Long Waiting room Poems
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Is it real or are you faking
it? ;
Can you testify truly
without a hit?
That it is as strong as it
seems? ;
Even in the absence of
every being;
You are poised to create a
scene;
That goes against all sins;
I could call you the mustard
seed;
But, is it worth it? ;
It is one thing to be known
for something;
And another to be firm in
acting;
The story begins with the
action;
The test;
The great test that you
can’t detest;
Your arms are tied;
Sitted in that waiting room;
And like a criminal that is
tried;
You shiver like its all going
to end in doom;
No! She must live…;
That’s what goes through
your mind;
And even a quick magic
right
now, you won’t dare to
mind;
I thought you had it in you;
I thought it was for real;
Even after all the binding;
And through all the casting;
Your mind is still in a doubt
situation;
And you run helter skelter
in search of a faster
solution;
From Church to Church;
From Temple to Temple;
And alas! From shrine to
shrine;
How then can the light
shine?
As it has finally been lost
for a
cheap fine;
The word says it’s the
evidence of
things not seen;
The assurance of things
hoped for;
A supernatural gift given to
you;
And yet your distance from
it grew;
Like both sides of a forever
widening canyon;
You once testified;
That he was crucified;
Not for nothing sake;
But for our whole spiritual
make;
A good reason for our
belief in him;
And our total submission;
Have you forgotten or are
you blinded? ;
Blinded by impatience and
greed;
And now;
The big question;
Where lays your faith?
Is he not the same as he
was in the past?
The healer, the provider, the
protector;
The I am that I am;
Where lays your faith?
An encouraging answer
would
spark up a good fate;
After all the roaming for
quick solution;
You still come back to your
place
of true solution;
Inevitable!
That’s the word;
He raised Lazarus from the
dead;
He said a word and the evil
spirits
fled;
Does that ring a bell?
I guess it does now;
And it’s clear that you once
lost
the faith;
And luckily it’s not too late;
Use the kneeler;
Make that prayer;
Have the belief;
Feel the relief;
And Alleluia
The problem is all gone;
The story of faith;
Preaching to your state;
Good or bad;
Hope it is real;
Hope it’s not fake;
Your faith;
I am in the Doctors Waiting Room
Waiting for my name to appear on the screen
I’ve been here for twenty minutes
Oh how much longer before I am seen
It’s embarrassing enough for me
Without the whole waiting room learning
That every time I use the loo
My pee has started burning
I sense the receptionist is highly amused
Though she tries to hide the fact
Then proclaims at the top of her voice
“Sounds like an infection in your urinary tract”
I can see all eyes upon me
As I go to take a seat
So I make my way towards it
While looking down at my feet
The TV on the wall blares out
An advert about a man called Giles
Informing you what measures to take
If you’re diagnosed with piles
There is an air of misery
And impending doom
Everyone thinking of all the flu viruses
Floating around the room
The lady sitting next to me
Stands up and shouts “outrageous!
If I have to wait much longer
I’ll catch something contagious”
A small boy is building with plastic bricks
Sat cross-legged on his own
While mum totally ignores him
Too busy on her mobile phone
I point out to her
A large poster on the wall
‘No mobile phones ever'!
She says “I’m talking to my boyfriend Paul”
There’s a sudden buzz of excitement
As a name appears on the screen
It’s of someone who'd got tired of waiting
They went home at two fifteen
There is the distinct harmonic sound
Of sniffing, coughing and wheezing
With an equal measure
Of moaning, groaning and sneezing
A sudden smell of disinfectant
Makes me catch my breath
My mother always said the waiting room
Had a distinct smell of death
My nose begins to run
And I really must take issue
With the man who stole my seat
When I got up to grab a tissue
My bladder's feeling full
I should have gone before i came
I daren't go to the loo
Because knowing my luck, they'll call my name
I really need to go
And decide to take the plunge
So I start upon my trip
Towards the toilet door I lunge
Safe inside the toilet
I am suddenly appalled
When I hear the tannoy whistle
And my name is being called
I pull myself together
And venture from the loo
It appears I’ve missed my turn
Someone took my place, I don’t know who
I approach the receptionist
And say “I really had to pee”
She says “Come back tomorrow,
Your appointment is ten past three”.
Beneath the burdens of countless nights,
In the cursed silence of the soul's waiting room,
I sat, the last one, loneliness carved by the chisel of forgetfulness into the stone of my heart,
Blocking him - he who left without looking back,
Left with longing, a heavy bracelet on a wrist of air.
In vain, I sipped from digital expectations,
Eyes thirsty for a phantom letter in the box of echoes,
The pain of seeing his connection without words for me,
The feeling of being lost with soles burning on carpets of illusions,
His indifference - a shroud that wraps me in night.
