"aides" poems
Well great goodness, where on Earth do I start?
The Garden of Eden … or the bottom of my heart?
How can I make this as honest and heartfelt as I can?
How would I share with every woman in the world, the emotions of every man?
Yes, we hold them in. It's about pride. It's about standing tough.
But you'd really not have us any other way … you love to polish what's rough.
And we really love you, make no mistake, to you we are forever beholden.
We'll not forget those meals and those band aides and all those clothes gently folden.
You taught us to tie our shoes and look after our sisters and brothers.
And that unless we are standing for something correct, we must always be kind to others.
From you we learned that women are our partners, other halves and mothers-to-be.
Which leads my poem in another direction … as I continue my praises with glee.
Our wives took up where our mothers left off and carry our hearts in their hands.
They made us soup when sick, bore us amazing children and walked beside us in the sand.
They undressed us when drunk, both for fun and when it was needed.
And stood understanding when we failed miserably, as their warnings went blindly unheeded.
No matter our place in failure, glory or fame, they were always standing by our side.
No matter our outfit, five o'clock shadow, even our beer belly …
they always stand there with pride.
And in the brave new age, where we all live, they now do things so amazing.
They race cars, cure diseases, head up companies and set many trails a blazing!
What would we do without these women from our birth to our end of days?
How do we love them, now and forever?
You simply can't count the ways!
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
I just freaked out
What the **** was that all about
You
that's who
My first date since your death
I stood on my doorstep
it took a moment to catch my breath
I wanted to run back inside
to go under my quilt, sob and hide
Guilt plagues me
but my determination aides me
The first step is done
but this was only a dry run
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
If this vast azure emptiness can prove
An aghast endless vacuum measure
Take it for granted, research process sure
It will fuel your thought resources, true.
Mining specks and dots in deep space treasures
Boundless designs shine assigning pleasures
Unfurl within mind in gaseous beams
Overflowing the banks of conscious streams
Filling the utmost sanctum with soft skills
Milling vacuum with colorful quills
Calming the pulses with embracing lulls
Warming all lives with fundamental pulls
Creating a sense of duo, I and you
Love and dislikes and points of view.
Feeling satiety in charity
Finding synergy in activity.
Minting amity in society
keeps you young aged muddling in daring dreams
Deeply engage you cuddling realms supreme.
So what? if this vast thought mine be blanked out
Will the ghost mute vacuum follow suit?
If sense aides guide a slow downward exit
And mind bids the fairy lids to close it
Will the sun bewail, bemoan and eclipse?
Or will the same smile prevail on red-lips?
If souls sunset in seamless sea of mind
Will lights spill out; team up to stay behind?
To form anew a fresh long microwave
To indent a start with a soul suave
A new spectrum to perceive the forces
For the soul that constantly resources
That differently formats transceiver courses
The energy that cannot be destroyed
But that which can be candidly portrayed
On a vast emptiness fluidly stolid
On a continuum vividly solid
On a clean canvas without dimensions
In a brave new world that cannot mention
A name which is beyond comprehension
A frame that doesn't fall on known convention.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
The FBI chief, Mr. Comey,
was loved by Trump like his best *****
For he went around hintin'
about emails and Clinton,
making Trump fans excited and foamy.
But then Comey provided reflection
upon Trump aides and Russian connection.
Trump did protest and howl,
stamp his feet and cry foul,
for the tide has turned since the election.
Trump thinks Comey is guilty of slander,
though his Hillary probe raised no dander.
So I guess Trump's excuse
is what's good for the goose
simply does not apply to the gander!
So why Donald Trump am I hounding
through this verse and this poetic pounding?
It's Trump's hypocrisy
that so motivates me
and we're used to it!... That's what's astounding!
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 10:42 PM UTC
Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Crackle of light,
Shacking with fright.
Beaming white,
Eliminating the night.
Nothing remains,
My life drains.
Everything fades,
I search for aides.
It's all gone away,
The words I want to say.
The only thing left,
The one thing no one can theft.
My still beating heart,
My last part.
It still belongs to you,
Something I can't undo.
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:55 PM UTC
Comment peux-tu, âme brûlée aux yeux crevés, vivre encore ?
La tête noyée
Cratère géant
Ame gênante
Le diable est entré en moi
A dévoré mes entrailles
Quant il eut fini de moi
Il m’a laissé là gisant le ventre à l’air et la jupe retroussée à l’aurore d’une nuit étoilée
Penses-tu parfois à moi ?
