"carer" poems
this is just another ******* **** poem
why just another **** poem?
you sit there and think
why talk about this so often
when the economy is collapsing
and children are starving
and there's a possibility of a
world war 3?
but guess what ******
this poem isn't for you
its for those who's souls have been
tied down and beaten
for those who have lost all hope
for those who have been told that its
"all their fault"
to them, this poem isn't
just another ******* **** poem
it is their savior poem
the one thing that points
out the ****** up things
like double standards
and victim blaming
it may give them the
push that will break the ropes
that hold their souls down
this is the poem that will
restore hope for those who have
given up because society has
given up them and tossed them away
like a used ******
and I will continue writing other
******* **** poems
until my mother stops telling me
to not forget my mace
until I dont have to pay for 500$
self defense classes, on the off chance that hey,
maybe I wont be ***** tonight.
until im not blamed for being attacked
until my ****** is not pitted for his
football carer being ended prematurely
until I can dress like a **** and get home safely
I will continue writing **** poems
until I have nothing ******* left
to write about
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The progression of Huntington's disease often leads to the need of a wheelchair. My husband resisted using a wheelchair for many years, even though his poor balance and tiredness meant he was prone to falls. I didn't exactly pressurise him into using one. To be honest it was not just because it was another sign of loss of independence, but it would have been harder for me too in many respects.
What I wasn't prepared for, when the time came, was the social stigma attached to wheelchair users insofar as becoming a kind of non-entity! In a weekly blog I wrote in 2008 I wrote about the first time I took my husband out in a wheelchair. It angered me how peoples’ attitudes seemed to change overnight.
Walking down the High Street,
Hand in hand like lovers,
The couple blend into the crowd,
No different from the others.
As the years go by though,
His body having changed,
Has sadly meant a wheelchair,
Has had to be arranged.
Strolling down same High Street,
The woman now behind,
Her lover needing pushing,
Steep pavements so unkind.
Entering the bar now,
With awkward navigation;
People jump to open door,
Aware of situation.
“Thank you” says the man in chair,
When wheeled into the place;
“Welcome” say the helpers there,
But all avoid his face.
Carer gets the “Welcome” mouthed,
No looks with him they share;
Let’s treat this fellow human being,
As if he wasn't there.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
You suffer with depression
yet it's I
taking the meds.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:13 AM UTC
A figure of eight,
wonders through her mind,
accepts that through this spate
children are for all time.
a mum, a chef
a carer of children too
with love intense
brings light to all that do.
"Family before Friends"
This is the mantra
that she lives to.
Always makes amends
to the family
she has knew.
Her Husband, Her Sons,
Her Daughters, Her Love
All of this is summed up
in the quality of her stew.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
*"Constantly criticizing,
annoying agitation,
ignorant imbecile..."*
I hate thinking this way but you give me no choice.
If I don't speak with love, then what is my voice?
I try to motivate and inspire, but you cause friction.
My thoughts and actions are becoming a contradiction.
**"Considerate carer,
admirable artist,
intelligent idol.**"
I love that I say this to you, because it makes you think.
Yet I wonder, "Will any of this message actually sink?"
Maybe its because my poor conviction and dry emotion.
No... it has to be more serious... its my lack of devotion.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
A fly walks the circumference of my nose
As I sit in the too hot sun
Just my kinda luck
any other part of my body
and I would be blissfully unaware
I blow down hard,
He leaves for a moment
But returns with renewed curiosity
My hands hang limp
By the wheels of my body
My silent voice screams out
Trying in vain to get the attention of my carer,
deep in conversation.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
All work, no play and neon screens
menial tasks even coat my dreams.
Overboard in bored and a silent phone,
oh no, I think I’ve evolved to drone.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, a life of drought.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
For lady dollar; I can’t bear her,
as the riches are even rarer.
I’ve become a machine, to crush numbers
with no log off for needed slumbers.
