Pain creeped in with the early hours of the morning,
I was doubled over in pain.
As I was screaming,
my dad was wrapping me in a blanket.
Off to the hospital he sped,
then carrying me through the big doors.
My appendix was about to burst open,
emergency surgery was for me.
sleeping Buddha's idol
in the Surgery room
Seeing patient in peace
It comes like a slip in the day~
a blue stillness,
a pause I didn’t ask for
but must walk through.
The operating room is bright,
too bright,
as if the world has been pared
to its cleanest edge.
A feather rests on the tray~
not real, but the thought of one:
light,
soft,
bound to air
the way I am bound
to this hour.
Memory stirs~
the half-dream drift
of all I’ve lived through,
all I’ve held,
all I’ve let fall.
Peace is not loud here.
It is a small pulse
in my wrist,
a breath that says
I am still
in the world,
even now,
even in this
unexpected place.
And when I wake,
the light has changed.
The day has moved on.
But something in me
has learned
the quiet art
of returning.
I rise through a softness
that doesn’t belong to morning~
a pale, suspended hush
and time has loosened its grip
and everything waits.
After anesthesia,
the world returns in fragments:
a voice shaped like water,
light bending without edges,
my own name drifting toward me
as if unsure where to land.
I am neither here nor gone,
just floating in the seam
between forgetting and recall,
held by a gentleness
I didn’t know I needed.
Then breath finds its rhythm.
Then the room gathers itself.
Then the body remembers
how to be a body again.
And I open my eyes
to the simple miracle
of being welcomed back~
slowly, quietly,
as though waking
were a kind of grace.
I am the warm embrace that breaks the chill,
The steady anchor when the waters rise,
I am the quiet peace that cures your ill,
The golden truth beneath untroubled skies.
I hold your trembling hand against the storm,
I guide your tired steps into the light,
To keep your fragile, weary spirit warm,
And watch you safely through the darkest night.
I am your faithful shield, your closest friend,
The heart that beats in rhythm with your own,
I promise I will guard you to the end,
So you will never have to walk alone.
Step closer now, and let me lock the door—
I am the surgeon, and you are on the floor.
Thunder found me in a waiting room,
the word surgery rumbling through my chest
like a sky deciding to split open.
Lightning flickered in the doctor’s eyes—not danger, but direction~
a sudden brightness showing me the path I didn’t want but needed.
Storms kept arriving after that: a six-month tempest of physical therapy,
each session a thunderclap shaking loose the ache I carried,
each stretch a bolt of lightning showing me strength I didn’t know
was still alive beneath the pain.
There was wonder in the surgery itself—a of skill gathering around me,
the surgeon’s hands bright as lightning, cutting not to harm
but to open a path back into my own body.
There was wonder in the long months after~
physical therapy rose like thunder, steady and rhythmic,
reshaping what pain had claimed.
Every medical hand that guided me became a spark in the dark~
proof that even the fiercest storms carry their own quiet brilliance.
I used to think thunder meant run, meant hide, meant brace for the worst.
But lightning taught me that fear is only the first flash,
and wonder is the echo that follows.
the operating room waits in a pale hush
metal holding its shimmer like a vow
shadows gathering themselves into still corners
the air hums with low mechanical dreaming
soft pulses threading through the silence
as if the room keeps time for the living
gloved hands move with practiced, quiet grace
shaping unseen pathways in the air
preparing the body’s hidden journey
the lights rise into a slow white blossoming
illuminating the table like a threshold
where flesh and hope lean toward each other
anesthesia drifts like a pale unfolding tide
smoothing the edges of awareness
carrying the patient into gentle depth
monitors whisper the first faint awakenings
life stirring back through muted circuits
as the room releases its long-held breath
Skin felt the pain
While playing a peaceful golfing game
Challenging the course’s blister campaign
Terrorizing the toe
Forcing a temporary surgical sew
Oh
No
To keep this show
On the go
They must know
Basic health care
Not to scare
Removing infected nail
Transporting remains towards the waste management pail
Bloody and red
Now dead
Left as trash
Above the fairway grass
Next to Frank’s Furter
Who was murdered
After pork barrel spending
And over lending
Worth commending
Pending
Cooking the links
Hearing what others think
About another medical review
Of the pinkie one too
Country club house bound
And the parfect round
No bogeys in sight
Feeling right
Since all has healed
Closing the deal
Without a squeal
Or scream
From the green
Manicured and pristine
Ready for a four-day dream
I overheard the Chief surgeon instructing
The Doctors as I was being wheeled to the
Surgical theatre for a surgical procedure
Paralysed by administered anesthesia
I couldn't stand up to the Chief surgeon
I watched the procedure like a spectator
from beginning to the end.
