"bedsores" poems
for centuries they have been around in every city, village and town
they was known under many different names and yet no two
were ever the same.
they are known as the angels of mercy, also te kind hearted souls
who helped the sick , the dieing , the old.
they see aches, pains and suffering every day while family members
may hide or run away.
they share with the sick , stories. pains and tears
and they wipe away their fears.
their faces may be the last faces that the dieing may see
as they bring them comfort in the life to be.
nurses don't work under doctors , they work as equals with them !
they give them meds and hold their hands to let them know they understand.
the nurses are the soldiers on the battlefields who fight the wars
they are the ones who know the score.
when they have to turn a patient on their side so
that they can clean their behinds and making sure
they have no bedsores before they walk out the door.
they also have times of joy when they see the birth
of a girl or boy, and of when a patient can walk out the door on their own
because of the caring a nurse has shown.
they are the last stop between healing and dieing
and of this there is no denying.
(C) L . RAMS042715
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
When behind closed doors, in slumbers’ shackle bound
Weary eyes dream in bliss, the world makes no sound
He’s out on round to reach each door in hunt of his man
His face unseen but he sees them all, the hooded horseman!
One night he stopped at a door on hearing a painful moan
The agony in it was so intense, melted his heart of stone
He went in to find a man, in pain’s utter anguish
Mumbling ‘o god have pity on me take me away please’!
The hooded man greatly moved asked him what’s the cause
The streaming sobs of his painful cry was in what remorse
All the while as he said these words, never took of his hood
For he couldn’t, knowing it well, it would do the man no good!
The man replied ‘in my ripe old age I’m left alone
With ailments, without a care, as all my own are gone,
So I asked god to take me off, I can’t bear it anymore
Staying alive with crumbling bones and festering bedsores!
The hooded man said ‘wait a while, let me see to it,
If it’s there, your name, features in tonight’s list,
He scanned it hard then shook his head ‘nothing I can do,
There’re names galore for outbound trip, not one of them is you’!
Saying thus he mounted his horse, here he was needed no more
The hooded horseman on his ceaseless errand, galloped to another door!
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
A man in love is hardly a man these days.
We're supposed to play in sports, fight in wars,
cover ourselves in tattoos and bedsores.
Say "yes, sir" to the more stoic man,
find things to **** and never hold hands.
We are the knives at the table, not the big spoon.
Why are you still in her bed? Don't you dare say "I love you."
But what if I say no?
What if I want a hand to hold?
What if I have a better cause to call my own
and this light-beer ******** is getting old?
I won't buy what your selling. I found a better deal.
It's in the way I shake instead of sleep at night;
it's the way I feel when I look into her eyes;
when I hold the door open to catch a smile,
and maybe I want her to stick around a while.
You think you know America? You think you know men?
Well I think you should take your guns and put them to your head.
A real man is one who loves without regret.
So I am a man, not your ******* pet.
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
in the old grass we found lead weights and paraffin
arranged upon smoke and earth... gilding the cannibal suns
with flesh-tones and bedsores. we forged ahead
of our Heads again
in disarray.the long Joke of Birth... tilting the rhombus.
we cumbersome.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC
In those Summer days
When the green grass scratched my legs,
The mud cooled my toes
And I ran through the cold stream,
Pulling off green leaves
From the bushes by the house
And twigs from young trees.
Somehow the fall came—
I liked to call it Autumn—
And I walked slowly,
Picking up acorns and nuts
Before squirrels came
And quickly hid them away.
As morning frosts came,
I began to feel the chill.
Somehow the world changed,
As an apple will grow ripe,
And the world changed me.
In Winter's strong grasp I woke.
I looked around me
And in every grey shadow,
I saw a regret,
A what-if of circumstance:
A sharp memory,
Hanging like an icicle
Just waiting to fall.
Summer would sweetly call me,
And Autumn smiled,
But Winter's embrace choked me.
I would leave the world,
Fly back to the land of dreams,
If I knew a way.
I would cry to the grey sky,
Ask all the questions,
If I thought it would answer.
And so I slept deep,
Knowing nothing could be done
Unless the world changed,
Giving me fresh hope inside;
But it never would.
Spring has crept up to my door
It has knocked loudly
And shaken me from slumber.
Its face is grinning,
Smiling so wide, and laughing.
I've opened my door,
Not fearing a winter wind
For the first time now.
