sarita-aditya-verma - Hello Poetry

I was 19, naive, idealistic, thinking a nursing home would be a fun, rewarding job. I’d play bingo with the old people and hand out smiles like medication. By the end of the first week, I was elbows deep in **** and **** ***** coating my forearms, wrinkled skin like crepe paper, teeth that wouldn’t close right, or none at all, and blank eyes staring at nothing, or glimmers of a life they once had. Dementia attacked their brains, Alzheimer’s stole their identity, but they still wanted my hand, still needed a smile, still wanted to matter, even if for only a moment. I learned to take blood pressures and count respirations and lift bodies like wet sacks and wrap them in sheets with gentle finality, slide them onto gurneys bound for the morgue. I swore to myself I would never forget the weight, the warmth, the silence. My back ached. My shoulders screamed like angry drunks at closing time, my hands raw from soap and oceans of hard water. But I stayed, because someone had to be there. Someone has to care, even when it smells like death and despair and **** all mixed in with old flowery perfume, coffee, and antiseptic. The nurses taught me everything: how to laugh at a **** in the hall, the different ways to take a temperature, how to hold a shaking hand, how to keep your heart from breaking while the ones you’ve grown to love slip silently away. I survived on caffeine, laughter, and cigarettes, tiny victories — a grin, a whispered thank you, a fleeting spark of recognition in a broken mind. By the end, it made a semblance of sense. I understood humanity a bit better, how cruel life could be, how beautiful it could be, and why people need people, even when they’ve forgotten how to ask.

0

sarita-aditya-verma

13h ago

Jun 4, 2026 at 9:33 AM UTC

thomas-w-case

Someone Had to Be There

I was 19, naive, idealistic, thinking a nursing home would be a fun, rewarding job. I’d play bingo with the old people and hand out smiles like medication. By the end of the first week, I was elbows deep in **** and **** ***** coating my forearms, wrinkled skin like crepe paper, teeth that wouldn’t close right, or none at all, and blank eyes staring at nothing, or glimmers of a life they once had. Dementia attacked their brains, Alzheimer’s stole their identity, but they still wanted my hand, still needed a smile, still wanted to matter, even if for only a moment. I learned to take blood pressures and count respirations and lift bodies like wet sacks and wrap them in sheets with gentle finality, slide them onto gurneys bound for the morgue. I swore to myself I would never forget the weight, the warmth, the silence. My back ached. My shoulders screamed like angry drunks at closing time, my hands raw from soap and oceans of hard water. But I stayed, because someone had to be there. Someone has to care, even when it smells like death and despair and **** all mixed in with old flowery perfume, coffee, and antiseptic. The nurses taught me everything: how to laugh at a **** in the hall, the different ways to take a temperature, how to hold a shaking hand, how to keep your heart from breaking while the ones you’ve grown to love slip silently away. I survived on caffeine, laughter, and cigarettes, tiny victories — a grin, a whispered thank you, a fleeting spark of recognition in a broken mind. By the end, it made a semblance of sense. I understood humanity a bit better, how cruel life could be, how beautiful it could be, and why people need people, even when they’ve forgotten how to ask.

73

First ordinary thing I noticed today, was a heap of laundry, the washing machine, the dishwasher standing right next to it. Silent now, set to hum Prepared to serve for the day How can the ordinary be special? Or how special can the ordinary be, If not for their presence in our lives? Ever so present, just like our breath We know it is there, keeping us alive. The ordinary is extraordinarily present On any ordinary day.

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14h ago

Jun 4, 2026 at 8:57 AM UTC

sarita-aditya-verma

Ordinary

First ordinary thing I noticed today, was a heap of laundry, the washing machine, the dishwasher standing right next to it. Silent now, set to hum Prepared to serve for the day How can the ordinary be special? Or how special can the ordinary be, If not for their presence in our lives? Ever so present, just like our breath We know it is there, keeping us alive. The ordinary is extraordinarily present On any ordinary day.

13

Most times I tidy the space, before I go, sometimes I forget However messy I leave it, The room I come back to is always inviting The room never loses its energy, I do sometimes I loved the space, when I left, it loved me back, always has Holds me, regardless, holds no grudge

0

14h ago

Jun 4, 2026 at 8:55 AM UTC

sarita-aditya-verma

Write about the room you returned to

Most times I tidy the space, before I go, sometimes I forget However messy I leave it, The room I come back to is always inviting The room never loses its energy, I do sometimes I loved the space, when I left, it loved me back, always has Holds me, regardless, holds no grudge

10

There is no death there is memory, resting in flowers, soft sounds that return at unexpected moments, making us pause that voice, those hands, that tenderness, the scent of peonies, the scent of summer near Sing, birds, let us be glad with those who no longer ask to be noticed, Even if we forget they will be remembered by the wind by the colors by the earth that once carried them Memory opens the wide peony blooms, and there, between the petals, looks at us a caring eternity

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sarita-aditya-verma

1d ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 9:02 AM UTC

Agnes-de-Lodz

Peonies

There is no death there is memory, resting in flowers, soft sounds that return at unexpected moments, making us pause that voice, those hands, that tenderness, the scent of peonies, the scent of summer near Sing, birds, let us be glad with those who no longer ask to be noticed, Even if we forget they will be remembered by the wind by the colors by the earth that once carried them Memory opens the wide peony blooms, and there, between the petals, looks at us a caring eternity

24

Comfort gathers the soul to heart then forgives but more importantly it forgets Love never slights forgiveness Nor does comfort slay love

