Long Nursing home Poems
Long Nursing home Poems. Below are the most popular long Nursing home by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nursing home poems by poem length and keyword.
We have some breaking news, straight from the U.S.A.,
her citizens had a meeting and here’s what they had to say.
We’ll send old Joe to the nursing home and turn off Trump’s remote,
and as for the 2024 election, there’ll be no need for anyone to vote.
These two old farts can just stay home. That's our next great deal,
and for the next four years, we’ll just stay single and try to heal.
We will shut down CNN and pull the plug out on Fox News.
We'll all take time to sit and chill and share some ice-cold brews.
We will party from North to South and unite the East and West.
It’s time to relax and take a breath then show the world our best.
All politicians will be fired, and we’ll elect a fresh new batch,
who won't play with a nuclear football while playing catch.
Getting rid of Marjorie Taylor Greene will be our biggest coup.
Since she wants to divide the states by colors, red and blue.
She's such a dumb butt imbecile, whose eyes are too close nit,
there's lot of worse names to call her than moron and nitwit.
This life is what we make it. There’s just one way to deal with scum.
Let’s flush old Putin down the toilet as we smile and wipe our bum.
If his crap plugs up our toilet, a huge plunger is what we need,
we can use the one we did on Trump. It will do the job, indeed!
“God gave you life and bestowed upon you His attributes; eventually you will return to Him.” Quote by Rumi
We could not get an ambulance, so I took him to the hospital
Having always come back to the nursing home all turning out well
Then the shock of the doctor quietly saying he did not make it
Assuring words to the doctor that he did not want anyone trying to prolong life
Oh! How I remember thoughts of maybe if, or maybe if that
I bargained with God, help me through this ordeal, help me to tell my mother
Then grief ripped apart my mangled heart
Some solutions came consoling me, then grief would overtake me again
Slowly, steadily I gained a new hope in how to deal with life without him
Wonderful memories returned, only occasionally did bad memories haunt life
You're never gonna see me in the corner
As if I were afraid of my own shadow.
The Shadow of Death is in the corner,
Although the Grim Reaper is not looking so grim.
He is not dressed in a black robe,
Nor is there a scythe to be seen.
He is a rather dapper looking gent:
Suit, tie, shined-up shoes, gold ring and Gatsby hat,
Leaning nonchalantly on a dark wood cane that is topped
With a figural not unlike a silver cross.
I am not afraid,
I have set God
as a seal upon
my heart.
His love
is stronger than death.
Note: When my younger brother was four years old he would go to work with our mother. She was a registered nurse and worked in a nursing home. My brother would visit with the old folks while Mom worked.
One day while at work with Mom he met the Angel of Death as described above and was not afraid. The Angel talked with him and told him he was there for one of the residents, and a few days later that person passed away.
Poem written for "Let's Mix It Up" poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France.
10/08/2021
You look at me so uninviting;
I may have some missing teeth, stumble when I walk, bout' to FALL!!!
Stutter when I talk, but yet I'll still call;
Might smell like ole mothballs or mint or maybe even Old Spice;
You see me and you stare, you're looking at the patches of my skin YES! it's different (maybe diseased ) different;
different colors and wrinkled on my face, the gray in my hair;
Yes you still stand there and stare. . .
I may talk bout RCA, Philco record players you say "what's that;
I might talk bout Annie Oakley, BoZo the Clown, Captain Midnight, you say Whose that;
Well child let me tell you all...
Don't throw me away;
Cause I'm just like you;
Don't put me out cause I'm too slow;
You think I'm in the way and I can no longer grow;
Don't throw me away, place me in a rest/nursing home;
Don't put me away because you think I'm in the way;
I', senior don't talk bout me in front of me I don't understand a word you say;
I'm alive, I have more brain cells and I got all my memory, well;
That's more than I can, say for you huh-hey!
Imagine if I'd treated you such;
But I wouldn't cause I've got God's love in me so much. . .
Love you see
::::::::::::::::::::::::what?::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
So I just suck it up turn the other cheek;
I may tumble but I won't fall;
I may forget something's but not all;
And yes I still eat meat;
Cause I got all my teeth;
Remember your just trying to get where I am at now;
I'm a senior don't throw me away;
I'm telling you I'm history and I'm a part of God's glory wanna hear, come here;
Come here and sit down, I sit in a chair can hardly rise or go anywhere;
You see me and you stare I drive slow you begin to cuss and swear;
I won't do you ill;
I won't act like you will;
I'll take you today......
But I won't, I will NOT THROW YOU AWAY
Dedicated to all Gods people's 60 years of age to 100 years
Thank you for your wisdom, thank you for your life. . .
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. July 6 2015©
For the book Poetry to Bridge Generations University Of Nebraska at Omaha 2015©
This poem also found in 2020 POETRY SOUP BOOK:." PS: IT'S POETRY A BRILLIANT POETRY ANTHOLOGY"
My grandma and a rose are the same, each is
God's masterpiece but with a different name."
_by Constance
__________________
My grandma took this broken child,
she held me to her heart;
and through my weeping tears I smiled,
when she called me sweetheart.
Grandma was a storyteller,
I would sit on her lap;
often, she was a taleteller,
and after I would clap.
And she encouraged me to write,
she gave me a journal;
I wrote my sadness and my fright,
things I kept internal.
I recall my sweet attic room,
on my grandparents farm;
and with love I began to bloom,
I recall her sweet charm.
With her love I was given wings,
as I grew we were close;
with my grandma I shared all things,
till age problems arose.
In a nursing home she waited,
I would go to see her;
she told me her life was fated,
soon her words were a blur.
I was there the day she left me,
and I held her to my heart;
I am now a writer would be,
because of that sweetheart.
______________________
August 29, 2021
Poetry/Quatrain/I Held Her To My Heart
Copyright Protected, ID 08-1385-198-29
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Written for the Premier contest, The One Who Touched My Heart
sponsor, Regina McIntosh, Judged 09/14/2021
Third Place
Submitted to the Standard contest, A Strand (1063)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 02/01/2022
First Place
In this season of festive cheer,
as hours fade into the new year,
spare a thought for those who live in fear,
who have no one to wipe away their tear.
Think of the children in this season of joy,
girls and boys without a single toy.
Their joy is just a day of peace,
when the bombs finally cease.
When you sit there comfortable and warm,
Think of the homeless struggling in the storm.
Why is it so difficult to understand,
for them this is no winter wonderland.
Some are alone in a nursing home,
Waiting for a loved one to phone
Or watching their door
Hoping it will open once more.
Touch the hearts of those lonesome tonight,
simple gestures will fill them with delight.
Remind an orphan to keep faith in life,
give them hope when struggles are rife.
With compassion, bombs will remain silent,
tongues must speak against those who are violent.
Only love can dilute streams of hate,
reach out to those in pain, to change their fate.
Silent One collaboration with Carole Duet
23 December 2017
The letter was tattered, a bit of the corner torn off
It looked like it had been tumbled in a washing machine.
The address was faded,
but the postal worker was determined to deliver it
No telling how long it had been behind the cabinet where it was found.
Do we open it? Read it? See if it is important?
No. That would be a federal offense.
When was it postmarked? May 1931, during the depression.
They put it into a bigger envelope with a more distinctly seen address.
The letter made it to the great-great-granddaughter of the addressee.
She took it to the nursing home and read it to granny.
Ben had wanted to marry her.
He had asked her in the letter.
She smiled at her great-great-granddaughter,
loving it that she had Ben’s eyes.
I held on all that time, believing your lie,
Thinking you were using me deep down inside,
When I questioned things you reassured me and made me believe,
That this whole time you were in love with me,
Just one question after I sacrificed my whole life,
And the response was I don't know if I want to be with you for the rest of my life,
After all the love and work and attention I gave,
Telling you and showing you my love every day,
My heart plummeted to the floor in disbelief,
And even after that response you're still telling me you love me,
While I sit by his side watching the disease taking him away,
Deteorating his brain while I sit there and pray,
Loving him more than myself I will not leave,
He asks me to stay but I'm not who he wants just what he needs,
And so I ask myself why I still love and care,
He fooled me yet I'm still there,
At the nursing home every single day,
Holding his hand while numbing my own pain,
I don't believe a man has ever truly been in love with me,
So I accept it wasn't meant for me,
I feel the pain sometimes but I push it away,
Because God has blessed my heart in many other ways,
And so how can you miss what you never had,
And I'm thankful for everything I already have,
All my family, children, and friends,
And the most important my God to the end,
Oh, you did not know Mrs. Klondike said.
Haughty, uppity, not nice in the least.
The festival has been moved and renamed.
The Aprillstica has been re-named?
No way!
I was horrified, shocked.
As my Aunt Bee was one of the original Villageonians,
I felt she should be bothered immediately.
“I know,” she sang gaily, in an unknown way into the phone.
“It was my idea.”
Her idea!
Now I was truly confused.
Had she gotten her pills mixed up again?
My Aunt Bee has not sounded this happy since 1971
When she married the newest “love” of her life who
Was her eighth husband, and a shyster like the others.
I quickly drove to Springton Nursing Home to see what was up.
“This is Harold,” she said in a voice I barely remembered.
A sing-songy, happy, uplifting voice.
Harry had initially had the idea to change Aprillstica Festival
To Marchatillion Festival.
Well, then, okay by me.
She is ninety-six after all, and running out
of charm.
I am a wedding planner, and
frankly, although I too am a Villageonian,
business has been slow….
Wispy clouds pass like dreams
over cornfields near the shoulder
of a highway where I stand.
I have many homes, but here
in Sigourney I’m staying for the week
to control traffic in the countryside.
The farms that lie along the road
each have a story to tell,
and each day I talk to the clerk
at the hotel and show her a poem.
The clerk says she’s getting
another job at a nursing home,
and we’re drawn together
when we say we’ve both known
people who had dementia and died.
I tell her on a clear day
I can look to the south
and see the place
where the spread of fields
touches the sky.
This day, the skies grow heavy
when draped by dark clouds
and a linesman says
a storm is on the way
and I think of how fast
life can change in a matter
of hours,
but we continue to work
under a patter of rain
and later hear a tornado
formed south of us
and tore through
the north part of Missouri,
we’re saved.
After work I savor
conversations with the clerk
and the waitress in a diner
who says she’s married
and living on a farm,
the friendships I needed
while working on the road.