 2018)
‘Today, I lost The Best Friend I Ever Had’
When a book is presented
As being conflicted in ways
TRUTH can arise only when
Time has fulfilled her days
Choice is paramount in LOVE
Possibilities endless in scope
Circumstantial evidence presented
In so many ways that leave, without hope
...of tomorrow
Within that book, is a very fine line
Whereby one must follow the sliver
One can discover, fear lies at the threshold
Of the door who has promised to deliver
The ground doesn't change in earthquakes
The sky doesn't fall in seasons of sorrow
Neuropathy tries to seize movement
But blood can always be found within the marrow
...bringing life
No covenant of convenient conditions
Was made with humanity's fall
A sacrifice of pure LOVE was given
ONCE. and............for ALL
Written by Trudy Schrader on 10/29/2022
A diesel generator
drowns out the rusted Marshall stack
Six years we owned
the Billboard charts;
the DJ who crowned us
every summer
for five straight years—
this week, a county fair;
tonight, the Music Pier.
The drummer tapes two split fingers
closes his hand once
hard—
then rests the sticks
by Mick’s ashes
in a Folgers Black Silk can behind the kit
Tommy’s gold sequins
snag on his dialysis catheter
as he sits
Johnnie the P-bassist drags a stool onstage
to ease his neuropathy
We are crushed elderberries
hawking CDs from a card table,
bleeding a dark, tart stain
onto ninety aluminum chairs
No teenagers weep;
a man wipes funnel-cake grease
from his chin
As I tune the cherry-red '57 Stratocaster
down a minor third,
hoarse from pushing air
through a throat scraped thick
with scar tissue
We were a dense, golden field
beneath the studio lights
on Midnight Special
Now plucked dandelion crowns
scatter over Ferris wheel blacktop,
leaving white ghost-tufts
snagged in the Music Pier’s
boardwalk planks
Where just three bald stems
plug into the seaside damp—
and the seeds drift past the shoreline,
washed up,
vanishing into the deep
we used to call home