I was angry with the procedure for stitching up
that was recommended by the Chief surgeon;
knowing that it will leave me with a permanent
scare,
Because i held a health insurance policy
I was only waiting to be awake to make
my displeasure known.
(Written on the 27th of April, 2026.)
The surgery
The surgeries were situated in an industrial estate
in an imposing building telling of elitist power
My operating room, painted gray and white, was ready
At ten fifteen, when I was wheeled in, who was
not allowed to talk to customers who came to have
Their illness was removed in exchange for a better life
Here, the patient was less important than the illness
They put me face down into a chamber with a screen
so that I could witness my surgery
Invisible hands cutting into my flesh to they reached
the bones that were to be linked together with a metal
clips; blood had been cleared
At the precise moment when the bones were linked
The screen went blurry, to stop the opposition to
See the method used, a system that could be resold
to other industrial surgeries
After 3 days to recuperate, I was told to leave that
caused concern as I had to arrange for someone to
Take me home, as the surgery that had brought me
They were not responsible for my leaving
Industrial surgery is not interested in the patient
but purely in the method used
So I went to the quack on a Wednesday
He said that they'd found something wrong
He said there's this thing called a prostate
And mine well its just not on song
The best thing to do with a Prostate
Is just take the Bugger away
So that's why i'm sat in my garden
With six holes in my belly today
They cut and they scraped and they prodded
And shuffled my insides about
Till the bits on the left were all righted
And the right bits were turned inside out
So now I'm at home in the garden
My belly it feels a bit odd
I don't know if I should call the doctor
Or if I just call Dyno-Rod
But the best thing I know is that prostate
Is now in some hospital bin
Its not in my guts spreading Cancer
Like it would if they left the thing in
A Creased Spine
A fall with back on stairs steps, a dire pain,
I ever up till now have to sustain;
X-Rays discerned spine crushed and nerves entwined
That hard it`d be to make it again shine,
Treating doctors revealed the words of truth:
Surgery, with metal hold, can pain soothe,
Yet, I shall be able to tread ahead,
But only with ache and limping, instead;
I`d prefer walk for short while, slow and weak,
Rather than limp when my days are quite bleak.
A snip, snip, here
And a snip, snip, there
They're cuttin' and carvin'
After shavin' my hair
A slip, slip, here
Brain salad on legs
A slip, slip, there
As they scramble my eggs
These doctors of doom
Will I soon depart
One slip of the knife
Just another brain fart
A skip, skip, here
No Aflac my boy
As they skip, skip there
Just another new toy
The hospital machine beeps,
My knees weak, the walls are bleak.
I'm bitting my cheek whilst the ward doors creak
I can hear the children shriek, they look weak through a sneak peak.
Explanations are oblique,
These children will be me in a week.
There's critique of technique for hell week;
which is not for the weak.
Streaks of blood, dizzy from drugs
Staring at the paintings of ladybugs
Trying to sleep with ear plugs
I want to smash a mug, the frustration builds inside, stuck in bed
Feeling like led, can't even eat bread, knee held together with thread, throbbing red, Feeling half dead.
I suddenly woke up in bed with dread for next week when I become,
the children who shriek.
Goldilocks and the three bears,
The story is a classic.
But one idea came to mind,
What if she was made of plastic?
With lips so swollen
And cheeks so bloated
She was red and shiny
And was very coated.
The bears that came saw the porridge,
They searched and found Goldilocks.
Screaming and fearful, they ran away
Because she had a very scary Botox.
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