Ward Poems | Examples

Birthday in a psych ward

You spent your birthday in a psych ward
For trying to get out
Now twice, on your record
What is it you’re without?

Way Ward

I held on for dear life, my confidence so low.
It was like holding onto a knife as I looked down below 
I knew the way out and yet I was lost 
In my heart was only doubt and  at  such a cost 

But I will not quit as I grab on even more tight
But even I admit, I have such little might
But I know what I need to do for I know where I am at
I know I need to be true and that’s just that

You think I’d have known all these years a long 
Everything I’ve been shown, you’d think I’d be strong
You’d think I would know right down to the last detail
Yet I never did really grow in being so frail

But it’s not about me is the answer that I get
For God‘s grace is free, no matter what may beset
Just keep on trying, God will do the rest
But I’m not lying when I say this is my toughest test

The Ward Nurse Has A Wooden Leg

scuffs in the pearl white floor 
	when she leaves the room, 
for empty hospital hallway memories, 
	haze of sterile gloom

like snails, the chronic men 
	each slowly wear away, 
their minds left to trail behind them,
	their faces falling into decay

the grey walls with snake green stripes 
	always constricting them,
the dim fluorescent flicker of the fate 
	to which they have been condemned.

Mental Ward

The nights are usually short, but the days are so long,
As I loaf in this room wanting to go back to where I belong.
The best I can do in this mental ward is pretend to be strong.

Fever Ward

Not a room for the waiting
or the receiving of the waiting,
but a room for a liquid thinking
a turgidity
that trickles through plastic tubes.

Is this where doors remain jammed
forever between Hospital floors?

Unseen, a wall clock drops
heavy packages of time
into narrow chutes,
latex handprints are shaken
from sterilized surfaces.
The regularity
of beep and whir mechanically
sucks light in and out.

The yoke recalls it shell.
Desiccated fingers
squeeze a phantom pain-ball,
morphine as cold as ice
is delivered
to an unknown address.

A swish of a starched presence,
fingertips retrace
scorched fever-lines.
Eyes creep toward the voice.

Consciousness
scratches a self-portrait
upon a white neon sun,
a hesitant, primitive etching.

A nurse adjusts the electronic pulse
of a free-floating mind.
Space expands under her hands.

Left at Rockbottom

I walk into my mom’s room, filled with fear,
As nausea is bubbling in my core.
I say nothing, it’s already clear;
I took a b’ttle of pills just like before.

Tears fall from my eyes and drip from my chin,
As screaming insults fall from my mom’s lips.
She yells, “Get in the car,” and the pr’cess begins.
She cont’nues to yell like she’s read’ng a script.

She says she’s not staying for this bullsh’t this time.
With that, she left—no “I love you,” no goodbye.
I’d never felt more alone in my life.
In the weeks that followed, I did nothing but cry.

In those three weeks, I only felt like a problem,
Reminding me, my own mom left me at rock bottom.

My Teenage Years - Mental Health Hosptial

Teenage years are meant to be filled with great stories to tell,
but these are the years I fell mentally unwell.

My teenage years were spent in a never ending loop between hospital and home,
leaving me feeling incredibly alone.

Getting admitted into a psychiatric hospital,
where I stayed for two years,
away from home,
with a dozen other teenagers,
we all felt incredibly alone.

Whilst you was getting ready for school : I was getting ready for morning meeting,
Told to put up our hands to ask if we could go for a walk within grounds.

Whilst you was getting drunk,
we was getting medicated.

Whilst you was out,
making happy memories,
we were begging for life's necessities. 

Wherever I went, they had to be aware,
in case I was to run away from there.

I see people my age and it's like we are reading the same book,
yet on a completely different page.

Whilst you was in your nice warm bed,
I was being neglected,
Unchecked,
Nearly dead.

Overheard in the Ob-gyn Ward

   Hey, ‘Nurse Ratchet,’ handle with care! ~
  
     The next Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is forming in there

Hospital Life

Life in hospital wards,
with blue drapes, white washed floors,
grey assets, wheeled tables.
Corn-beef hash, carrot mash,
day-pay TV cables.

