Rising Inherent
Your fight’s
not with me
Your fight’s
with the truth
That stands
in defiance
To what you
may choose
It knows
of no allies
But enemies
plain
And rises
inherent
Itself
— to proclaim
**
New masks
Interface
with reality
or then
to be real ...
Those crutches
and wheelchairs
designed
to conceal
Smart phones
and I-pads
new masks
of the day
Hiding our
essence
whose self
— is betrayed
**
This Promise Eternal
Rewriting
a poem
beyond all
dispute
Creates a
new fusion
that none
will rebuke
To speak
to new feelings
in letters
and sound
Remarries
a union
where solemn
we vow
This promise
eternal
with eyes
open wide
Resharing
our essence
Respoken
— alive
**
The restaurant was wonderful;
The food was well prepared.
The atmosphere was cozy
And I liked the booth we shared.
The waiter, super-friendly,
Was attentive and the beer
Was a local IPA, which made
Me grin from ear to ear.
Yet glancing at the other diners,
What I noticed first
Was the fact that everyone was old
And what was interspersed
At their tables were their walkers
Or their wheelchairs or their canes.
Still, they ate and drank and laughed and maybe
I can’t quite explain,
But it made me understand how life
In Florida is sold -
Not to get away from winter,
But to join your fellow old.
Dear Mom’s Multiple Sclerosis,
Thank you. I know it’s odd to thank a disease.
Especially when it’s bound to take the one person that will always love you.
But thanks.
You have made my mother stronger in the face of pain.
You have made me stronger in the face of uncertainty.
But, thanking you does not mean you don’t infuriate me.
You have made her future look like wheelchairs,
medicines, and a useless right half of her body.
You have made my future look like hovering over my sick mama,
constant fear and never knowing what is next.
Her past looks like hospitals, physical therapy sessions,
and missing senior prom so she could relearn to brush her teeth.
Mine looks like remembering what she couldn’t,
filling in sentences when her words went missing,
and making dinner for kids whose mommy couldn’t move.
No matter how many books I read about you,
and trust me, I’ve read more than you think,
I still can’t find the words to properly explain to
my eight year old sister
why mommy sleeps so much
and is always in so much pain.
Wheelchairs
and walkers
in God’s
waiting room
Praying
abeyant
the end
coming soon
Front to
the back
they line
in the queue
Telling their
stories
from memory’s
askew
They wait
and they wonder
who’s next
to go
As all through
the lounge
great grandkids
in tow
New moments
like hen’s teeth
each minute
a year
As walkers
and wheelchairs
rust out
— in the tears
(Dunwoody Retirement Home: September, 2025)
Dr. Moody was discouraged, his job had taken a turn.
This was the third plague that hit Minnesota in twelve years.
People were dying in ditches, seeking relief from their open sores.
Frozen corpses with gaping mouths greeted him from town to town.
Optimism had died about three years back
he had no idea why he survived.
Three plagues, and he was one of the few who was still mobile.
Some were in wheelchairs; others had their limbs amputated.
A few had gone blind; these plagues were unpredictable and fierce.
He stopped in front of the farmhouse; checked the address one more time.
Got out his equipment and began the slow heartfelt climb onto their porch.
Since the plagues had started, he wondered if this was a plea for death call.
“In here,” a woman called. Her voice sounded hoarse.
He walked in and observed three huddled figures on the couch.
“Not them,” she told him.
Confiding that she knew she did not have much time.
She wanted him to raise her children. Dr. Moody was speechless.
He had already opened his home to fourteen homeless children.
This plague was no joke.
When we build
for everyone,
everyone wins:
The ramp helps
not just wheelchairs
but strollers,
delivery carts,
tired legs.
Captions help
not just deaf ears
but noisy rooms,
second languages,
different processors.
Multiple ways in
mean no one
stands outside
looking through
locked windows
at learning
they can't reach.
Every entrance
leads to the same
beautiful place:
understanding,
belonging,
growth.
Design from the start
for every brain,
every body,
every spirit
that walks
through your door.
A Skilled Care Unit
Faces racked with pain,
no medicine can cure.
Sad and alone, no one
comes to visit.
Bedridden, confined to
wheelchairs, nowhere to go.
Pacing the halls, doors locked,
prisoners at the end of life.
Memories of laughter, family
outings, salt, sea air, cookouts.
All slowly fading now, freedom
lost to old age and infirmities.
Life condensed to a single room
with death the only escape.
Wheelchairs and Prams
Alive wheelchairs and prams should
hold hostage people who
breach the condition of
not permitting entry to
the disabled into
their buildings!