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sarita-aditya-verma

1d ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 9:01 AM UTC

South-by-Southwest

Comfort

Comfort gathers the soul to heart then forgives but more importantly it forgets Love never slights forgiveness Nor does comfort slay love

8

Code blue! You played the siren for me And I left my heart in the back of your ambulance Code blue? Healthcare is here to save the day: Fill me with holes And let the auction begin Someone else is now walking about With my inner parts I'm of a mind to sue But you took that too

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sarita-aditya-verma

1d ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 8:52 AM UTC

Carlo-C-Gomez

New Hospital

Code blue! You played the siren for me And I left my heart in the back of your ambulance Code blue? Healthcare is here to save the day: Fill me with holes And let the auction begin Someone else is now walking about With my inner parts I'm of a mind to sue But you took that too

11

I remember blowing bubbles, winsome bubbles in the air Enchanted by their beautiful prismatic hues As they danced upon the breeze like ballerinas in free flow-- The art of blowing large bubbles was a long, steady exhalation Once I blew a bubble so large it unceremoniously kissed my face I laughed at the bubble fairies' aqueous embrace... Now I blow bubbles to improve my lung function and breathlessness A far cry from the child smiling with the sun in her eyes Infirmity is an uninvited visitor here to stay until death's sweet release So this too shall pass, when my ashes blow upon the winds of peace... Well, this is turning out to be a rather morbid affair To be honest, the days feel like scaling Everest without a rope Thus, I've taken up mountaineering, accompanied by lost hope... Tomorrow will be better is a fallacy, for the 'morrow doesn't exist Thus, I've fallen in love with clouds, and today the sky is grey Now is the only moment available to blow pretty bubbles Grateful for every mindful breath, with the sun in my heart Peace be upon you, love's timeless truth doth impart...

0

sarita-aditya-verma

2d ago

Jun 2, 2026 at 12:28 PM UTC

kim-johanna-baker

Blowing Bubbles

I remember blowing bubbles, winsome bubbles in the air Enchanted by their beautiful prismatic hues As they danced upon the breeze like ballerinas in free flow-- The art of blowing large bubbles was a long, steady exhalation Once I blew a bubble so large it unceremoniously kissed my face I laughed at the bubble fairies' aqueous embrace... Now I blow bubbles to improve my lung function and breathlessness A far cry from the child smiling with the sun in her eyes Infirmity is an uninvited visitor here to stay until death's sweet release So this too shall pass, when my ashes blow upon the winds of peace... Well, this is turning out to be a rather morbid affair To be honest, the days feel like scaling Everest without a rope Thus, I've taken up mountaineering, accompanied by lost hope... Tomorrow will be better is a fallacy, for the 'morrow doesn't exist Thus, I've fallen in love with clouds, and today the sky is grey Now is the only moment available to blow pretty bubbles Grateful for every mindful breath, with the sun in my heart Peace be upon you, love's timeless truth doth impart...

19

Life happens in phases A sinusoidal wave Of troughs and crests In between, a pause And then a quiet rest You can hear the silence And the sound of music Before you finally hear your own heartbeat And the rhythm of it All over again

0

2d ago

Jun 2, 2026 at 6:48 AM UTC

sarita-aditya-verma

What is asking to come back to you?

Life happens in phases A sinusoidal wave Of troughs and crests In between, a pause And then a quiet rest You can hear the silence And the sound of music Before you finally hear your own heartbeat And the rhythm of it All over again

10

Like a fallen petal The thoughts distraught, words unseen When did the flower bloom The bird sought warmth seeds lay aplenty Under its frozen wings Mountain had peaks Flights were delayed for lack of visibility The playground was empty Vacant swings swayed Winds played along Cheerleaders cheered For the nonexistent on stage Still cheering, their song The last line ended On an empty note Words kept their word

0

May 27

May 27, 2026 at 10:04 AM UTC

sarita-aditya-verma

Beginning to last

Like a fallen petal The thoughts distraught, words unseen When did the flower bloom The bird sought warmth seeds lay aplenty Under its frozen wings Mountain had peaks Flights were delayed for lack of visibility The playground was empty Vacant swings swayed Winds played along Cheerleaders cheered For the nonexistent on stage Still cheering, their song The last line ended On an empty note Words kept their word

18

My body is changing I feel it my fingers want to write but spreadsheets are waiting to be filled with words no one will ever read I am to meet expectations of closed boxes that measure human worth with a ruler and though I crumbled a dried leaf already turned to dust, I see how many of Beksiński’s fears still pull me by the left trouser leg I am at the bottom of the pyramid breathing rules made in haste by others I am formed by the system while aware of a self spilling beyond its shape my page does not fall it wants neither the left nor the right side Grief rises in scattered pieces I want to build something that will be mine and mine alone from thought from the will to exist not from other people’s systems that do not know which drawer to place the belief in that a person who falls can stand up again without pushing aside the breath of others

0

sarita-aditya-verma

May 18

May 18, 2026 at 10:16 PM UTC

Agnes-de-Lodz

Formed

My body is changing I feel it my fingers want to write but spreadsheets are waiting to be filled with words no one will ever read I am to meet expectations of closed boxes that measure human worth with a ruler and though I crumbled a dried leaf already turned to dust, I see how many of Beksiński’s fears still pull me by the left trouser leg I am at the bottom of the pyramid breathing rules made in haste by others I am formed by the system while aware of a self spilling beyond its shape my page does not fall it wants neither the left nor the right side Grief rises in scattered pieces I want to build something that will be mine and mine alone from thought from the will to exist not from other people’s systems that do not know which drawer to place the belief in that a person who falls can stand up again without pushing aside the breath of others

48