Death, its un-peopled void
Filled, refutably
By one hand's witness, grasps for
Its own shape, airy.
I went on a bike ride, I was hyper-alert
I had just emerged from the mental ward
I thought I was despised, felt wounded and hurt
But I lied to the doctor to get out the door
For the first miles I felt the wind in my hair
Then a car drove by, I heard a loud jeer
It was just a dog with his nose in the air
I had mistaken my species, all was clear.
Two miles on, an ambush from the side
A loud sneer, I felt sudden stress
On closer look, a Downs Syndrome guy
I let out my breath, stress got less.
Got into Kingston, car passed, a shout
"Go Home" it said, and then passed by
Was this true, should I block it out?
Why riff off a chord, if the chord don't apply?
Ten miles later, a hand reached out of a car
Tried to push me off the road
They failed, but threw my mind's door ajar
Stress climbed, I felt I would explode.
I crested a hill, a view opened wide
Then I started to think, was it all the same?
Why get anxious, on this scenic ride?
My illusions and theirs - it' was all a game.
The quote, "Now comes the mystery,"
American clergyman and social reformer
Henry Ward Beecher, 1813-1887.
"His final words reflect a philosophical and contemplative
attitude toward death and the afterlife.” Google
His deathbed holds the endless mystery
of where or what will truly happen next;
not what he'd learned from books or history
or what he taught at church as sacred text.
But from his deepest feeling there within,
he knew that death is not the simple end.
And so, his hopeful soul stayed clear of sin;
God's power, love, and mercy did defend.
Surely, he knew that Heaven was his goal-
perhaps imagined it a certain way;
But as a preacher, it is quite a toll
to understand what's real beyond his stay.
He knew the sacred mystery death holds-
but not the where or when of victory.
But at that last-breath moment, it unfolds;
his deathbed quote, “Now comes the mystery,”
You spent your birthday in a psych ward
For trying to get out
Now twice, on your record
What is it you’re without?
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Hey, ‘Nurse Ratchet,’ handle with care! ~
The next Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is forming in there
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
. 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.
wholly state
gentrified
holey spate
sanctified
holy stake
genocide
"Code Blue!"
Baby blue, blue
baby, nurses crying
Years of yearning, a lifetime's dreams.
Hold me.
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