Now my brain’s racing, a million miles per hour,
oh no, I think I’ve gained A.I’s power.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, now what life is about.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
No sudden movements; don’t want to scare her,
she’s updating with no carer.
Learning binary,
a breathing library,
processing slowly
but still a finery.
I forgot what my hands were for
they used to write all that I adore.
Now fingertips type, each key a shot,
oh no, I think I’ve grown into a robot.
Punch in, punch out, this is the wrong route.
Punch in, punch out, no one hears me shout.
This technological terror
has caused life to flash in error.
Pure absorption; a simple stare,
life’s equation could be fairer.
Learning binary,
a breathing library,
walking geometry
complete machinery.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 10:39 AM UTC
My defensive carer named Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo
You see my nice regular carer, Andrew Williams was sick and didn't want go to work
Which put spanner in the works in the office, and they were wondering who will replace him
So they decided to ask Alfreido Dimpitt Reemo a call, and were happy when he said yes
And they forgot to tell his first client, who can be very confusing in conversation
But they forgot to tell that client and Alfreido turned up at his door
And this was the day that Andrew was going to take him for a walk through the domain
Where the Christmas carols, and Alfreido was happy to take him
And they had a cool time, till the client told him about his old carer who was names Reimo
And Aldreido snapped at him, and his client thought that he doesn't understand happiness
And this made him happier, and he started laughing and trying to joke around with Alfreido
And Alfreido did joke with him, and really they started to hit off
And then, so his client mentioned his old carer Reimo and how much of a **** he was
And Alfreido got defensive, in fact he got so angry he nearly hit his client
And this made his client too shy to say anything else
On the risk that Alfriedo was going to do it again
And he even was afraid to speak his mind, in the risk he'll snap at him
And his client were unhappy about how this carer treated him
Especially when they were leaving the domain and there were some teenagers teasing him
And this made his client think that Alfreido was teasing him with the kids
I know he had issues for what he said, but, he though this was very wrongs the way
His carer was behaving, and every time he mentioned Reimo, in hoping that he would
Joke around with you, he will snap, as if you were trying to rob you or something
So at the end when Alfriedo left, he didn 't know what to do
So he rang up the carers organization and told them why Alfreido came instead of Andrew
And they told him they had no choice, it was either Alfreido or no one
And this client said, ok in the future, I will prefer no one, especially if you send him again
Because he is too defensive, when I mention the name of my old carer
And despite telling him why he snapped, he still felt very unsafe
And said, I want you to send no one, or send no one
Because I felt I am offending this carer with anything I say
And I don't know what I really said, and the organisation said, fine
And Alfreido never saw him again,
And the next time Andrew came, and he was very relieved
And told him that the bad carer has gone, and will never return
And Andrew said, yes, mate, I will make sure they don't ever send him again
Sent from my iPhone
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
Rose:
"Dandelion,
how dare you grow in my bed!
Only I have the privilege of feeding on this nutrient rich soil,
created for me, me alone!
You have no right to make your home here!
My keeper will pull you out of the ground
and dispose of you like the **** you are."
Dandelion:
"Rose,
I've just as much right to grow as you do!
Why do you insult me?
Am I not a flower just like you?"
"Dandelion,
you're a common garden ****
I'm beautiful, admired by all who set eyes upon me.
My keeper feeds and carefully prunes my body.
She admires my soft velvety petals which are the deepest red.
My stem, so slender, my prickles tempting, dangerous.
I'm beauty and pain in perfect harmony.
You can admire, but do not touch!"
"Rose,
I'm beautiful in my own way,
don't you see?
My yellow petals, the colour of golden sunshine.
I symbolise the sun, moon and stars;
I'm also resilient.
I've no carer to look after me, yet I still manage to flourish,
even in the toughest of places."
"Dandelion,
your time will be short in this place!
There's no room for your commonness here.
I'm a special breed, you're ******
"Rose,
I know my fates sealed,
I accept the situation for what it is;
Beauty's in the eye of the beholder.
