Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Cherdaphne Angel Apr 2023
I never told my mother I love her until my senior year,
and I have been scheduled lately to care for a dying woman,
struggling, gasping for dry misty air. Few weeks ago, I leaned
over a newborn to monitor his extrauterine adaptation, his cry for life.
I first learned from my psychiatric nursing class that recognition
is a form of therapy, an ephemeral touch to the soul, the kind that
gifts me little snacks as reward for small talks with a patient. I guess it is the
words that turn into charms. I once asked an irritable elderly woman
if she had eaten and she also asked me in return. I was liquified. My house
has never had picture frames hung up on the walls. Crumbles of loss,
torn wedding album, heartbreak in my larva years.
I feel so privileged to be saved by the sick or I may say, to view
nursing as a means of holding on to life.
Some time in my senior year, I encountered a woman, same age
as my mother, with brain aneurysm and every movement of
her head, limb, and torso hurt her. I assisted her to the bathroom,
then I introduced myself again.
This is a poem I wrote for the literary pages of the magazine to be released by the college of nursing. It is about how nursing changed my life, how I valued life more because of it.
  Jan 2022 Cherdaphne Angel
our lips will never meet
nor our fingers intertwine
and so bless my dreams
for indulging what's not mine
Cherdaphne Angel Jan 2022
your heart will not fail in space
it will be an object of its own mass
and gravity
no longer will there be a throttle in its vessels
and asynchronicity in its rhythms—
the beats, oh, the beats
your heart, when it is in space, will only wait
for an entity
to be jettisoned from a shuttle

my oxygen is running low
i love you to your heart and never back
Cherdaphne Angel Nov 2021
As though I can only show up when
the sun peeks and a ray touches me,
and I bleed
ink from my desolate spaces
It absorbs the gush to feel it is worthy
of my parts that I tend to
forget, to give away
I keep on refilling myself
just to be empty in pleasure with you later
It drains me and then brims me
and then drains me once again
Oh I like it so I let it,
and I burn
from those diurnal peeks and touches
You then hide and I return to feigned flashes
Tell me how I can function
when you know that all I do is
love the sunset
and bleed for you
  Sep 2021 Cherdaphne Angel
Cherdaphne Angel Sep 2021
i don't see myself
any other man but you
so i let the stars align
to take me as soon
as i am forty for
desire not of me

41 and alone
51 and alone
61 and alone
i do not want to grow old alone

i foresee myself growing old alone
so i ask the stars to take me when i am forty
or younger

my dust to be encrypted
when you close your eyes at night
tells you that

i could've grown old with you

you are too late
you are too late
Cherdaphne Angel Aug 2021
If I shall sit alone again,
I will not think of
the wind as my companion,
for I always feel more
than the blow and touch it gives
that still i yield from afar
a less expelling air -
a warm and sensuous breath from thee.
And so for every time
I will sit alone,
pleasing is the wind that,
although from a different byland,
gets to indulge my insides
as if near we already are.
Here again I sit alone
not feeling so alone,
for I think now until close we come
the breeze that
gusts a tingling sense
is thy breath
that catches me.
A poem written on 2018 when I could still feel you when I sit alone.
Next page