"emphysema" poems
My father died
from a gun shot wound
to the head
self-inflicted
Don't get all weird about it.
Fathers die
and their passing
though certain
is rarely easy.
So what can I say of this man
so many years
after his emphatic end?
I can say what Whitman said
of Lincoln:
"O Captain, my Captain.
Rise up and hear the bells."
But he will not.
He was ever-present
wise and alert
a boxer in life
a fighter in every way.
And I grew up with the gloves on
quick
elusive
and thanks to him
successful in every ring.
He died
******* on a lit tobacco stick
Emphysema was gonna
take him down
so he pulled his own trigger
saved his family that way
though that's a longer tale
Therefore
and whereas
this is a belated requiem
for a man I loved.
My Captain.
Dear and departed
these many years
may he rest in peace
as he never rested
in life.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
Skeletons of shadow teach me anatomy from inside the ark.
Quiet. Old women at the double doors. So dark, the sanctum.
Heaven is stained glass. Fold your paper hands, your husband
Mumbles under the preacher's emphysema. On the mic,
Occasional screams of raspy black-and-white noise. Screams.
How He screams. Red-faced Church-parent. Little Easter bows,
The snarling bouquets who sting and follow the grass-green Moon.
Of the ten mounted fans, only one stays awake enough to listen,
Awake enough to hope to catch every particle of sleeping dust.
We were made from dust. The mountains too. I can't see.
The concrete days. Cinders and spiders and cracking tile.
Roaring, wailing, proliferating my thick umbra in the mesmer flask.
When the door opens, how will I feel? Glass and sandstone.
Will I have my face or someone else's? Eight faces by four.
How will I taste? Cinnamon and lapis.
Will I have angles or planes? Metric and function.
Little, silver words trail fingers through me, trace me, and cement me.
I glisten once and then am spent.
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 7:08 PM UTC
How we sell ourselves short so often
We tell a fib or a little white lie
To avoid conflict
To save face
For a greater good
What a fallacy
A lie is a lie
How can one ignore the fact
We throw away our integrity
We don't show true to our character
Or is it that you are a liar ?
The deed itself is deceit
Double dealing
Trickery
Fraud
Underhandedness
Treachery
Oh but to say a few
When done to us we are hurt
Why not have that same integrity we wish be dealt our way?
Cause it's easier?
Is it?
If it's easier for you
Then you have no place near me!
I won't say I never lie!
Oh I have yes!
But it's taken it's toll on me!
I know integrity!
I know it's arch enemy too!
A white lie?
Really is that what we tell ourselves?
It's like getting leukemia
To cure Emphysema!
Ridiculous yeah!
But I'll choose to rather be silent than lie!
I'll be the man I portray!
The man I want to look up to!
I have to try
Or I am just that same as that
diminutive little deed!
A LIE
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 4:17 PM UTC
entirely the use of his body. cigarette like a lover only there to sober his hands five minutes. anything fell becomes the last link of a buried tow chain. emphysema, the on again off again j-hook of his right heel run off with devil horn. how lifts, watch him, the blank assigned weight of your firstborn without housing a single thought. it is always, this, shoe that drops. a lifetime of work, say it, **** your mouth away. your mother has tried to **** him; she a lack river. handless and is not the one pulls him out or keeps him from being.
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 2:47 PM UTC
As he puffed his American Spirit, a handsome Asian business man said good morning. To the low hum of cars streaming by, I sang back, "Have a nice day!" We passed, two birds on their way to summer. I hope we don't get the emphysema.
Oct 17, 2018
Oct 17, 2018 at 2:26 AM UTC
Is that my name on your tongue?
***** I'm the smoke up in your lungs!
Got that 1930s aptness
crazy off that ****** madness.
These players whining, got emphysema
acting like ******* is the remedy--I
I got rhymes to define my time
ain't nobody expecting
a lyrical mastermind.
