Short Palsied Poems

hospital's antiseptic ambiance,
   temple of impeccable hygiene,
      the oracle, the doctor, still not in;

the wallclock  looks bored, tired of ticking,
   drags time at an arthritic pace,
      anemic hands round its palsied face;

white coterie thrums down the hallway,
   doc's rounds complete, all waiting in place
      for his diagnostic curse or grace....

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Palsied son of prodigal love,
Do your crippled legs dream in swimming strong?
Do your strong arms and back and chest
dream flying across Earth's inviting nest?
Does your mute voice
dream in full orchestral operatic voice
flowing out through mouth and nose
and back in your ears and mind and body
becoming well-dreamed flight of harmonic truth
for you
with all you love?...

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hospital, with its antiseptic ambiance,
our top temple of impeccable hygiene,
its priest-oracle, the doctor, 
not yet in.


weary wallclock looks bored, tired of ticking,
pulls and drags time at an arthritic pace
with anemic hands around its 
palsied face.


at last, white coterie thrums down the hallway,
doc's rounds complete, everyone must wait in place
for his crucial diagnostic curse 
or praise!...

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Last night
I slept
or tried to
despite sharp elbows and knees
and hopelessly dark intrusive shoulders

In concerted effort
to squash me
into a round flat stanley
gingerbread manface

Squarely soft
like a just-right nutritious blanket
of good ginger smells
nurturing his palsied elbows 
and lumpy knees,
bumpy shoulders 
and frumpy mind

Sleeping peaceful innocence 
unvowed

No nightmare seizures allowed....

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