"disinfectants" poems
how often good Christians offer to hold us in prayer
friends of the ill, they intend well
I don't refuse, of course
Father catechized He was everywhere -
in flowers and butterflies, even all living things
so when He seemed never to notice the obvious
I'd squeeze my brow tight
as if the effort might shine invisible light
bright enough to be seen at universal distance...
my prayer
awaking mornings still cradled
safe in the branch of a tree
or folded in the back seat of our van,
alone
in the dark, no more a devil,
even I've heard the whispered words
of "Our Father..."
but we both know Jesus gave up his practice
of psychoanalysis long ago
so I wasn't surprised - just disappointed
when each resurrection of hope died
now I'd rather mop,
having collected an assortment
of surfactants and disinfectants suitable
for a wide variety of household surfaces
killing the unsuspecting bacterium,
allergen or virus
I set blossoms in a sterile vase at bedside
by her arrangement of amber pill bottles
they'll wilt; I'll empty
a prayer she doesn't notice
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
I was swimming in a stream of sounds:
Voices, motors, cars honking, whistles,
But all faded as soon as the trip was over.
Alighting from the back,
I followed with hurried steps.
While walking,
A kaleidoscope of your daily activities
Played through my mind, over and over...
Today, I didn't hear the sound of your yawning,
Also, you missed your garden visit
This early morning.....
.............you couldn't, because.............
You lay there, snoring,
So calm in your sleep.
The small bed, in a room
With that familiar smell of disinfectants....
The crumpled sheets that wrapped your body,
No fresh flowers on your bedside..
You wouldn’t have approved of all these....
But you were seemingly uncaring.
There was only the deep sound of your breathing.
I saw your chest rise and fall rhythmically.
It was cold in the room......
Your feet were getting cold, too...
I held my beads tighter.
Suddenly,
The deafening silence was disrupted.
Words I could hardly understand
Were softly uttered, the voices unrecognizable.
I rushed out of the room, down to the garden.....
But the whispers became more audible,
Blown towards my face by a gentle breeze.
Even as I sat on a secluded bench,
I heard the same things over and over,
Like a broken record.
I fled back to the room and covered my ears,
To shut out the voices.
Then I noticed, you were ominously still,
Snoring no more...............
………......breathing no more.
**** these murmurs of death!
Like a swarm of bees, they followed me,
Buzzing monotonously what I refused to hear.
They were in their highest note....
In unison, they were
Celebrating victory......
In cacophony...
--------------
Sally
Copyright 2013
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
I love cleaning,
I need to clean.
From my hands to the walls,
Lysol, Windex, Disinfectants, Bleach.
Don't ask me why...
Don't say "But everything is already so spotless!"
Because friend, reality is one thing,
My mind is the mess.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
I want you to close your eyes and imagine something for a second.
I want you to wander down the twisted path of your life, until you arrive at your exit.
And I want you to stand inside the gate.
Not quite in, not quite out.
Your final moments.
The autumn has finally blown over into winter, a chill coming down your spine.
Everything around you is fading, and each passing moment feels like an eternity.
The fabric of life is slipping through your fingers, and you can’t hold on. You aren’t strong enough.
So you just want to let go.
Let’s say you are lying in a hospital bed, a trail of wires dangling from your wrist, disinfectants stinging your nose.
Let’s say you know why you are here, and you know what is coming, and you’re scared.
Let’s say that you are exiting the trail, and knocking on death’s door.
I want you to imagine the people around you, saying goodbye.
I want you to imagine your farewell thoughts.
Will you be thinking about that dream school you never got into?
Will you be thinking about your sub count on youtube?
Will you be thinking about your ****** job that just managed to pay the rent?
Will you be thinking about that year when you felt like you were all alone, and nobody cared?
Will you be thinking about all those dreams you never chased?
No.
You won’t.
You’ll remember the way your kid smiles when she’s happy, lighting up a room.
You’ll remember dancing in the kitchen like an idiot with the one you love.
You’ll remember the student who was failing until you touched their life.
You’ll remember playing in the backyard with your sister.
You’ll remember arguing over Marvel movies with your brother.
You’ll remember the crazy adventures you had with your best friends.
You’ll remember hugs from your grandparents.
You’ll remember the sound of the ocean, filling you up with joy.
You’ll remember your dad, patiently teaching you how to cook even though you aren’t any good.
You’ll remember your mom, attempting to show you how to pitch a ball.
You’ll remember the sun on your back and the wind at your feet, beckoning you forward.
You’ll remember that person who always knew how to make you smile.
You’ll remember the homeless man who laughed in joy when you provided him with a meal.
You’ll remember the confident smile of the kid with stage fright as he flawlessly recited his lines.
You’ll remember the way the trees sang their summer song in the forest, saying their final goodbyes.
You’ll remember your grandchildren’s eyes, which seem all too familiar.
And because of this, they’ll remember you.
Apr 24, 2018
Apr 24, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
The air was painted.
Inside the chain link fences
were clouds;
brushstrokes
that could’ve been
proffered by
Van Gogh
or
*******
as they dissipated
into the early, cold
morning air,
pausing only for a
few moments to allow
some of the particulates
to freeze;
the hydrogen, the oxygen,
the lye,
&
detergents that
make up whatever
is used in
a prison laundry.
The effluvium is rich,
the odor of a passable
cleanliness in what is largely
a rather fetid domain.
The scent of bleach,
harsh, chlorinated,
removal of that which
stains.
Yet,
something stays,
an acrid, sour smell;
an unpleasantness
which seems to have chosen
to remain
unwashed.
It is concluded,
that this emanation,
is the opposite of
emancipation,
it is a olfactive reminder
that
Building # 7
serves up
freshly washed sorrows,
rages, or regrets
as well as
whiter whites,
releasing
stains from grays
more often than the wearers
of
these wardrobes are released
themselves.
With this in mind,
swirling, shifting,
moving, motivating
marching upward,
toward
Building # 1,
It is breathed in,
and out, and in
again,
renewal,
like clean laundry
washed in industrial
soaps, rinsed in disinfectants,
delousers, deodorants
unknowable.
Starting over.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Overmorrow,
And,
Everafter.
Amen.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 9:52 PM UTC