Je voudrais te dire
Ma vie n’a pas de suite
Personne n’a jamais rien voulu savoir
Après chaque nuit tombée, un énième jour
Après chaque enfant au corps volé, d’énièmes assemblages de cochons sauvages
La vie est une fable informe et infâme
Maintenant
Eteins-moi.
Je déteste l’homme
Pour ce qu’il m’a fait
Je vais mourir de l’horreur cette nuit.
J’aurais tant voulu que tu m’aides
Mais ils n’entreront plus jamais en moi
Personne n’a jamais voulu prendre le temps de comprendre
PRENDRE LE TEMPS
Ecouter cette petite voix qui dans la plus profonde de vos nuits vous criait de lui venir en aide
Alors allez tous au Diable
Cette nuit est ma dernière
Je la dédie entière à ma folie
…/…
Mes mots sont là.
Mar 23, 2012
Mar 23, 2012 at 12:24 PM UTC
Kings
As choristers we saw them
Regularly in their black
Limousines, their aides
Carrying gifts for display
In the royal apartments.
Kings, whose gait spoke
Of the heavy matters of state,
bent grey heads
To converse with the Majesty,
A small woman in a pale green coat
Carrying a large handbag
Dec 16, 2012
Dec 16, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Every morning she wakes up
to ringing,
to stinging
In each dream she’s stuck in a
Bell
Every morning she changes her band-aides,
and looks in upon her City
of Yells.
Here when one sounds the alarm,
the screeching does not turn off.
Here the bedrooms are boiling
and the sinks drip drop rocks.
Here no one speaks softly,
Here no one thinks through
their thoughts.
She wakes in her creaking bed,
Her hallow room’s walls cave in
with blood red
They scream so loud she doe not
know a word she has ever said.
She learned to accept it,
She cannot resent it,
But even the flowers here moan.
The City of Yells is in
passionate war
And the rebels are beyond
moving gently.
The City has soldiers who all look like rockets and
their dogs never ever stop barking.
The rebels are patient,
quick hands at the ready, eager to finish
the battle.
The Rockets have guns that do not stop blaring—
So much noise you’d forget you
were fighting.
But the rebels are ones with the truer advantage,
for arms they do not take up.
They are swift with the sword
and the “swish” that it makes
is simple,
yet hard to ignore.
And the girl looks on as the war
continues,
directly in her front yard.
She glares though the window,
a pair of deep eyes, bulging through
the blinds.
“Perhaps today it will all be over,
All that is wrong with be done?”
My dear, my dear, in your
City of Yells, the fighting
has only begun.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
Mon Papy.
Mon Papy n'a jamais eu de poème,
Afin de lui faire comprendre à quel point je l'aime.
J'ai donc le devoir de rectifier cette erreur,
Qui, depuis quelques temps, ronge mon coeur.
Depuis que je suis petite, tu m'as fait découvrir la belle vie,
Apprendre à faire du vélo sur deux roues en fait partie.
Tu m'as montré comment jouer aux boules,
Et comment orienter mon cerf-volant pour qu'il s'envole plus haut.
Tu m'as fais goûter le meilleur miel du monde,
Celui que tu allais chercher dans ta combinaison de super-héro.
Moi je pensais que tu étais James Bond,
Tu me disais, "ca roule, ma poule",
Comme si tu n'avais peur de rien,
Même pas des oies qui nous courraient après dans le jardin.
Avec toi je joue au scrabble et aux petits chevaux,
Tu gagnes toujours haut la main, et on ne peut s'empêcher de crier "Bravo!"
Je me souviens de nos soirées Fort Boyard et Koh-Lanta,
Rien de mieux qu'un bon feu, une famille réunie, et du chocolat.
T'avoir dans ma vie est un cadeau de chaque seconde,
Parfois j'aimerai le crier sur le toit du monde,
Pour qu'ils sachent tous la chance que j'ai,
D'avoir un papy comme toi, que je suis si fière d'aimer.
Même **** de toi je te sens près de moi,
Tu réchauffes mon cœur avec des sourires.
Tu sais bien qu'avec toi je ne peux que rire.
Tu m'aides à donner le meilleur de moi-même,
Tu sais bien que ta fierté fait la mienne.
Dans ma tête tes chansons résonnent avec clarté,
De la souris verte à la claire fontaine,
Ta voix berce mes souvenirs chaque jour,
Et mon angoisse disparaît dès que j'en entends les contours.
Mon sourire apparaît dès que je pense à toi,
Et mon cœur se remplit automatiquement de joie.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
Medicine induced hallucinations,
body quivering with ache,
and I'm hearing the sweet chime of bells
In this hour of pain my mind orchestrates.