I say stop to this waltz drowned in tears - from now on,
The ties buried under the heap of forgetfulness,
What strange hurt to be silent when your whole universe spoke through him,
It wasn't so hard when he pushed me into the chasm of estrangement.
Once the image of him as a hero was sown in my soul, now the shadow of a stranger,
I wonder how small I can be in the mirror of disappointment,
Do I deserve this harsh forgetfulness after I gave my all?
Did success grow like a weed between us, or was it all just a lost game?
He pushed me away - far into the cold, bitter ocean,
Feeling only the foam of his indifference, a wave suffocating my love.
And now his once-adored shadow haunts,
The forgotten stranger walks free, and my heart is filled with cold.
They thought I watched for his newfound fame from beneath heavy lids,
But what I hunted was a love, one before any tally.
His once vibrant call now just an echo,
In my chest, the pyre's flame burns beneath the ash of his 'all is well.'
What a silent battle between what I was and what is expected of me,
A heart-ping-pong between guilts and a promise of the new.
This prosperity that seems to grind down the natural in people,
I turned to ask myself: Was I just a reflection in the mirror of his pride?
Reflecting on love, what it means, I find myself setting boundaries,
Limits enforced by the heart, known only to me,
I deserve respect, attention, and true care,
In love and life, there I will find my sanctuary for my soul.
Worthy of love, happiness, and light,
I will rise from this abyss, embracing the power that is mine.
Amid the echoes of pain, I will carve my path,
Turning wounds into newfound strength day by day, month by month, and year by year.
"Intermission: Ad Infinitum Lux Vitae"
Intermission
I wait
You call
I have loved
I wait
Lux Vitae
I have loved
Through the Storm
Lux Vitae
I have loved, to love You more
Through the Storm
You call, Open Door
I have loved, to love You more
Ad Infinitum
You call, Open Door
I walk with You through the Storm
Ad Infinitum
My Love is always Yours
You walk with me through the Storm
The Waiting Room calls
Intermission
(Lovejoy-Burton/April 2018)
for "my" Georgia,
who is entirely her own person
The inspiration for my poem -
This "Pantoum" is about Birth, Life, Death. There are all sorts of "Waiting Rooms", in this Life and the next. Of course, this is my belief. The reader may interpret Birth, Life and Death distinctly separate from my belief.
Georgia, the 'True' inspiration for your name, below. x
"I decided to start anew, to strip away what I had been taught.”
- Georgia O'Keeffe
"I had to create an equivalent for what I felt about what I was looking at - not copy it. ”
- Georgia O'Keeffe
"I said to myself, I have things in my head that are not like what anyone has taught me - shapes and ideas so near to me - so natural to my way of being and thinking that it hasn't occurred to me to put them down. ”
- Georgia O'Keeffe"
"Marks on paper are free - free speech - press - pictures all go together I suppose. ”
- Georgia O'Keeffe
"To create one's world in any of the arts takes courage. ”
- Georgia O'Keeffe
"Anyone who doesn't feel the crosses simply doesn't get that country.”
- Georgia O'Keeffe
Artwork, Georgia Totto O'Keeffe (November 15, 1887 – March 6, 1986)
“Ram’s Head with Hollyhock”, 1935
https://www.georgiaokeeffe.net/ram-head-with-hollyhock.jsp
Trent Reznor/Atticus Ross
"Technically Missing"
https://youtu.be/EBaa0k1y57w
"Politics is a dirty business. If you are going to 'write' policy, fabrication is not advisable, make sure you have ALL the true facts in front of you and that TRUTH is delivered by whatever means necessary". Quote, Leanne Lovejoy-Burton to daughter, Georgia - April 2018.
>Waiting rooms, an urge to write?
Why is it in a hospital waiting room?
I feel an urge to write.
I mean it’s a place to feel unwell.
Surely I should not want to write.
You see, when I am writing.
I always feel just right.
So perhaps it best to keep writing.
And feel so blinking right.
I always arrive early.
For my appointments that is true.
There are of course odd moments.
I forget appointments I do.
Not in as forgetting completely.
Oh no, that is not true.
Just write the appointments in my diary.
On the wrong day space I do.
I know I must have a problem.
That short-term memory, remembering thing.
If I could remember what it’s called?
I would not have the blinking thing.
But I write down what I’m told.
In printing, oh so very bold.
I think it must be, because I’m old.
So guess I am, as that’s what I’m told.
I wonder how long it will go on.
Making mistakes like that.
I made one last year as well.
Like me rhyming, my memories gone.
Will soon be time to call me in.
As hydrotherapy, I did begin.
Last week. Oh I did tell you.
In another poem, yes, that’s true.
So best stop now, before you know.
I am called, and it’s time to go.
Into that hydrotherapy pool.
Where the physio staff, make me look a fool.
I can’t take me paper and pen.
As like me, they will get wet.
Then those words, that I did write.
Will float away like me, that’s right.
To be fair, I must confess.
I keep one foot on the bottom, no less.
As if I took both off the ground.
Without that nurse I’d surely drown.
Now this is all that I wrote there.
As my name was called, so I staggered there
And when those physios, had their way with me.
I staggered back, the same you see.
But I thanked those ladies two.
For looking after me, as they did do.
I’m glad they kept Father Neptune away.
Was no room for him anyway.
And with the exercises they gave me.
Gentle ones, they were, you see.
I’m sure they will soon cure me.
Then no more of me, will they'll see.
As I’ll be cured!
And they all will be,
Oh so extremely happy.
And also will be, blinking me.
It seems funny how writing can take the edge off pain. As soon as I stop it comes back again. Funny feeling, feeling pain. (The mad author)<
Form:
I won’t hold my breath for the day you stop butchering us. We already have enough issues trying to breathe with you around. They said one should never bring a knife to a gunfight, can you ask them what they said about bringing tear gas to a protest?
Since you’ve made your story, his story, let us tell you our story. We’re not as good as you when it comes to telling myths, no high jumping cows, no dubious tales of self defence, and especially no white Jesus... No one believed that one
Our mother country was forcefully penetrated by the lust and greed you had for her creations. Meanwhile our father, time, was forced to watch, incapable of defending her, castrated of his pride. You left her lands infertile, you left his seeds incapable.
We went to the doctors for the ills you caused us. You murdered Dr King in ‘68, so we’ve been stuck in the waiting room ever since. Herbs and crystals our people once used to heal. The herbs you criminalised. The new crystals you put in our communities didn’t help, we also found out Mr Escobar sold them cheaper.
In consolation, we got to see a black man in the White House, if only you treated him differently to every other black man in a White House, just another house *****. But if the blue man lives in the farmhouse, and the red man isn’t even on the right continent, then why is the orange man in the White House? You never did know how to treat the coloureds right. Just ask Columbus and his ‘Indians’.
My friends had an intervention for me, tried to convince me I was in an abusive relationship. They don’t understand, it was my fault that you lynched me. I’m still pretty to you, that’s why you copy my hair, copy my clothes, copy my lips, even the complexion. Somedays it’s blackface, others it’s a Kardashian.
Maybe they are right, maybe it’s time we break this off. I promise. It’s not me, it’s you. This relationship has no more left to offer. We have no more artists, inventors or scientists we want to feed to your slaughter, and we’re sure you can have more fun without us. No one knows how to party like the conservative middle class, am I right?
You: The entitled, the privileged, the ignorant, the cruel, sadistic, enemy of peace.
A madman pushed me off the track, lucky not much harm
I sat in the Hospital waiting room with just a broken arm.
They handed me a form to fill, 20 genders, 10 types of race -
I tore the sheet with my good arm and walked out of that place.
I walked past a park, a man dropped a syringe, gave me a stare
I walked past a crazy woman preaching to the air.
I walked past teens speaking to their phones but not each other.
Saw expressions I couldn’t read - an enemy or a brother?
I remembered the in-crowd whose moral sight was blind
I wanted to leave their dubious fads behind
I walked past the demonstrators, their justice leads to blood:
We may need a Noah's ark from the oncoming flood.
I walked along the Palisades, the river on my right.
I perked up because the old roads, the boat basins came in sight.
I jogged on the Long Path, crossing Bergen County, then Rockland too.
Turned inland and ended up in a children's petting zoo.
There were the black hats - Jews of a Hasidic sect.
I spoke with one woman; she looked at me with undeserved respect.
It was a change from the jaded people I often met
Wondered what the secret was, is a religious way correct?
Those Jews might not surf the internet, they might not watch TV.
And when they move en masse into a town they spark animosity.
But what struck me there was something clean and true.
As she pointed out the exotics in that petting zoo.
Since then I've been to Lancaster, where the Amish live an older way
That lifestyle has its drawbacks too, there are always shades of gray.
I've visited Salt Lake, where Mormons spurn drugs for recreation
A visitor described them as the handsomest in the nation.
I like my way of life, but other ways make me think
Do we really need social media, or drugs, an evening drink?
Would we be better people, if some things we didn't know?
Should we stand against the current, or go with culture's flow?
Do we really need the likes, the scroll that never ends?
Can we stop and read a while, or try to make real friends?
Can we set anchor in a place where lies don’t get through?
Can we cure our sick republic, retain what’s proven true?
He is with you in your emotional lows
He is with you in the ebbs and flows
He is with you in each ecstatic spike
He is with each nation and person alike
He is with you in the operating room
He is with you during the morning commute
He is with you in the sleepless nights
He is with you climbing those heights
He is with you in the doctor’s waiting room
He is with us when we wait on Him
He leads us to Mt. Zion (away from Mt. Bashan)
Receive the invitation, and repent while you still can
He is with you in the funeral home
He promised that we don’t mourn as those with no hope
He is with you in the grocery store
(He’s both knocking and is The Door)
He is with you on the bus and the train
(Blessing all with His rain)
He is with you when you go out and return again
He turns white, what was a crimson stain
He is with you in sadness and grief
He is with you during incarceration and release
He is for you, He is on your side
(They pierced His heart through His side)
He is with you when you’re afraid or alone
(He is found in the pages of The Holy Tome)
He’s the church’s Head
He’s blessed the marriage bed
(And those of that certain slew
He blesses singleness too)
He is with you during every breath
Even when you contemplate an imminent death
He has answers when it’s why, why why?
He came to serve and to lay down His life
He also had that question while on the cross
He’s the Refiner, He brings out our dross
The Father has given, and none will be lost
(as those who count loss)
He accepts all who call on His name
(From Special Revelation or Natural Revelation the same)
He the path to eternity
He saves for certainty
He rules the earth below from His perch on High
He sees all that can be seen with His bird’s eye
He looks down on the inhabitants thereof
His eyes are too pure, His law is His love
He considers all sighs and plea’s
He accepts the prayers from those on their knees
(or a heart that is bowed metaphorically)
He knows our frustrations, He knows anxiety
He knows you and me, He is Jesus C.
As I was sitting in the waiting room about to get the results from a biopsy I recently had
I was thinking how quickly life can change…it can go from good to bad.
I was feeling a little sorry for myself…a self-imposed gloom and doom
until I realized my urologist and an orthopedist shared the same waiting room.
I immediately stopped thinking about myself…social distanced…sitting there
when a young woman walked in on prosthetic legs followed by an old woman in a wheel chair.
Next through the door was an old man who gave my senses a shock.
His legs were swollen and purple and he could barely walk.
From these people obviously far worse off than me I quickly was exhumed
as my name was called and I was taken into my doctor’s waiting room.
Where sometimes I sat, sometimes I stood…other times I’d pace the floor
wondering what news was waiting for me on the other side of that door.
I tried not to think about it…tried thinking about my wife and my family instead
but waiting for that door to open…a host of tragic thoughts entered my head.
I read my book, looked at the doctors credentials…thinking his parents must be proud
when I noticed the faucet leaking…and wondered why it had to drip so loud.
As I was studying the map of the urinary system thinking I could use some Vodka or Vermouth
the waiting room door opened…it was my moment of truth.
I took a deep breath as I watched my doctor’s face…looking for a sign
and to be honest I don’t remember anything…after he said the word benign.
As I opened the door back into the waiting room I noticed a young man sitting there
It was obvious he had Cerebral Palsy and was confined to his wheel chair.
And I noticed all the people in that waiting room…the one my doctor shared
had someone who helped them through the door…someone in their life who cared.
And I thought about my wife and family who when they hear the news
will be sharing in my joy…but would have also shared my blues….
And how any happiness we feel is more joyous and any pain is much less sore
when we have people who love us…waiting…on the other side of the door.
Surgery waiting room clocks move very slowly.
Pages in the books people brought with them are read over and over again without the reader ever knowing what it is they read. Magazines are picked up and put down again without being opened. Windows are looked out of without the view outside ever being seen.
And, the clock hardly moves.
If fish could be described as pacing back and forth, that is what the angelfish in the oversized aquarium appear to be doing. People sit in one chair, get up, walk around and sit in another chair, as if that one will bring them better results. Bathrooms are entered and exited and the faces reflected in the mirrors within look more worried than the person looking at the reflection had hoped to see.
And, the clock has barely moved.
Hands that are seldom held are being held by friends and family. Hugs that are seldom shared are being freely distributed. Vending machines are being stared at for minutes at a time, but items are seldom purchased.
And, the clock remains the same.
Each new person that enters the room attracts every eyeball wondering if that person’s loved one is in better or worse shape than the one they are waiting on. Then, the eyes return to the page that has been read fifty times; the magazine that remains unopened; or the window that looks out to an unseen scene. Cell phones ring. Strangers learn the story of other strangers through one sided phone conversations.
And, the clock appears to have stalled.
As surgeons enter the room, everyone listens for their name to be called. You watch other families converse with the doctor, gather their belongings and relocate to other rooms with slow moving clocks.
Once you hear your name, your anxiety heightens and you learn the status of your loved one. You gather your belongings to sit vigil by your patient’s side to be there when they awake. Upon leaving the room, you glance one last time at the waiting room clock and notice it has skipped ahead seven hours.
You leave the few remaining anxious strangers behind and hope to never have to see that surgery waiting room clock ever again.