In the front yard, I see cars,
going places, who knows where.
In the backyard, I see trees,
leaves fluttering in the wind.
White clouds drift in a sky of blue,
butterflies flit from here to there.
The world goes on and on,
and I am all alone.
In the classroom, lots of kids
doing work the teacher gives,
in the playground young ones play,
boys and girls in their own style,
on the playground, year on year,
a cacophony of children's shouts,
sounds, forever, on and on,
and I am all alone.
Jobs, careers, marriages too,
religion, books, philosophy,
life's phases pass one to another -
in one, out one, then the next.
Years, in cycles, years like wheels,
on tricycles, bicycles, and cars,
and one day, wheelchairs,
going places, who knows where,
And I am all alone.
Jan Juc Primary School
Annual Fundraiser
A Kite Festival
Perfect day
Windy, warm
Families crowd onto the lawn
Above Fisherman's Beach
Prams, dogs, wheelchairs
Giggling youngsters
Parents saying, "Look up!"
Cameras capture glee
Big blue whale
Wafting
Above several sharks out of water
A scuba diver twirling below
Knots and nylon twine
Fluttering ribbons and tails
Happy kids everywhere
Mums, Dads holding tight
A plethora of little diamonds
Soaring
Brilliant colours glint in grey skies
A giant octopus
Two Tiger Moths; pilots adrift
Like astronauts, space walking
A prancing purple tailed horse
A dazzlingly intricate, spinning snake
And several beautiful butterflies
Hope my future children have more bottles of perfume than Sterilium in their cupboards.
Favourite smell?
Alcohol rub and the scent of sterile hospital wings.
(Emphasis on sterile)
Maybe because of what comfort meant as a kid.
How does one get time with their parents when they practically live in the hospital?
Something I learnt as a 4-year-old was to just go live in the hospital with them xD
I camped in an empty OT to study, when Amma was on call the other day.
And it left me feeling like a kid perched on a rocky stool beside my dad in his clinic.
Brought back memories of another time -
Of afternoon naps in changing rooms, and running up long windy ramps, a playground with wheelchairs.
Is it surprising that I have 2 bottles of (gifted) perfume as opposed to 3 bottles of Sterilium in my cupboard?
A Holly Day in May
the building is eerily empty today, everybody
has gone to the beach, even those in wheelchairs
I sit on the verandah in the hope of tanning
my scalp looks so white in the bathroom mirror
I used to sit in the sun and get a deep tan
which gave me skin cancer
Do the Gaza people sit in the sun away from their
tents, now bombed, because Gaza has nice
beaches and turquoise water.
The Israel monster regime keeps killing Palestinians
daily, 60 here and 40 there
It has been noticed, that more Jews are leaving
Israel, then newcomers to this Paradise of evil
I went to the pharmacy yesterday and wanted to buy
a self-tanning product, the person who served me
came from Congo, shamefully, I lost my nerves
and bought aspirins.
My wife, born in Kinshasa, said I was a racist
Once, when she was a stewardess, she met
the fabled Roger Moore, I say no more but has
a nice-looking daughter
I read Joe Biden talking about ********, maybe
he wished for one
We all have sexual fantasies, a curse for old men
Few oldsters or broken-sters travel in their wheelchairs in style.
Mrs. Graffitin is an exception, her uniqueness makes all of us smile.
Her foot was gnawed off sixty years ago by a blubbering crocodile.
She is a wheelchair designer, and her wheelchair is always in style.
Looking down through my window, at the beautiful people shuffling like charmed regals.
My chair can get closer from the side,
but the view isn't as accessible.
If I could only get well, I can do those things.
I could eat nails, be a badass from my immunity to sufferings.
Is it because I am bad or would do bad things?
I'd like to think I am disabled for a purpose.
I hope that it is in lightening God's burden,
sharing his cross, that is heavy.
I see more people now, wandering the streets.
No one talks to them, they pretend they don't see.
I know the routine.
There is a vulnerability in this world that is unfair.
The unborn, even less able with their handicap
than me, to have a voice.
One day, the world will see the truth.
It will set them free.
The last will be first and the first will be last.
When we all get our permanent incorruptible bodies. There's no need for wheelchairs in heaven,
no need to avoid like the plague,
because there won't be any.
Just things the way they ought to be.
I am in that basement ward,
the disused one,
the one they park you in
on the way to the morgue.
The usual clutter of broken wheelchairs,
torn screens,
long defunct electrical equipment.
I sense that this is where you are left
until they figure out what to do with you.
In the morning I go to work.
I want to be somewhere else,
when they come to get me.
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