The next drop from the IV,
helps even greater than the last,
a constant drumming in my head
a beat which was not meant for dance.
The others around me dressed in white
say I'm doing fine and that I should rest,
but when there's music pouring into the room
Sleep is what I must detest.
Can they not hear the wondrous sounds?
The vibrations that reflects my pain?
Those invisible waveforms move visibly
or have I just gone entirely insane?
There is no music, they tell me.
It must be a side-affect to the medication.
The ambiguous tune that rattles my brain,
is death knocking, it is by my orchestration.
But who is to say what I hear
is not real?
The tune in my head I wish to transcribe
but I'm weak,
and barely clinging to life.
So no one will hear this stirring melody.
This is the song I hear towards the end of my life.
In these last precious moments
laying in my seemingly sterile bed,
the tune haunts me 'till I shut my eyes.
but the tune is my comfort, I do not dread.
So take me with you, oh humble melody.
I welcome your amplitude with open ears
Let's take a listen to what you're telling me,
I dare you to move me to tears…..
The warm blanket of the strings comforts me,
the brass section: a foundation, a rock.
Oh, but hear the timpani? It taps to the beat of my near-ending biological clock.
The woodwinds, a sympathetic harmony that aides my despair.
Their aloofness like the machine by my side, filling me with air.
*The main theme speaks to me directly, and I've been worn thin
but I swear the main line is "I've fought valiantly, but this battle I could not win."*
I do not have to open my eyes to see,
that the director of this symphony is myself.
I've created this music on my death bed,
and it was not meant for anyone else.
When I close my eyes this final night,
take a somber breath and leave.
I'll have my tune in my head,
and nobody for me to grieve.
Goodbye to this world around me,
now the nurse come to medicate.
One last final wave of my arms.
This song I hear, mine alone, I orchestrate.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:02 PM UTC
the white coat lords,
the army of nurses, the aides, didn't think
he understood their language
nor did they know
he had been a warrior in his homeland
and bore scars, inside, out
they paid little attention,
as he buffed lackadaisical linoleum, scrubbed porcelain *******
making them ethereally white
though the amputees,
the hobbled, the battle burned, would wake
to the sound of his labors:
his broom swaying to and fro,
a softer metronome for their ringing ears
a cadence of condolences
for their beating hearts
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
Awake in the night listening to rain
Well placed ice packs when feeling the strain
Spacing those tents to ensure a safe distance
Getting it right aides coexistence.
Welcoming all with smiles and sweets
Giving assurance with replies on repeat
Directing the lost with maps and good grace
Shifting the freezers to maximise space
Finding the child who wandered from mum
Keeping kids safe while ensuring their fun
Spraying the sinks and mopping with vigour
Trying and failing to pull down that zipper
Queuing for showers at early 5.30
Teens these days don't tolerate *****
Whenever you need them they'll sort out the flushes
And when the loo blocks they'll get out the brushes.
These are the heroes of New Day each year
Whenever you see them give them a cheer
Enjoy your time with us, have a real blast
We're all here for Jesus - the first and the last.
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
My thoughts are all jumbled and my head remains spinning
Another round is over with neither side winning
It always seems to come from the blind side without warning
And causes an uneasy silence until later the next morning.
Two people who years ago gave life to me
Watch as I regress to a toddler when we disagree
Never physically or intentionally, let me quickly point out
But my voice and pitch grows exponentially as I begin to shout.
They have been there in times of sadness and will continue without fail
No matter how choppy the water gets as I try to set my own sail
I was raised to be independent; to decide what’s right for me
But sometimes it’s hard to tell; is it the chair or me they see?
Independence is what they say like it’s the endpoint on a map
But sometimes I feel stuck, like a golfer’s ball in a sand trap
Decades of difference affect our worldview
They think I am too negative, and yes that might be true.
Oftentimes when these different ideas are spoken aloud
It feels like my perspective is lost and never truly found
Close friends and others understand how my feelings rise
But exclaiming them in every instance really isn’t wise.
In fairness to them, I haven’t made things a snap
My time under their roof really should be at a wrap
These are supposed to be empty nest years
Not for overreacting to everything that I hear.
And in most ways things are good; better than they have ever been
Aides come and assist me; the situation is win-win
We celebrate each other’s success, laugh and joke when we can
Each continuously vowing not to let the whirlpool start again.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
The Politician
Has he kept his word?
Kept to promises you heard?
