"clipboards" poems
2002:
today i kicked the door
to history off it's hinges
my jealous frame:
still too proud to say a word
it seems my folks forgot
to pencil in growth marks
cause they thought their boy
would never grow out of small breath
******* dead, years now buried
and i bare his name
too many syllables
for my father to go back
fish & play football
to stand in the yard and play catch
1994:
my mom, the bombshell in retrospect
broke her back in her sleep
a thousand times
since the stairwell in 87'
she still sits for spills
post nuclear about settling
now from the couch
she's a weather report
spouting nonsense
that makes my father
grow grey, crack remotes
& slam doors to dark rooms
abandoning ship
for "cheers" & "scienfeld"
while my mother
sometimes forgets
and sets his place at the table
and my appetite is abducted
by family photos
my mother says things like
"go see your brother today"
-- Johnny's long gone
don't you remember?
we buried him
the day your smile died
2014:
you are inches from me
********* a stray hair
caught in the fabric of your coat
the last remnants of a dog
we laid to rest last week
and here we are
in the hospital again
people don't shake like dogs
finality is found
in the eyes of humans
passing archways
into shallow rooms
where plague and prayer
are the only songs sung
round the stagnant clocks
it makes me wonder
if the clipboards cry
over being the last thing
someone ever writes on
take a number, have a seat
stay a while
i am back, 7 years old
& there are different doors now
they buried the ones
you kicked in that night in '92
when my lungs
were filled with holy water
you never stopped smoking
i never grew out of asthma
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
You'll never believe this
but,
I drank from God's flask the other day.
Yeah,
Convinced that it was half full
Of conscientiousness.
Of hope, or passion, or honesty,
or somethingworthgivingashitabout.
For it had once appeared to many,
A beautiful and grand canteen,
Forged of liquid silver.
And as I allowed the contents to inwardly surge,
I realized that it had plunged into the same carnal vessel
From whence it came,
And the lining of my body had been holding the ancient linings of other bodies,
Reincarnate.
Romantic,
If that's the way you wanna slice it.
But
There is a recipe for such rapture,
And it's been written on pages much less holy than the Bible--
On the coffee stained clipboards of chemists
And the meticulous manuscripts of mathematicians.
It's made out of the same **** that everything else is made of:
Out of the same force that makes you float when you sit in the dead sea,
Out of your body's sweat after a hard day's work,
Out of the blood in your veins.
Salt.
All of it, everything, everyone,
Salt.
Dissolved, crystallized, harvested, ingested,
Redissolved, recrystallized, and the cycle repeated.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:31 AM UTC
When the emergency room
is at maximum occupancy,
the nurses will lay down
their clipboards and utensils,
clear their throats, and ask for
women and children
to approach the desk first.
To ensure proper care,
forms still must be completed promptly,
and as patiently as possible for the
patient to be processed.
There's the occasional backwards R.
But all is acceptable with a
signature by the X.
Adrenaline coursing
through veins may perhaps lead
the cause of instability,
some instances coarse skin.
A child with the heart of a lion,
shell of a turtle, will always overcome;
rest assured, an insured child,
prints their name with the
unmistakable yet
innocent backwards R still
knows that words are as powerful
as excruciating pain.
Sticks and stones and words alone
have been known to break through bone.
With the twitch of a finger
even Danny Torrance made
the word "Redrum" seem
like a word to reflect on,
if not only a feeling
of constant déjà vu.
Intensive care is a surgeon
not leaving a wristwatch
inside of a patient,
if not a cadaver
whose time ran out.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Forgiving the initial insane
with news abstained
ingrained
in-brain
retained
by the unrestrained
emotions, untamed
untrained
explained
by lab coats
clipboards
needles and pain
hurt, in vein
struggled in vain
to obtain
the truth refrained
by lips restrained
from medical terms
and privacy red tape
and while our hearts yearn
the anticipation escapes
from voices shaken and strained
by family, friends, staff, and passer-by;s
as a single word has stirred
emotions, devotions
a word better left unheard
Cancer
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 1:21 AM UTC
abuse is a picture that I am forced to paint
with colors I have never seen.
if I draw fists into open arms,
if I sketch an apology in between berating,
if I fill in every empty space with love,
no one will come running for
the child who cried help.
abuse is a phantom limb
still covered in bruises.
white coats and clipboards wonder
how it can still ache when it is no longer there,
infecting me with their doubts.
sometimes it feels heavier
than it did when it was a part of me.
depression eats at my weight until my skin is taut,
boarding up my eyes and locking my mouth.
blame has found solace in this blood,
guilt mutating my thoughts.
my potential used to live here,
but abuse has a reverse Midas touch
where everything that could have become gold
withers in its hands.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
The white-noise sends him off to sleep,
a sedative pill to ensure a peaceful stay.
The nurses look on through the peep-hole
at night, and thud knuckles on the door
come morning. They are watching for signs
that he is still talking to the stars.