Life in hospital wards,
spiked fevers, cooling aids,
pee cups, samples of stool.
Loose laced gowns, ECGs,
stagnant air, stubborn drool.

Life in hospital wards,
monitoring alarms,
timely medical rounds.
A poke, a prod, a look,
constant buzzers and sounds.

Life in hospital wards,
all day bed, in shared bays.
No warm blankets - quite cold,
snuggled in all one brought.
Alone, no hand to hold.



02.26.2024

Way Ward

. for public domain


Way Ward

We will bury our sighs and sorrows,
debts and owes, and all our borrows,
our scarlet letters all have seen.

We shall cross the bridge,
hand in hand, beyond the ridge,
leave angry tears behind.

If no one welcomes you and me,
we start afresh, clean and free,
and try again, and try again.

word ward war

   wholly                                        state
                         gentrified
   holey                                         spate
                         sanctified
   holy                                           stake
                         genocide

Pediatric Ward

"Code Blue!"
Baby blue, blue 
baby, nurses crying
Years of yearning, a lifetime's dreams.
Hold me.

Ward 6

I am certain that I am unwell.
A swelling golf ball
Lodged deep beneath my skin
Makes sure of that.

The floors of Ward 6
Are mirror-clean and sterile,
A nature-coloured chessboard for
My bare toes to quietly tread.

I have no flowers, no visitors,
But home comforts in the form
Of trinkets and beloved books
Ease my mind.

It seems the courtyard is a patient too,
With its thin white blanket
And icy cold stillness,
Surrounded by tired staff.

Time does not exist in Ward 6;
The drip in my arm is my hourglass,
The window to the right my sundial,
And sleep my way of resetting the day.

I am aware of my wardmates.
Often I listen to their shallow breaths
And wince at their pained calls for help
But polite conversation evades me.

There is a camaraderie,
Kindness shared in a smile from bed to bed,
In a New Year's Eve wish
As our numbers deplete.

I am no longer in Ward 6.
Two days was time enough
To rest, to heal, and to observe
Tired people carry out tiresome work.

Ward 6

I am certain that I am unwell.
A swelling golf ball
Lodged deep beneath my skin
Makes sure of that. 

The floors of Ward 6
Are mirror-clean and sterile,
A nature-coloured chessboard for 
My bare toes to quietly tread.

I have no flowers, no visitors,
But home comforts in the form
Of trinkets and beloved books
Ease my mind.

It seems the courtyard is a patient too,
With its thin white blanket
And icy cold stillness,
Surrounded by tired staff. 

Time does not exist in Ward 6; 
The drip in my arm is my hourglass,
The window to my right my sundial,
And sleep my way of resetting the day.

I am aware of my wardmates.
Often I listen to their shallow breaths
And wince at their pained calls for help,
But polite conversation evades me.

There is a camaraderie, 
Kindness shared in a smile from bed to bed,
In a New Year’s Eve wish
As our numbers deplete.

I am no longer in Ward 6.
Two days was time enough
To rest, to heal, and to observe
Tired people carry out tiresome work.

The Cancer Ward

The cancer ward.

We sat in the waiting room, of elderly people, with cancer
we had had surgery now we waited to see if it had been successful
A name was called a man on crutches rose, tried to look dignified
 not easy on walking aids.
I thought, if I wait, so he comes out if he throws the canes away
it will be a great day; quite biblical.
My name was called; I got up from my chair, slowly, stretched 
like a man without any worries.
Theatrical, I had a captive audience.
Cabinet 24, I took off my t-shirt and laid down on a bench
A doctor came in, cast a side glance at me, looked into a computer
nodded his head, gave instructions to the nurse and left.
Bastard!
 He had no bedside manners must be a busy surgeon.
A nurse, with a motherly smile, removed the stitches and told me
the tumor had been removed, but I had to come back for a check-up
in three weeks, time
Back in the waiting room, I said to my wife, ok, darling, let’s go for a coffee.
Were you nervous, she asked. Me! I’m the king of cool.

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