Are you satisfied? Let down?
Waiting to see what comes round?
These choices voiced, unvoiced
From voters of the officers new crowned.
To those who vote by rote or call
To those who vote at all:
Has he or she distorted vows
To overpower and devour:
Double thought through double-think?
Misconstruing and misstating,
Skewed with bias filled with hating.
Stinking skills to sell and buy,
To peddle lies which sink a country –
Even if potentially –
Are the aides, incomes denied,
Who stand to profit on the sly,
Men in masks, men in power
Hidden men, men of the hour,
How will tasks now basked in
At whose call flasks, casks are drunk from:
Will affairs of state be slunk from?
This a call to politician;
Call to listen;
He or she just person
In the end.
The Politician 2.28.2017
Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
too old to walk
the aides wheeled him into the sunshine each day, for their peace of mind
his eyes were clear, one gray but the other as blue as a robin's egg
he cackled more than talked though everyone understood what he said
which helped get him rolled onto the lonely concrete each morn,
in all weathers
I came Thursdays to see my aunt, on the way to the office
I, her only heir and she still owned the office, the firm yet bearing her husband's name, his first name the only word that came from her mouth the last two years, some strange protein eating her cortex, her body playing a cruel joke on her by keeping her organs pumping away masterfully....she didn't even **** her pants at ninety minus one
when they wheeled her out beside the cackler
he began his sermons, citing chapter and verse
usually from books I had not read--he also said,
for every hour you read, you add 89 minutes to your life
fishing, he said, was for fools who wanted to live forever;
he would settle for purchased words
and the 29 minutes in change
he had stopped reading with both colored eyes he claimed,
but he calculated he had added seven years, three months, and four days to his life, and he would, unless he took up reading again, leave the earth seven Thursdays from when he told me the tale--then he began quoting Melville I think, if he is the one who hung the poor stuttering Billy Budd
I kept returning Thursdays to ignore my aunt and listen to his words
and when he was yet alive on the seventh one, I asked if this was the day,
"the day for what?" he replied, and he began his cackled verses, from Poe, or Updike or maybe Hemingway when a bull died mid sentence, and
my aunt SPOKE that day, telling him goodbye
he was not there the next Thursday,
but neither was I
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
The forgotten essential workers
Who is seldom mention.
Who is so often belittle,
Porters,
Cooks,
Laundry workers
Dish-washers,
Elevator-repair men
Recreations,
Front Desk clerks
Certified Nurse’s Aide
Home health aide
Waiters,
God! Oh how hard we work!
Private’s aides
Now as we celebrate Juneteenth 19
Black lives matters, can we really be seen
After four hundred years of oppressions
Can we tossed back river of tears
we are in 2020 is this our commission?
We as Essential workers in your nursing homes
Being tested twice a week,
By your essential worker phlebotomist
Who puncture my vein with his cannula?
For the governor executives order
listen up you uncouth nurses who poke
The swab sticks deep into my nose.
Listen this quackery has to end!
Pandemic, politics, election strategy
We essential need more respect.
You with your white privileges, and your treats
(RE: PCR swabbing, week being on Wednesday and ends on Tuesday.
If you work 4 or more days you need to be swabbed 2x per week
In a 48hrs time frame, if not you will be taken off the schedule
You will be humiliated, said the Administrator Mr. Sal
Because he is not a babysitter there to reminds you..
Said a non- professional white privileges)
as the city navigate the pandemic
moving on to injustices of systemic racism,
poverty, militarism and
a war economy:
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe..
I
Mr. Governor Cuomo: I cannot breathe
Jun 20, 2020
Jun 20, 2020 at 9:16 AM UTC
A vacant elation evades
Lease of folded escapes
Throned with indecision
Stringed unmatched links
Short lived escapades rides
A honey, a cute,fille de joie
Mismatch patterns traced
Transcendence aides fade
The sunken days embrace
A song of love ever delayed
A search of magic evasive
Cherished moments destroy
Another brief scripted page
An eon touch dilutes in age
Adventures transpire space
A heartfelt continuum shakes
A novel paste in fined tastes
A long to prolong penmanship
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
He got caught up
In the traffic jam in Fort Lee
Is he innocent or guilty
Guess we’ll have to see
But his presidential ambitions
He’ll have to leave be
Because he’ll never get
The White House key
He’s blamed it on aides
That he trusted too much
Who were over zealous
And now they’re in Dutch
Yet he’s been called
A ***** such and such
Who had his foot on the gas
And his hand on the clutch
He entered the campaign
As if on a mission
With his super-sized ego
Which fueled his ambition
But he relied too much
On a keen intuition
And now that he’s out
He might as well go fishing
His gastric by-pass
Left him still rotund
But he had the energy
And was fit to run
He savaged others
Without a gun
But they’re still there
Although he’s now done
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
Here comes Twilight,
homely in his ways,
The Night is always after him,
for his closeness to the Day.
