dissertation of endocrinology
in the now of brimhall library, instructing a student as to where here mcat's can go i dissertated endocrinology as was required by the universe. i don't choose to pursue medicine for money. i am a published journalist who does not require citation for proof of journalism. this is a civil rights violation and obstruction to justice i am submitting to my peers.
that was me creating a women's right act
Dressed up like a physicians..
Full of doubt and suspicions..
Heart harder than stone ..
Don't care if you die sick and alone..
They treat all ..
Cancer or headache with Panadol..
Don't know the right medication ..
They prescribe aspirin for fornication ..
Wednesday 3/12/2003
He was not hungry, but, he knew the hunger of each soul.
He knew, many were physically and mentally ill.
The liberation of each soul from their bonds was his goal.
In him, the poor and the downtrodden felt an unknown thrill.
Caste, colour, and creed differences couldn't touch his shadow.
The leaven of the Pharisees couldn't enliven him.
Dining with the socially rejected was not just a show.
He harmoniously relinked the earth's broken rhythm.
The lowly found in him father, mother, brother, and friend
At his touch, Levi felt his sins were being washed away.
The censures of the scribes, as sewage streams, had no end.
Could they, yet, keep him away from his compassionate way?
Those who could not cure diseases, kindled them for the poor.
It's in Jesus, for their illnesses, the poor found their cure.
An old man who looked somewhat young
But after he had a song sung
Held tightly to his right lung
And to a nearby chair clung …
An Old Man who now truly looked it:
Blotches on a weak skin poorly lit;
He had many times dared a twitter
And in his lungs they proved a hitter …
Then, why wouldn’t he look much bitter
And accept that he did away an hour fritter
“Christ! The Goodwill Cigarettes at me flung”!
He’d henceforth be dodging them like dung;
In the spirit of a cigarette-smoking musician
Not wishing an early visit to a physician.
Spring Cleaning is Sarah’s dreaded routine
She gets exhausted, drinks lots of caffeine
She goes to her doctor
Who gives her the ‘what-for'
Then shoots Sarah full of adrenaline
Consider, dear artist, quite carefully,
the subject you seek to eternalize.
Glamorous glories; bright youth so carefree -
these often capture first glance of the eyes.
But if you decide 'pon showy delights,
those feeling such things won't look to your craft.
Their eyes will not rest in their neon nights.
Till they've turned to tears when they've loved and laughed.
A soul seeking art is quiet, alone.
Oft it needs healing from earth's wild ways.
So show it something in honest blue tone.
Solitude, then shared, escapes the malaise.
Passions burn and cool much as does the sun,
Night is your battle; day's already won.
12 March 2022
Could a soul find room
at the core of an atom?
So Eve changed the spelling
thinking dim of such wit –
thought an apple a day
would keep both of them
fit....
A certain doctor
who attends to a patient
is left sick and weak.
You go the doc
He puts you in shock
'You will get worse
before you get better'
You have a right to squawk
THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
the gray sky of a virus, angry
furrowed brows -
scowling,
coughing - not laughing.
what affectation the globe hurling
toward fear.
illness towering, over
the marketplace, toppling
blocks.
Control harangues,
mocks.
who is really pulling the strings?
the jester jingling his fool’s hat,
carrion of a mock scepter -
his feet shuffling us back in time
to the folly of our ways —
“falalalalala,” he sings.
the Great Physician waits for our call
3/2/2020
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as
the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled,
neither let them be afraid. John 14:27 ESV
But when he heard it, he said, “Those who are well
have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.
Matthew 9:12 ESV
Infidel I’m
My God is my master of soul
Belief of Muslim, Christian, Jew, Buddha, Hindu….
hurts me very much,
troubles walking path of my conscience,
gashes my inside temple of heart
My true sense of sight, smell, hearing, touch, tasting
now in badly wounded
many physicians of prevailing religions come and go
but no disease they find
day comes with the sunlight and goes
night comes with the moonlit and starry sky bed, and goes
my illness is increasing day by day
the roses are alive and beautiful on its stalk
tailor birds and nightingales are happy in twitting, chirping
clouds are feeling contented by shedding rain in cats and dogs
ducks are quacking for drake romantically
o I’m lying on the bed of disease
still no physician finds my illness out
no, none still finds me out
then I become physician of my own inner heart
and my intuition gives me a true medicine
that’s the love, just love, love for all
I take it inside my heart, care it with fidelity
now I feel good
-December 18, 2019 Chattogram
I am no doctor
Yet I do some research on health
Scary - isn't it!
N Naturally caring.
U Understanding and Kind.
R Realistically diagnoses
S Sees things others miss
E Enthusiastic about helping people
Position of Family Physician
One day we did have to make a decision;
And God for people did create a position;
We did read;
Much in need;
He planned on calling it family physician.
Jim Horn
Such A Shame We Acclaim
We should not acclaim fortune or fame;
Take credit for or else give God blame;
Sin we sought;
Then got caught,
And when we did, it was such a shame.
Jim Horn
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UnilUPXmipM
Will this website cause any problems?
I neeed a Premium Membership but cannot afford it.
Being I am now Number Three with over 5,555 poems
and a Retired Veteran with a father who was killed on
active duty on Intrepid I should receive a free one. My
dad's name is on the Carrier Intrepid in New York Harbor.
Jim Horn
At the end of a dry, harsh August, as
Autumn slowly descends upon Whitechapel,
I begin my vicious practice.
From Buck’s Row to Hanbury Street,
I make each house call brief.
My methods most precise—each cut, so deep,
So effectively fatal, soft and discrete.
A secondary incision—
Across my new friend’s abdomen—
Completes my process.
Showcases the subtlety of my craft.
In Dutfield’s Yard, with a sharpened stroke,
I slice open her tender throat.
In Mitre Square in public view
The next victim shall follow suit.
At Miller’s Court, off Dorset Street,
I complete my grotesque exhibition.
With this sequence of dissections,
I have ushered in the twentieth century.
My ritual of dominance, with my altar—
The architecture of London herself.
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