Spring calls me from my bedroom,
Asking me to play
And hang up my coat of doubt
By the scarf of shame
And the hat of my worries.
Spring pulls on my arm,
And even though it hurts now,
Somehow growing pains
Are better than the bedsores.
So take the shoes off my feet
And teach me to run again.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 7:46 PM UTC
Today.
Read like the last poem ever written by
ginsberg.
It read.
Nostalgia.
Of a lost love for life.
It read.
Critical as the final dying etchings that he made into that paper.
The final breaths of words given that morning,
made me cry the first time
I read them.
this time.
The words smelled
of
malls
,
girl juice.
There's a baby in his belly.
There is hemorrhage in his tone.
There are one million paired eyes scanning
bedsores in his last poem.
He took everything to the end of his life with him.
No one packed his suitcase.
He simply jumped out of his frail
body.
He probably managed last words with
something
prophetic.
****
and
Endless.
*****
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
words that hang like shutters
from broken hinges.
words that hover like nurses
after surgery.
words that splatter like
thin remorse.
I heave with sickness
when they arrive.
I spring with ebullience
when they leave the ** dunk
parts of my mind.
these words
these ********* words
that show up in Pontiacs,
in Plymouths, in Pintos
these nonsensical,
satirical,
antiquated words.
they charge at you
like a dead bovine
swinging from a meat hook.
they crawl towards you
like a silverfish
out of the sink drain.
they creep up on you
like an old ***
rattling a change cup.
why? I ask myself.
why does this happen?
I don’t want this kind of ailment;
give me
bee stings
or bedsores
or steam burns
but not these words,
these words that linger like shingles
across the ribcage of burning torment.
I pray without ceasing
towards a signified God.
I pray for simple sacrifice;
I want suicide rather than poetry.
I want a cow without milk.
I want a statue without structure.
I want a woman without grace.
I can feel the floodgates opening soon
and I think I’m going to puke my guts
out all over this page again.
Nov 22, 2024
Nov 22, 2024 at 11:45 AM UTC
She started with the dirt.
and so it began:
salty dreams dripped like rain water from her heart,
sounding like bass drum parade when
they bombarded
the seeds below.
Boom, bang.
and her symphony began.
Her eyes only rested softly on the peach petals and
green she wished to see one day,
trying to line them up in her mind.
Finding order in the colorful plumage
one could grow and
Row by row
She began to sow
Her own
beauty.
Every day spent, relentlessly push-pulling
with the thorned roses and monsooning
for her scars. She’d bind their branches and with scarlet
fingers, she’d bless each white petal she found
with blood across his white flesh,
so that he too, would not be taken for some
innocent fool, so easy to
pluck apart.
She lived this way for many years,
routinely carving out her heart for the
flowers in her garden.
for this notion
of keeping something pure
in a world so filthy that the only
place a flower has to grow is
in the mud and
the only way a flower is supposed to be able to grow pretty
is with“Fertilizer”.
Then one day,
she finally realized that all fertilizer is,
is ****
That very night she built herself a greenhouse
with her bed at the very center of the garden
and she threw out all the fertilizer
she’d bought at Lowe’s on sale earlier that week. She began to
practice sleeping with her thoughts and her cultivation,
the smell of fresh mud and potpourri
tormented each other the minute her head hit
her grassy green pillow and she would let her garden fester,
foliage bounded by her fear.
Once her fingers began to wrinkle and her voice no longer
bounced back at her from her fortified walls,
she found herself
tangled in the freely flowing vines she had once
kempt so well. The peach petals and green
made her heart squeeze as they grew lovingly,
between her toes
to her chest
and around her neck.
As she dreamt, they did not suffocate her
like she believed they would, one day long ago. The
dirt felt water-like beneath her back, soothing her bedsores and
sounding of the bass-drum parade from many years ago,
when she listened closely. Her eyes fluttered with
every bang and she found her peach petals again-
all so chaotically contained, their colors
stifled by the jagged walls she built for herself.
Taking in their unique passions and thorns
in one steady breath, rainwater fell for her
flowers softly this time. With every drip-drop,
each rose played his own sweet note.
Triangles and marimbas and strings
serenading her into bliss.
We can only dream that she found beauty
in her cultivations, just as they
found
in her.
May 19, 2019
May 19, 2019 at 4:08 AM UTC