Dawn is a distant relative,
determined in her stride.
Day and she are best of friends,
So Dawn won’t ever hide.
But Moon comes slow and silent still,
Jealous of their ties,
He’ll veil himself to hide their way,
Which aides him in his lies.
That Day and Dawn will never meet,
For how can light enjoy?
When Moon so blinds the obvious,
With his schemes and his ploys.
But Day takes heart,
Her Sun is fierce,
And his love for Dawn won’t diminish,
He’ll shine through Moon forevermore,
What must be done, he’ll finish.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
The dark man then shouted, “If it’s pork that you wish,
then have it you will,” and hurled the whole dish
at the Maximum Leader who was hit in the beard
and his nose and his cheeks and his uniform smeared
with pork and with beans and chili sauce seasoning
which ran down his face and stained all his clothing.
The Latin cook then grabbed a cleaver immense
in order to protect and come to the defense
of the Maximum Leader, who support did not lack,
as all of his aides jumped into the attack.
A melee broke out with punching and fighting,
shouting and cursing and kicking and biting,
tables knocked over and crockery broken,
this was for George a tricky situation.
But, quick-witted, as usual, he knew what to do.
On the stove there was boiling a large *** of stew,
picking up a cup, and the other cooks too,
they filled them with hot broth which they then threw
at the combatants all, who, burned, ceased their brawling
and fled for their lives to avoid further scalding
from The Adventures of George
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 3:03 AM UTC
hearing sound for the first time after not knowing it for years
because i'm selfish
fooled myself into thinking
i didn't need to hear
to know what you are saying
i can get by with reading your lips
i can even hear
what you aren't saying
there are 365 days in a year
1,095 days in three
60 seconds in a minute
525,600 minutes in a year
26,280 hours in three
i heard you
maybe
once or
twice
i thought
"middle school is just a bunch of drama it's okay if i tune out for a while"
i thought
"high school is just a waste of time"
i don't need to hear the melodramatics and fights
when i went in for my yearly hearing check-ups with the audiologist
she asked me if i'd been wearing my hearing aides
i said no
rolled my eyes
and tuned out her lecture on losing the ability to speak
it has been three years
four if i'm being truthful
i'm relearning language in a way i've never known language
silence is so ******* loud
i can hear the plips and plinks of water droplets bouncing off of porcelain
in the bathroom, two rooms away
sound is vibrating in front of me like
i'm watching a movie of sound again
maybe i'll be able to turn off the closed captions
or maybe i'll keep them
people are hard to understand sometimes
even with dialogue running along the bottom of the screen
i like what i'm hearing but just in case there's ever a time
when words are a bit too sharp and on the verge of hurting me
i'll know to turn the volume down instead of taking
my ears
out.
-
-z.z
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
As I sit in my bed after tossing and turning
Thoughts and emotions run high.
Too many questions with no answers burning.
Why can't I fall asleep? Why?
My mental state is at critical mass
With thoughts of discouraging fear.
You'd think my brain would kick its own ***
For letting this sleeplessness near.
Its night number three of getting no sleep
In this fourth week of 2010.
Sleep aides can't help and **** counting sheep.
When will I doze off? When?
I wish I could be in some distant land
Where I cannot see anyone.
Where nothing but sun, clean air and warm sand
Is everything I need for one.
Take me away on some treacherous trek
Lead me somewhere deep into space.
I want to see Earth as small as a speck
I want to go to that place.
Let's go to Brazil and explore the vast forest
Let's find some places unknown
I want to hear birds sing an unholy chorus
I want this for me as my own.
These are the places that I wish to go
When sleep takes me away.
But sleep is a dream in itself don't you know.
Which is why I wrote this today.
Dreams are a portal to my own little world
And I alone hold the key.
But nights such as these where my mind lie unfurled
Dreams aren't happening for me.
This place we call home, this planet named Earth
Is turning and floating through time.
If I don't find where my time is of worth
It all won't be worth a dime.
This dumb little story, this lame little piece
Is just to help me pass out.
And now that I think my mind is at peace
Some sleep's what I'm talking 'bout.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 11:00 PM UTC