A summer of smiles, a paradise of play,
lively, lighthearted laughter, each delirious day -
I clobbered all contenders in ping-pong.
I sought and I seized every fly ball in the field
in the picturesque park where I wheeled.
The charms of childhood’s recreation revealed -
I reach back and recall a sweet summer song.
I often wondered how Tolstoy found the time,
To write War and Peace,
I am now confident I know how,
In fact I am sure I know how,
He wrote it when for a hospital appointment he did show,
With no cell phone to help the time flow,
So he borrowed ink and feather,,
To put a few words together.
The writing seemed to take forever,
And more words he put together,
Until the whole story was down on paper,
For his secretary to gather together,
While he was wheeled into theatre.
Toddler, untied with light tap
Sent off a walker, free.
Tricyclist, two-wheeled and pushed!
No less unsteadily!
Mother and child; partners in fear.
Helpless, up to its end
That path, life's through falls, general.
Watcher's, in watch for blend.
The dancer with no legs
moves swiftly around the room,
knocking over the vase, and
gracefully turns to the window.
"I wish I were like the moon,"
She calls out into the night.
Her vain wishes like stones crash
through the window toward the stars.
I shift my legs to keep
one from falling asleep.
"Sometimes, I want to fall asleep,"
She tells me, “And never wake up."
Her strong arms lift the body
from wheeled chair to sofa.
And somewhere in the distance
Her stones splash into the ocean.
I woke up ready to kick butt
Despite my case of bubble guts
Anesthesia my sensitive system affected
But next to me attention was directed
A woman who was in excruciating pain
Laughed at my jokes and asked my name
I ordered the nurses to serve us champagne
To ease our anxiety over the bill we’d gain
Checked in the hospital at 845
After searching for parking is a crime
When surgery is not until 1150
Jokes on us kids and not Walt Disney
The nurses said I was in a rush to leave
A good sign they said all yellow laughing
I wanted my phone but it wasn’t at hand
So I joked poked fun a mental happy dance
As they wheeled me away to get dressed
I turned to the lady in pain less depressed
She thanked me for being me eased her mind
I hope that her pain decreased in time
So poet friends I am stuck in the house
But only for a day then I can get out
Thanks for the prayers messages and thoughts
Positive I needed and you all delivered dear hearts
I also appreciate Poetry Soup
I live to write again thanks to YOU
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.)
Rust and chrome, a hand-me-down bike,
granddad’s grease still singing in the spokes,
each turn a prayer he hammered back to life~
the bent frame straightened under stubborn love,
the chain baptized in oil and patience.
Ten years old, I straddled time itself:
the saddle, cracked like his laughter,
the pedals, spinning secondhand stars
beneath my untested feet.
He said, Every wobble teaches balance,
and the road rushed up to meet me,
not as a stranger, but as a conspirator~
wind in my face, the world unspooling
behind me like a liberated kite.
Even now, the ghosts of those handlebars
twitch in my palms—how they trembled
before they learned to trust the fall,
before the wheels, like memory,
stopped fighting the curve.
O first flight, O rattling heirloom,
you were never just a bike~
you were my resurrection.
related memoir vignette can be read at
poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_girl_a_bike_a_librarian_and_a_magical_spell_13645
He flops at rest stops
hid by other sleeping truckers.
He likes the loneliness
as the cab windows gradually mist over
with smokey stars.
Rolling on,
cities of light flare upwards
and beneath them
are the unseen, the dead eyed
that hide under a metro-glare.
Amarillo, Detroit, Tacoma, Richmond,
places packed and stacked
with broken dreams and loose ends.
Just driving; hauling and honking.
No one looking.
Launderettes and liquor stores,
five finger fandangos in the back,
chicken wings and Jack D.
Atlantic City, Apalachicola,
soaking in the slipstream
while America looks somewhere else.
What are you watching America?
Sometimes he thinks
only the coyotes are paying attention.
Roads thread through his fingers.
The Great Lakes shimmer,
Rockies rear-up and ripple,
all those dust painted
played-out rural towns,
the roads are his tunnel
through both beauty and depredation.
Old men on roadside benches
stare unphased by his air horn blare'
as if he himself were an 18-wheeled
rolling exhibit of America itself,
yet no one looks long enough
to care.
Quick clay
A dog sent in
Looking for survivors
Given the last hug?