What you don't realise,
we'll suffer the same fate!
You'll end your days
standing in a vase filled with water.
My death will be quick;
Yours prolonged!
In the end,
your beauty will be your downfall!"
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 5:13 AM UTC
I am just a city girl, I'm calling up at city lights.
The daily roar of traffic, unsettling on this chilly Tuesday night.
I am frightened by my shadow, as sunlight comes around.
I ran along the pathway outside my darkened house.
Heard a creature snuffling, perhaps it was a mouse.
Then my lovely carer crept outside the bungalow.
Oh no, my shuffler got trod on.
She thought it was the discarded head of a tatty old brush.
A broom head, chucked out in the gloom.
It was a little hedgehog.
Poor creature creeping around in the dark.
Went indoors.
Found a torch.
The pig of the hedge had gone.
My carer told me she felt guilty.
I said she need not be.
As the hedgehog, scared by heavy feet.
Was up the pathway nibbling meat.
The meat was meant for me.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
Dear John,
There are things about my life,
that are not understood,
not by me,
not by anyone.
It's the emergency room on a tsumani night,
It's the silent room after surgery failed,
It's the silence in the dark after everyone has gone to bed.
It is not the calm after the storm,
It is the wreckage in the aftermath,
It is the middle of the tornado.
I am the bandit on the highway of love,
I am the runaway bride from hell,
I am the scared, the fear, the innocent child.
Dear John,
I am the carer in the giver,
and I want to give you all i can give,
I want to give you all that life can give,
But i need to give myself air to breathe,
like a fine red wine,
that i would down like it was moonshine.
Dear John,
I am the old oak tree faltering in the breeze,
I am the wheat sheaf, tall and ready to be cut down,
I am the end of the beginning.
But i feel you and it feels me,
and i am so involved but so distant,
I am blue and i am black,
but yet i am bright and i am shiny.
Dear John,
Please be the ***** socks on my bedroom floor,
Please be the voice that tells me to stop using the hot water,
Please be the cup that doth runneth over.
This and that, this and that, this and that.
Dear John,
be the moisturizer on my skin,
be the sublime and the settled,
be the heaven and show me the light there.
I wish i could peel off my skin,
and let you all in,
and see the beauty beneath and my wonderous treasures within.
Dear John,
don't give up,
I am here,
though i am not.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
mwanamke
mwanamke
birth my dreams
turn my shadow
into firing flash
anoint me in gold
mwanamke
say my name
warm my wings
in the shell
of your hands
emakumea
emakumea
patient grinder
time carer
you grow silence
in the lit wood
in the cradling lull
emakumea
i forget
unaware
i walk ahead
emakumea
you accept to linger
emegtei
emegtei
i am no more
the scout the hunter
i dream of my gold
you throw into the fire
what's left
from your feathers
nārī
nārī
mirror for me
the story of then
be my water flow
nārī
this tide
in your eyes
nārī
is it
the intangible you
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
My response to you has always been focused.
This has gladly not been over looked by you.
I have become thoughtlessly biddable and amenable for you, especially in the morning light.
I am consenting, compelled yet not obliged ..........
You have discovered I am nothing but a girl from a circus.
I never tried to hide it. You weren't looking before.
Although I am a fan of amusements, fetes and even frolics, I do refrain from favoring all tricks.
My indulgence in foolery is a sport I plan to employ for a while yet.
Do I care for you to join me and see if I can defy your desire for extracurricular activities, as well as being your carer?
Is this a task a clown would pretend was a harmless challenge.
Perhaps not, perhaps so.
My roots are raw and loyal to the art of play.
I need you to know this and hold it.
A Spanish fly will not be able to satisfy my ears alone?
Sincerity can be a sharp business sometimes.
Obedience to attachment brings around a credulous familiarity thus a dependency
It could easily keep me awake to stare at many moons
It hasn't.
You have seen me stumble and look at you gingerly more than once now
You are not even delicate but you can be shrewd even when you struggle with expectation.
There is a soberness about your beauty I find pleasingly magnetic.
When you leave me alone without your mighty graze
I without question appreciate and yearn for your persuasions and rough tenderness.
Your actions maybe more savory in the afternoons
compared with your visits to my buoyant dreams but you do kindly hold open doors.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
grief struck me like a lightning bolt
the anguish thundered in my gut, tasting the
sting of it's acid decimating my throat
you were never a nice man, your habits
ate away at my bones. my skin has been desolate
of adoration, my heart barren of beating
but when you allowed the sickness to overcome
your wit, i became your carer again, i was able
to caress your skin and wash your pores of bad
i was necessary for you, you howled for me.
my palm engulfed your fingertips while
you were lowered to rot in the ground.
i wake up every morning with a kick in the teeth, blood
swelling in my temples. remembering your last words to me,
‘words mean nothing when i can feel your heart in mine'
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 8:28 AM UTC
where would we be
without our community volunteers
those wonderful people
who are there in times of need
the blood donor
gives a pint of blood
to keep a soul alive
the only payment he takes
is a cup of tea and piece of cake
the carer
who looks after a neighbor
who has no relative around
to assist with showering
and household chores
the Lions Club member
out on the street collecting money
for a wheelchair
to be placed in a hospital ward
there are people
who've an altruistic bent
out in each of our communities
daily assisting others
if these people
didn't come forward
to offer a helping hand
for free
the community
would be the poorer
without their kind deeds
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 4:11 AM UTC
Its the feeling you get when your mind is a war zone, a warped home where grimmy thoughts roam, with no guidance or support zone, your so frightened to fight it on your own. More poems of suicide and self harm, you ever dreamt you died and felt calm? Just a truant mind with health crimes, help cant cure a ruined life in Hell's palms. You fell in to a ditch and because of it popping bottles of pills that you mixing your ***** with, then nodding off a bit picturing god and all of it, a doctors on the phone telling you to ***** it. Consistently monitored, the alcohol, the quiting , the six, seven seizures, its the moment a schizophrenic freezes, hearing a voice that whispers when it pleases, the vigilant bulimic, the obsessive and compulsive,the bipolar mood swing and stomach ulcers. Its the hidden issues that the medicine alters. Its the judgmental that the depression repulses ,the anxiety, the psychs with the notes, the post traumatic stress and the vices to cope. The prices of dope,the ice in the pipe that you smoke. The knife the rope, the temptation of slicing your throat. Its the stigma determined to scare you, when the bourbon your served is your urgent repairer. When not feeling nervous becomes rarer and your mom quits her job to become your permanent carer. Its the psychotic episodes, the days that you lost seeking help, but being crazy isn't something I am ashamed to admit, so stay strong anybody who relates to this, please.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
She was a writer.
The words on the page mirroring her innermost thoughts.
She was a thinker.
A whole universe of beautiful thoughts running through her head.
She was a fighter.
When all odds seemed against her she pulled through.
She was a lover.
She loved so purely and greatly even though sometimes it wasn't returned.
She was a carer.
She looked after those who were stuck in the dark and she helped mend their broken pieces.
She was a dreamer.
And she is my friend
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
My door is always open
My kettle is always on
I’m here with a shoulder
For you to cry upon
You can tell me anything
Your secrets I can keep
You can phone me anytime, day or night
Even when I am asleep
If you live in solitude
Or your heart is filled with grief
If you suffer from low self-esteem
I can build your self-belief
I am everybody’s rock
But who is there for me?
Who cares for the carer?
I think you will agree
The more you do for others,
The less they do for you
It's the way society is now
But that is just my view.
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC
He skims the haze of the day
like a cat seeking its food
prowling lane alleyway
to find you in bitter mood.
On your door the unwelcome guest
you would not call him to stay
with him time is a waste
he would better be shooed away.
You hate when he starts to speak
his sunburned face is a bore
must cut him short pretty quick
behind him close the door.
Like you are nine of ten
but he knows his job is done
is rewarded all his pain
if he can charm just one.
The one that ears lends
a carer who knows well
how it greatly depends
a family on one sale.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 8:07 AM UTC
As you sit in the cafe
in the shopping mall
you see Sophie
and her man friend
smooching across
the table
he with moustache
and thinning
combed back hair
and she
with dark black hair
straight to the collar
of her white blouse
they purse their lips
he closes his eyes
leans forward
she likewise
as if
in some French cafe
in some 1950s film
you sip your latte
watch the show
he once worked
pushing trolleys
in some super store
she unsure
but with a carer
sometimes seen
walking the mall
or in the bank
or shops
and some days
she’ll come up
and say hello
in a loud voice
as if she’d not
seen you
in a thousand years
other days not at all
or she’ll tell you
some news
about her life
or some small trouble
that’s got her down
today she sits
and kisses
and converses
with the man friend
and he’ll laugh
and maybe she too
and hold hands
over the cokes and cakes
you sit back
in the chair
and watch them there
repeat their kissing
or holding hands
the Romeo eyes
now open
leaning near
mouthing words
you cannot hear
she lips still pursed
says loudly
of a love
she feels
or how hot
the weather is
or how his scarf
untidy looks
or unbuttoned shirt
others who do not
know them sit
and gawk
and make snide comment
behind their hands
make judgement
in their bourgeoisie world
but you like others
who know them of old
sit and drink
and make no judgements
of what they say
or do but watch
the kissing
and holding of hands
like in a B feature
at the cinema
waiting for
the real thing maybe
but content to see
the movie through
having no where to go
or other things to do.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
We want to be loved.
We all do.
No matter how alone
Our hearts aren't made of stone
From loves discomfort
We want the passion and comfort
The heart pains with disappointments
To remind us we human
And that perfection is flawed
Love is flawed
The truer it gets
It's kindly cruel
Selfishly considerate
With all other nothings
It's what the carer is
Love has a shape and size
That only my eye see
It has your shape, your size
That's why I love thee
I do not want your love
For anything from you
But I'll give you my love.
Do it as you please.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:03 PM UTC
This is something I wrote to be read at my Cousin Rene's funeral.
Oh My! I'm zooming down the Spanish coast... dipping my toes in the Med.
But you might find me on a Cornish Campsite drinking Pina Coladas instead.
Or it could be me, arm-in arm with good pals in pre-war summers... painting Withernsea red!
To all of those who saw me through the darker days I am thankful that you helped & guided...
Oh My! ...But I'm better now... I'm free... it's been a trying time, but once again... I can be me!
And there's something else I've just realised. Do you know what? I can see!
The last few years haven't been kind to me. Apparently I hadn't been making much sense.
I knew inside what I wanted to say... being with me must have made people nervous... tense.
But now the pressure's lifted, for loved ones and for me.
I was ready - went on too long. Now I'm on the 'other side'.
From now you’ll hear me on the wind in the trees and my whispers, in the surf and the tide.
I'm pain free, light and frothy again, teetering on heels... I’m a dizzy apricot blonde... No need for me to hide...
I might even drop in on you as I'm told you can... to say a quick thanks for all who helped - or tried...
Oh My!... and yes....people to thank? It's like an Oscar speech...
there's a list....but amongst all one stands out... shines like a star...
My Chef... my Chauffeur... my Ears.... my Eyes... my Angel... my Wingman... My Ken!
By my side through bad times, the good times and all those difficult bits... Not the now - but the then...
My Multi-tasker, My Carer...My Rock... My 'Rock & Roller'...
I remember we used to jive way back when...
And as the old song goes, I'm sure ... We’ll meet again!
Oh My!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC