Long Uncured Poems
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"Poet" is a word I revere, but I don't think I'm one.
My grasp of what a poem is, could be improved upon.
A poet understands the human condition and is wise.
He understands beauty. He sees it with his heart and eyes.
Sensitive and insightful, he employs just the right word.
I'm a man who at sixty-five, caught a virus still uncured,
whose primary symptom is to come up with words that rhyme,
a broken cart wheel rolling on rocks in discordant time.
A math major and IT guy on a poetry site?
I'm a little embarrassed, it just doesn't seem right.
Yet, inside me, something says, "I want to be a poet",
to see beauty, study the human condition, and know it.
So, I submit rhymes, I call poems, somewhat shyly,
hoping my masquerade's not caught, and I place highly.
In Bedzin and in Krakow they breathed in
What they denied in conscious thought or word.
The ashes of the Jews, the shades of skin
Penetrating lungs so deep within
The dead unburied mixed, in air secured
In Bedzin and in Krakow, mortal sin.
The nearby people turned to burial urns.
The human dust by breathing was allured
The ashes of the Jews, the shades of skin.
So Europe took their human ash within.
A graveyard we became unknown, impure.
In Bedzin and in Krakow, more of sin.
And who they thought destroyed lived on in them
Controlled their lungs, their hearts their minds uncured,
The ashes of the Jews, borne in their skin.
Like a mass communion without words
We ate and breathed the Jews, the gays, unheard
In Bedzin and in Krakow we walked in
The ashes of the lost, the glades of skin,
Seeing your pain crucially torments me…
You asked me to kill you with love and sincerity.
My hands could never be lethal coz I am your cure.
Left me no option but still quite so unsure.
You wear a ragged gown of despair,
Not too cozy to see your life so much impaired.
How long have you fought for this Black Death?
Days of agony just wasted all of your wealth.
Till end of the day I see your pain.
Am I too helpless to see you have nothing to gain?
Pills of remedy are ever too useless.
Magical potion is oddly so clueless.
Now I just have to end your long ache.
It hurts me bad but this is all you have to intake.
Rest and sleep my beloved oh friend.
Your uncured sick must all have to end.
If I could find a way to show you the words left unsaid,
From a time when it meant most, as we moved quickly ahead
Not knowing the dark curtain would fall upon us so suddenly
Burying all we did as cruelty took a life too, unexpectedly
The black crows couldn’t call loud enough that gray winter day
When grief merged with fog and blurred everything in a way
I will never forget words left at a grave too late, spoken to a memory
Knowing we lost our chance in togetherness to finally be free
No-one could know the battle we fought and the loss now endured
Fallen upon my shoulders, a painful disease to be left uncured
Here I am, years later in ways still alone, surviving as you’d want me to
Although so much has changed, the old will never be new
And as I hear the crows call, my words return again, forever for you
Re-emerging in the fog, still with only an image of memory to speak to
Heidi Sands
7/12/21
First Freeze
Aspen leaves quaking shivering
Beneath coats of freak September snow…
Gold sequins sparkle through a cloak of ice
New sunlight captures glitter
Captivates - no fool’s gold
Out of season – unexpected appearance –
Jack Frost’s second cousin
Sneaks up on the foothills
With frigid rime kisses
Powders the noses of mountaintops
That gasp in surprise
At winter’s scenic postcard
In hoarfrost and uncured icicles
Delivered
Too soon for the borealis solstice;
Chortling jester
Playing practical jokes
On Autumn
With early winter mischief;
Prankster unleashed
In antics of snowflakes
And escapades of flurries
Before harvest boogies and twirls
In orchard jubilees - pumpkin field festivals -
First freeze winks –
Leaves change from green to gold.
snowstorm sneaks away
skies sweep away snow debris ~
eighty degrees now
9-18-20
Four In One Nature Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
The Stress Of Dementia
Miracle Man
9/10/2024
Dementia see’s lives, go quickly downhill,
And tests the patience, of one giving care.
A condition uncured by some prescribed pill,
most responses are questions or blank stare.
I live each day consumed by this stress,
fed by a loved one who can’t understand.
Advanced years make it to late to reassess,
So we continue the situation found at hand.
Depression is a word I’ve oft heard used,
but nonetheless I feel favored just to be alive.
When one has dementia the other feels abused,
so i pray for stamina to fight and survive.