Hunting for people
Silent in quick clay
In a delivery room
She was real and she was perfect
Stillborn
A song played in the room next door
Dobie Gray – «Drift Away»
No beat
A wreck on the highway
Knocking on heaven’s door
A graveyard shift
Knocking on the door
Silence broken by
Slow steps
A ship in distress
A chopper sent in
Looking for survivors
A doctor thinking
The silent ones can wait in
The cruel sea
The room was bright
The respirator turned off
Death was pronounced
The body wheeled away
The room cleaned and disinfected
Nobody should die alone
The shelves is almost empty, the fridge too
The christmas gifts hide under the tree
Few in number, all wrapped up in blue
Nobody tells her to get up and dance
Nobody tells her to sing, sing «Silent Night»
All is not calm, all is not bright
I hear bells ringing
I hear choirs singing
All is not calm
All is not bright
Shine a little light on
The silent ones
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
A change is predicted .
What is promised me
Through what tingles, besides
For static in air.
A charioteer's offer;
Storm-wheeled, to enter.
I am low. He knows it.
To life, numb resigned.
Whilst in looking ahead
Is past enduring.
Of a great jolt or two
Needful. Fear-blazed through!
Spirit-rouser! Who'll not
Let those hours to drag.
Night's exciter! Above
All a street-spilt verve.
Shouts down: "no humour's loss
Griefs to winds who toss!"
They came at dawn, no proof in hand,
Just whispers dressed as fact and brand.
A name, a nod, a hunch, a lie—
Enough to cage the passerby.
The cell was cold, the hours slow,
They said, confess, and you may go.
But truth’s no friend to those in chains,
It starves where silence still remains.
No witness stands, no weapon gleams,
Just shattered hope and broken dreams.
The judge—he sees, his eyes are gray,
He knows the truth but looks away.
Without allocution, guilt’s not sealed,
Yet justice bends, the verdict’s wheeled.
You sign the plea—your soul’s receipt,
A deal struck down where law retreats.
Freedom traded for a lie’s deceit.
Aquarius, a good friend of mine,
leading the people around me since the beginning of time.
Hilarious the way he is kind,
now he's showing to me what I always wanted to see.
The chaotic side of life,
which makes you feel free like a raven flying high.
I see the people drown,
women, children, men, all looking like clowns,
ridiculous and stupid the way they are.
Confetti, which once was their home,
taking their breath, closing their throat.
Disgusting this world, which made me spit blood.
Through beautiful words, the well-known sky falls apart,
seeing it burn to the ground and rise again in a hot, hard-burning flame.
This is the nirvana I wanted to feel,
the heartbreaking truth my psyche needed to hear.
This, my friend, is the harmonic sound of change,
destroying all we had and ever made.
But what is that?
Through all the ashes and flames,
there's a little mad man who's ready to rule the world.
He climbs up on the mountain of dirt,
completely destroyed and badly hurt.
He will build what once was destroyed,
and that's how he'll find peace
in this round wheeled, repeating world.
our porch shows what hillbillies live like
because we might as well be from Arkansas or Tennessee
We are creekers – people who live in van down by the river
stepladder, two side tables, one long glass table
glider, barbeque grill, shovels, spades, garden gloves
straw hat, hoe, mud-caked wheeled cart
six twelve-packs of water
dog kennel for a nine- hundred -pound dog
(which we have never used)
mismatched lawn furniture
broken umbrella
refrigerator, full sized, not one of those pussy ones
two night stands
giant fan with dog hair stuck to it
fold up chairs that were dragged in mud
sign with two cartoon dogs
the sign says welcome to our home
Buddy and Beau
It should say Welcome to Hillbilly Heaven
“Dream on, it costs nothing. Mind is the biggest canvas on which you can daub any shade to colour the dreams that you see while sleeping or awake.” ~ By Poet
As the earth snoozed under
a heavy shroud of darkness,
weary and work worn, I lay down,
dreaming of a peaceful sleep.
The moon hang like a silver disc,
its shimmering glow filtering
through tangled boughs of oak trees.
A gentle wind came wafting by
with smell of trellised jasmines
and sneaked through my open window.
Soon I drifted to a dream world.
Like a speeding locomotive,
that came to an abrupt halt,
I lay still, in a coffin.
amid scent of burning incense,
frozen silence, heaving hearts
and silently chanted prayers.
The chariot wheeled me along,
in my last journey through
mazy paths, stretching, stretching
to a world, beyond galaxies.
I woke up soon, my eyes still shut,
A vulture swooped down circling,
over my deceased body.
Am I dreaming within a dream?
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