But I don't owe you **** and
I ain't got **** to prove
stand toe-to-toe with me
***** I never lose.
I ain't going to beg for your approval
it's this confidence that keeps me youthful.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
call me the cancer fairy
i bring burnable gifts of
chronic emphysema and hopeless addiction
with death on your lips
i hope that you think of me
as the cherry ember glows low
and soft grey ash caresses
even softer fingertips
viva la cigarettes! a love story in smoke
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
a quiet man he was
the smiles were rare
signs of affection
non-existent
yet his soul came through
his goodness
his quality
his concealed intelligence
I can see him in his sleeveless tee-shirt
cigarette in right hand
a pen in his left
doing the New York Times crossword puzzle
at the dining room table
he would watch Jeopardy
and reel off the answers
one after another
under his breath
he'd survived 3 heart attacks
diabetes and emphysema
years of working 2 jobs to support 8 children
but the alzheimers was unforgiving
and eventually wore him down
my Father
like his son
had buried a facet of his early years
his gift for verse
which I discovered unbeknownst to him
before his passing
in the early hours of one recent Winter's morning
I heard him call my name from the foot of the bed
I take it as a sign that one day
we will share our love of poetry
Jan 1, 2022
Jan 1, 2022 at 8:32 PM UTC
what is heaven to you?
heaven to me is a place your mind creates;
a place where you are happiest.
I imagine your heaven being a garden
with petunias and hydrangeas.
you are kneeling with a small shovel in your hand
digging little holes in a flower bed
to place the little flowers there to live.
your cancer is gone
and so is your emphysema.
your legs are perfect
and your arms don't have bruises on them. ((your skin was always so sensitive))
you've got on your green striped shirt
with the matching green pants.
your cigarettes are in your pocket
and you are humming and singing an old tune from 1951:
"Hey good lookin', whatcha got cookin'? How's about cookin' somethin' up with me!"
you have that same front porch I remember
drinking the same Lipton cold brew sweet tea.
that's where I think your heaven is.
where is my heaven?
right next to you.
singing, planting flowers, and sipping sweet tea.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
so- what you running from?
nah- those cats on the corner they
"hella" dumb
ok, lets slow down
you not prepared to hit the ground
don't let the beast run its mouth
when I moved west to east town
I used to cry out why
because unlike sunny skies
I could never open my eyes
everyone I know would die
if I opened my mouth
out would come lies
only used to snorting synthetic white
**** faced used to crashin at night
the outspoken type
who's a lost pathetic dreamer
the poetic artistic type, a day dweller
caught in "coffins" in between ya
I'm coughing emphysema
sky scrapers in between
with no one knowing Andre Nickatina
I trace icy window sills with ashy fingertips
surpassed by the New York hustle
but only by minutes
I do this for *** heads
and kids I kicked it with as a teen
and insomniacs who still
raises the lid to catch sleep
and without it?
yeah I'm crazy and you mental too
I rock spiritual without a break to breathe
stop or interval
I'm from the state
where sunshine will never stop
and transferred to the state
which perfected the "rock"
where liberals stand
and conservatives call themselves the man
I don't want to
but I'm willed though
the city's filled with every skin tone
if I ever dream I think
I'll try and let it slip
and let my fingertips
trickle till I catch it
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
My mom asks me what I'm studying,
And I say The heart.
Her interests peaks,
Because she's always seen
The body as a work of art.
She wants to know more,
So I give her the brief about pumps,
What makes it faster or slower,
But I don't want to talk about this,
In truth, I haven't told my parents much since I started to go here.
We've studied anatomy,
And how bleeding works,
Biochemistry,
And why swollen red skin
Seems to always hurt.
But the more I've taken in,
The less I've given out.
As if being an expert for only you
Is what becoming a doctor is all about.
I tell my friends my grades are good,
Though I definitely study less than I could.
And after saying school is fine,
I skip to some other line
Of thought,
Like I suddenly don't have the time
To include my friends in this new life
Of mine.
It's not that they wouldn't understand,
Because these pals are smart as hell
And it's not that they wouldn't want
More details than "I'm doing well."
And it's not that to learn,
You have to forget,
About the people who matter,
Who got you where you needed to get.
It's that this world is skull-crushingly,
Mind-numbingly full
And at the end of the day,
Escape seems the goal.
But creating two worlds
Makes it easy to leave one behind.
And I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm
Of my values
Just to learn more medical rhymes.
So I need to work harder
To tell my mom about the heart.
To make these two lives
A little less apart.
How there're really two pumps,
No, really there're four,
And in some people's hearts,
You can hear a dull roar
Of a valve slamming shut
Or opening at the wrong time.
And if you've got pulses in your feet,
You're doing just fine.
To tell my friends the truth,
Instead of sloughing it off,
That asthma and emphysema
May have a similar cough.
Or that there are really two systems
That your body uses to clot.
And platelets aren't the only
Thing that you got.
To become a good doctor,
I have to become a good man.
And I thought until now
That was a simple enough plan.
But it might not just be about
Good bedside manner and empathy.
It might be more about how I treat
Those important to me.
If I can give everyone Zach
Without a dodge or excuse,
I'll become a doctor in training,
AND a doctor in truth.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:23 AM UTC
not content
to wander down to the park
with other old men
sit on the invariably gnarled benches
swap stories
from whatever past
they think they can remember
mostly all fabrications
and of course
they talk about me
shaking their heads and whisper
he thinks he’s a poet
they all have a subdued hearty laugh
because a real laugh
might cause some to choke up
it’s the emphysema
don’t you know
the thing is
old men’s gossip turns me off
while they think
I sit in The Hovel
and brood
I am constantly busy
writing
I have my poems
they help to sustain me
I just finished co-authoring a novel
"Magical"
I live in worlds they have
no notion of
true, they get to see more nature
than do I
but I get to see the world
through my dreams
I turn into the written word
©January 20, 2015 / Jerry Pat Bolton
Elin Saari has lived with terror no woman should ever have to endure. Devlin Grimm, the man she fell hard for turned out to be so cruel to her she began to silently call him Satan. The years spent with Satan were so severe she truly felt she had no mind of her own. Still, something inside of her made her make the break and she filed for divorce. Satan upped the ante and she had to run to get away from him. Wherever she went he would find her and harass her. She was at her wits end when something profound happened. Through the magic of a strange necklace she began to receive messages, until desperately she tried to summon whoever was trying to contact her. Touch Starlin' walked into her life and explained who he was and how closely connected they were. Touch took charge of trying to rid Satan – the name she had started calling him was closer to the truth that she could have ever known. Satan follows them wherever they go and Elin begins to doubt Touch's Powers.
PASTE INTO YOUR BROWSER . . .
http://www.lulu.com/shop/jerry-bolton/magical/paperback/product-21981708.html
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Fingers worked to the bone
drip blood onto the work they are crafting.
He slaves here alone,
but to the rest of the world is acting;
painting his life as one of absurd peaks
and bottomless, dark troughs;
he makes tumours out of modern migraines;
emphysema out of ordinary coughs.
"Play the part or it will play you."
The life of the private celebrity.
Do not wish for attention, I pray you,
for it holds within it no tortured sincerity.
Instead, it holds a hollow hatred
for everything you never did become;
And then your parade fades
and becomes your kingdom come.
There is no sweet swan song
to they who have fallen from the light.
No cry, no gasp, no bell, no gong.
Just like the day, they are consumed by the night.
It’s silent creeping, or it’s sudden fall
all but chokes them dead.
Then it ***** them where they lay.
Mouth gagged, legs willingly spread.
Private People Should Not Seek Her Attention.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC
Your voice rises up like worms from the earth.
No matter how deep I bury it, it claws back out,
To think of its tenor brings me nothing but hurt.
Your voice rises up like worms from the earth;
To see its gaunt face, a fresh mound of doubt,
The day you left me you had no room for air.
Now it's me, who can't breathe, lungs filled with despair.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
They call it automatic
The doors to the market open
For you
Only for you
Not for me, automatic breath shuffles away
Part of my soul remains on watch
Blood does flow
Automatically so
But the engine of the body
Is lacking fuel today
I shouldn’t have to think about this
It should be there
But it’s morning
And yes, the birds sing
And I can’t take a deep breath
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 10:08 AM UTC