Medic Poems - Poems about Medic

Face of an Angel

Face of an Angel

I hear the distant rumblings
of artillery shells
I hear the singing sound
of stray bullets
I lift my head to look 
around and see the toll

Bodies scattered like
leaves on a fall day.
Some with limbs torn from
them like a barren tree.
Some with their entrails exposed
like a lion’s prey.

I feel no pain, just a
sense of floating
Of being

only God sees a medic cry

Verse #1:
           C   
In my arms, Robert died that day
      G                           C
An

Those Who Wore Their Twisted Cars

I was a paramedic for many years until a work injury put a stop to things and so this is a poem reflecting on my career



my blood was pouring into him
while his blood stuck
my feet to the floor

a floor vibrating over wheels
screeching corners with road signs
flickering lights, shouting back at us

how we disturbed sleep
this night

Single Cell Medic

Medic medic
Amoeba down
Hurry hurry
Before it drowns

Step step
From there to here
Medic medic
Has no fear

Dividing dividing
The nucleus splits
Membranes membranes
All have slits

Fix it fix it
Cytoplasm’s spilling
Rushes and gushes
The scene is chilling

Stitch stitch
The vacuole
Medic medic
Has a micro-tool

Amoeba amoeba
Will survive
For now for now
On a micro slide

But wait wait
Paramecium
Medic medic
Can you see him

There there
In a morass
Sliding sliding
Off the glass

Drat drat
Coz really

Hard Drug a Dug Grave

Mind-Cracking, Health-Crushing Hard Drug 
Whose taker has his own grave dug:
For all the sad life’s holes it does plug,
Any helping dosing down on rug,
As though a shooter did one slug 
Or a dirty criminal one mug.

A time to up a staircase lug
The Hopelessly Suicidal on drug;
To all the questions by a medic a shrug:
No deliverance

Life Never Pleasant For the Peasant

A parent wanting his son to survive,
For this begins to humanly strive
To snatch him back, have his Jim revive
The scene before twelve a buzzing beehive,
Even as more alerted feet arrive,
Delaying Journalists to the scene soon drive

A hunger-induced fall and tragic swoon
No unpaid medic ever arrives that soon
No ready-for-body-use glucose,	
An unashamed fry of sugar as penury

Drunk Medic Eaved On

A lonely well, clear
A nurse besides stands 
The sorry state of losing pro
Angst, fury and fear fight for brow
Tears gleam running after
Twin coppers sinking low.

New York Suffers

THIS POEM WRITHED OUT OF THE HEART;
BASED ON A TRUE STORY 
AS PEOPLE OF THAT GREAT CITY
ARE TORN APART..

I AM A NEW YORKER 

I was in a quarantine when my dady died 
That night. 
I saw my mom lost all emotions— fear, fantasy, failure, depression, OR WHAT? 
My dad failed to fight...

I am a proud

Medic Care

Hey, Doc
  You're on the clock
Ten patients an hour 
  You could use a cold shower

No time to waste
  Diagnose with great haste
But don't a tumor mistake
  For a plain old headache

At the end of the day
  You add up your pay --
Insurance is covered
  Go home to your

The Combat Medic

He almost slipped away today
With the many words he meant to say
About the way he felt
From the cards that were dealt
It was hard to keep the ghosts away

They would come in the dark
Screaming, crying, begging for his help
Faces obscured, but he knew who they were
The ones he had lost
In every sense of the word

Drink and

From Medic To Cultured Gun Man

From Medic to Cultured Gun Man

Richard Boone
Now scattered ashes in Hawaii’s sea tomb.
Played a doctor in Medic,
Then Paladin who could have even spoken Samoyedic.

The Night Medic

One day,  a demon in a Medics uniform , came my way .
The Stranger appeared at night duty , only to find his prey.

I lay helpless in a hospital bed.
from recent Surgery with IVs was I fed.

He acted as if he belonged there.
as if it was his job , to be the night nurse

Medic

.


The shattered stare of the war-shocked
float and fade in the medic's head,

the spasmodic throes of the dying,
the sickening stench of the dead.

He trudges on through bloodied mud,
seeking out the lost and the wounded,

dazed in the gray haze of gunpowder,
slain before the battle even started!

.

The Medic

The Medic

He is calculated in measure and rhythm,
	In words without rhymes,
For he is a medic and he is the ink pen
	That silences death’s toll in time.
He never speaks, in its solemn sobriety
	And his beauty rises to my pulse
Like the epiphany of a sonnet,
	Or the sonata of a piano
Until, at last, a shard of his sanctuary
	Unfolds

The Medic

The spasmodic throes 
                                           of the dying,

      

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