He claims multidimensional beings
can manifest as light,
and correct old constellations
into broadcasts for today.
As the students peer into his cell,
they scowl with concentration
and write furiously on clipboards.
'A high-functioning romantic'
he wrote in self-diagnosis,
and the pills helped with that
in the only way that they could.
He has learned to **** under observation,
a Gorilla in the leaves.
They fog the glass in fascination
at the sleeper in the cell.
Once they caught him ************
He thought that he should put up a show.
That natural function too hard to swallow
or compress into a hand-book.
In the evening he watches
the sports-news revolve,
wishing his soda water
was something a little more severe.
By night the inner-city light pollution
near-destroys any hope of a message
The pill is slipped before
he has begun to lay his head.
He may be losing his sweet imagination,
but he happily chose sleep instead.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
White padded walls, they are the only ones that heed my calls. The doctors stand outside with clipboards, questioning my actions. Wanting reasons for my violent conviction. Their time is short, why waste it on me. I'm not crazy, just eccentric. In all I do, I am eccentric. Quick witted, sharp tongued, eyes wide open. These men and women in white coats know nothing. Text book junkies with no sense. I am insane, to a point where its comforting. Never caring for the consequences or repercussions of actions that may or may not have any merit. A hunt for fool's gold in the diamond mines of my mind's eye.I've lost track of the minutes, hours, days, weeks , months, years, decades, centuries, millenniums. Like moments that past as fast as a blink, time escapes my grip.Like my insanity, it comes and goes like the wind.White padded wallsThe only listeners of my callsTell me to hushbut the voices in my head say " you're crazy, walls can't talk".
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 11:10 AM UTC
I hate it when my biscuit commits suicide
in my cup of tea.
I hate that TV is about celebrity, banality
and reality.
I hate that even though I have a job, money
still alludes me.
I hate being woken up and going to
bed in a bad mood.
I hate adverts on the radio.
I hate stupidity
facebook debates and vanity.
I hate people who think I'm a traffic light
and those oblivious to where they're going.
People who can't stop relentlessly moaning!
I hate that learning's on the decline
I hate shopping , boredom
and "being dolled up to the nines."
I hate that everybody just waits for
things to get better.
I hate that a 'good' hair day depends
on the weather.
I hate assumptions, non-conclusions
and skin ablutions that don't work.
I hate that the art of conversation is
adrift in this technological generation
I hate time-wasters, calories and kid with
no respects for elders.
I hate that journalism's no longer 'cutting edge'
or about the truth.
I hate profound sayings about too many cooks
and spoiled broth.
That I'm incapable of telling people with clipboards
to **** OFF!
I hate martyrs , can't be arse-ters,
ignorance, arrogance and man-made disasters
The non-stickiness of plasters!
I hate public transport, rush hour
and being stuck inside.
I hate people who wear tracksuits but
never exercise.
I hate queuing and clichés
I hate opinions on mental health
and those who just can't help them-self.
I hate people who relentlessly moan
who can't stop trying to sell stuff over the phone.
But most of all I hate it when
....
Ah! Forget it .
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
Pink
Slide down,
Dissolve
and rise; synthetic
inspiration
manufactured by strangers with
Clipboards
and labcoats
and beakers.
And I don't mind, no --
I don't mind your origin at all.
Only the destination.
Come to me.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head.
Outside the bullets ring beneath his finger,
The gunpowder traces patterns of silk.
It coats his clothes as morning musk.
Inside, a choir sings, happy - joyful;
Hymns of harmony.
Inside he never did;
He never did check in;
Into those big white walls.
Clad in the sky and it's ***** of fluff,
He can't let go,
He can't accept,
He can't define the horrors;
The madness.
Behind his own demons,
Behind his own burdens -
What he could never do.
What happened on the outside?
What happened beyond the sea or white?
The restriction of the big white walls?
Inside, everything was fine.
Everything was crisp;
Everything was clean.
Family laughed at pure jokes.
Children sauntered up knolls full of overgenerous seas of color.
Life was like a fairy tale.
He had a life worth living for.
A life where there were no twists nor turns.
There were no shouts of agony;
There were no firing rings.
He had a sister who still admired him -
Who still stood by his side.
One that he felt he needed to protect.
On the outside, he knew he ruined it.
He knew he took away her last and only breath.
He says he's sorry -
He prays to be forgiven.
On the outside, he is rarely there:
He is rarely sane.
Daring death,
He will sit.
Outside he will be poked.
Outside he will be prodded.
Outside he sees the clipboards.
Outside he is tested:
Outside he had a diagnosis.
Mental -
Unstable -
Crazy -
Freak.
The words circle his brain.
A hawk stalking its prey.
On the outside;
He thinks to himself, 'this isn't real.'
He tells himself, 'this isn't real.'
His family is still taking their breaths.
The gun never vibrated between his fingers.
He tells himself he's dreaming.
He will always be on the inside.
Even as the years grow old,
And the planets crumble under a fallen touch.
Even if in reality, it isn't real,
He thinks, 'it is.'
On the outside is the truth.
On the outside is the regret.
On the outside id the remorse.
On the inside is the peace.
On the inside is the tranquility.
On the inside is the life.
Living in a corner,
Desolate –
Alone.
Surrounding – surrounding.
Suffocating and bleeding on the outside,
There he sits,
On pristine white sheets,
And a dying dream in his head;
For the outside is an asylum,
and the inside a false paradox.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
When you have someone asking you
If you feel suicidal
Eight times a day
You start to feel like maybe you should be
Otherwise…
They would have let you go by now
You blink.
And notice
There are no clocks on the walls
Making you painfully aware
That the ticking sound is just in your head
Trying to cope
Without the security of time
They tell you you have to feel better
Before you can go home
But you have to be home
In order to feel better
You know that.
But you start to wonder
If they’ll ever figure it out
It occurs to you
That this group of strangers
Are now in control of your life
They could lock the door for months
Isolate you from all you know
And tell you it’s for your own safety
You are stuck.
The lights in the hallway flicker
Like the programmed beginning
Of a horror movie
You blink.
And another set of lanyards and clipboards
Are standing in front of you
Asking if you feel like hurting yourself
Or someone else today
No.
It’s getting harder to tell the truth
And the other patients;
Vociferously desperate around you
Are the most intense form of peer pressure
Seconds feel like hours
And days like years
You blink.
And the frustration of keeping your sanity
Drips from your eyes
Your own tears used as evidence
For the lie they want you to admit
Your eyelids droop
Heavy with the exhaustion
Of keeping a sound mind
Either way
You know it’s only a matter of time
Before you blink again.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 5:18 PM UTC
Like the four horsemen
They're walking two abreast
In brown with clipboards;
Bulging satchels hang by their sides,
With brochures and pamphlets
For me, who looks down from my window,
To ponder when they leave.
The crowd on the hill is talking,
Gathering, nothing's still.
All ages, colors and creeds,
Smiling, grasping, awaiting his will.
It looks like earth they're offering,
Year after year the same.
Casting nets, these fishermen,
Fishermen beget.
They're card said they were sad to miss me.
They take it from the young and old,
The ill and hale, and all between.
They are the cream between the wafers,
These Guides and their cookies.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
who needs a clipboard anyway?
the back of a lover's legs are enough
lacking the flat judgement of wood
embracing the fluid of my words
upon the sweet kiss of skin.
absorb me in the cracks of your mind.
soak me into the patience of your smile.
drink me in the holes of your eyes.
lead me into the scars of your past.
lose me in the folds of your heart.
crack open the yolk of my heart
and let me leak into my streets of veins.
allow me to drip into your soul
and sink like grinds to the bottom
of my midmorning melancholy coffee.
the ink of my favorite pen
seeps into the threads of my sleeves.
i sit, watching it spread across fibers
to infect new lands and
conquer old stains.
my ship never had a sail but
my hands are strong enough oars
i can carry myself across oceans
treading night after night
until i reach you on the shore.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
I could be a machine
Built by thousands of men
Staring at clipboards,
Statistics and spreadsheets
And another thousand
Staring at my chest.
I could be a lab-rat
Bred to play a game
I can only lose
While they laugh,
Joke and decide what
I can't do.
I could be a slave
Kept captive by stolen choices
Shocked into submission
By charged metal round my neck
Yet when I break down they're
Shocked by my weakness.
I could be a number
Manipulated to fit the
Wishes of our rich,
Powerful 'leaders'
Leading me against my
Wishes.
But I am a woman,
Not held or kept or built or lead,
Not confined to the blueprint
Of a designer in an office,
I am a woman
And I will be free
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 10:25 AM UTC
When I want to be seen
I want the world to turn it’s head and admire me all at once,
Bask in my glow and worship every inch of me.
I am sculpted from marble and ivory,
Every inch of my skin is precious
I shine in the sunlight like church windows on sunday.
When I want to be invisible every glance feels like a knife in my back,
eyes like daggers
ordinary bystanders morph into hallway critics
Clipboards out pens at the ready
A special page to circle my flaws
highlight my insecurities
underline my fears
I am all at once vulnerable in a place where vulnerability is a very dangerous thing to be.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 6:48 PM UTC
Waiting rooms with gray walls and spotted brown carpet,
Scattered with crying babies and outdated magazine stands
Tideous clickings of pens on clipboards writing in medical histories
Everyone is waiting on something here
and for the first time, I don't feel sick in the lobby
Smooth words with hungry conversation stay my new elixir
While the impulses in my brain dispell
and the world dwindles into states of impertinence
Who knew good company could soothe the cure for a neuromaniac
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC