"medics" poems
Camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains
was the greatest day of my life
It was my birthday
I brought a suitcase
and my favorite dame
and hiked 2 miles UP^^^^^^^^
laughing all the way
UP ^^^^^in the Ozarks
Medics were shooting steroids in my ****
BUT, never been more in love
with a man who injects grief in my veins
Dwelling in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains
sensed his vibe
Yes, Jesus I feel you here
held en el Rio Grande con mis mejor amigos
drooling in the hot springs
Taos has called our names
********* the rocky sand that is below me
I find a coin from New Zealand,
in turn, losing my evil eye earring
an offering to spirit's stream
a pair of desert lizards
we desire to get frisky and be alone
we shine silver glitter under a moonlit glow
witches cackle and curanderos
hide behind coyote cries and cacti
looking to each other with faces expressing,
"What should do we do?"
I guess allow them to do their thing
humans need ceremonies too
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 1:36 AM UTC
Why can't dying be delightful?
My feverish smile
Pathogens far too strong
I've failed this trial
I'm facing the end
My blood boils within
This cancerous fate
Carries my soul away
Crafting up pain
As the medics embrace
A dance with the darkness
I won't last too long
Carry me under
Where the sun fades away
Lost to the coffin
Finality's somber
Led by the reaper
To eternal slumber
No breath in my chest
I'm finally at rest
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 11:48 AM UTC
At the Bernie Sanders rally on Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day in Alabama, a middle-aged woman in the crowd fell to the floor from illness. The entire rally silenced. All 7,000 attendees turned their focus to her welfare. When the medics arrived, the crowd erupted into cheers, a heroes’ welcome. The people then applauded the ill woman once she regained the ability to walk out of the event.
Two weeks prior, at a rally for the authoritarian populist Donald Trump, three white men stomped a black man. He’d worn a t-shirt that read 'Black Lives Matter.'
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 5:57 PM UTC
I don’t have faith.
I just know that I belong to my Savior Jesus. I met her once when I was 11, at her humble single wide in a cramped trailer park and she made candied walnuts on a hotplate. I didn’t find out until years later that she paid for my scholarship. She had passed on by then; I wish I could have thanked her.
He arrived at Juvenile Hall at 7:00 pm looking like Mrs. Santa Claus, to take me into her home for a year. I made some sarcastic teenage comment about the stupid country music on her car radio, and she tolerated it with a smile; saying ‘its not stupid, its simple.’ She showed me what a caring family looks like and didn’t kick me out for being a ******** gave me chores and a curfew to show me I belonged.
When I had no family or boyfriend in my life, I lived in a maternity home until my baby would be adopted. Jesus was the stranger in the hushed hospital room holding my hand, after the medics couldn’t find the heartbeat in the ambulance, which was confirmed on the maternity floor, and I was taken to another floor so my crying wouldn’t upset the other mothers. The room was small and dark and alone, and the clock on the wall took an eternity to move two minutes, for the entire night that I was in labor, the longest night in my life. I didn’t remember someone holding my hand; I was so drugged for pain. She showed me her arms two days later, so bruised because she didn’t leave me.
Jesus was the woman from Planned Parenthood on the other end of the phone, listening to me when I called the Women’s Clinic asking how I could find a doctor. ‘ I just moved here, and I work at a minimum wage job, and I lost my baby a month ago, but how do I get a post-partum exam when I don’t have a doctor, or any money, or insurance?’ I was very matter of fact about it, I mean this was my circumstance and what to do? She arranged a birth control exam because the state would pay for that, by a doctor who would give me the post-partum. She also referred me to a support group. I had been alone but she found me people who understood and could sympathize and help me accept grief. I look back on that now; there were no sign-carrying Christians or Churches arranging the adoption who helped me, she was the only one who cared.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
March 26th my beloved and beautiful sister passed away.
Her son found her in her bedroom in the morning;
the medics couldn't revive her and said her heart had collapsed.
My nephew and I are in a daze, the loss seems unbearable. She was a
very talented poet. Please go to her poems on hp and celebrate her
writing. She is listed under: Kathleen Myra Colby. I will always love
and miss her.
Adelaide Caron Dyson. (04/10/12)
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 1:01 PM UTC
There’s a favorite culinary dish in town;
it’s known as the synapse shish kebab.
It’s high in protein as well as fat, and it comes
with a garlic-infused broccoli rabe,
available with a choice of couscous or rice.
The palate will most likely be enticed, just like
another common John who swears to us that he
again has done absolutely nothing wrong.
It pairs nicely with an eighties chenin blanc,
gray matter that’s grilled to sheer perfection,
smoked all day, and is guaranteed satisfaction,
seemingly like an old, rambling rolling stone.
The lights are on—but nobody’s buying homes.
An opera singer that is deaf to certain tones,
this is definitely not regal crumpets and tea—
“heart-healthy nutrition,” all our medics agree.
There’s a new critically acclaimed dish around;
it’s the slow-roasted synapse shish kebab,
moderately priced, and portions are family style—
passed-down secret recipes from west of the Nile,
and also numbers that won’t make your wallet sob
like a big, bad, dark, overly loaded cloud.
Give it a try, and then shout it out loud:
synapse shish kebab!
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Run rotten, for things have gotten out of hand.
Turn coat ducking, torture got him singing and eating outta my hand.
Getting scraped by the beater like youse a percussion instrument;
maybe that’s why a group of people are called a band?
For we all play our part to either be an influence or to be influenced.
Yet we won’t know anything if you never venture into the forest and meet the temptress.
When one experiences all six senses, when in present tenses, which then puts the body through stresses.
That makes the mind flood with guesses that clouds up our lenses.
But that’s just what war is like for one is always in the trenches.
Whilst other’s sit on benches, but each choice brings rewards and consequences.
Which bears questions on what your quest is?
To run free or to be held back by white picket fences?
For being hard pressed brings out either killers or medics.
To choose to be real or synthetic.
To become abstract or symmetric.
However, things aren’t always so metric.
So be wary of being a critique for just like branches of mathematics in arithmetic,
We have many great qualities but when in a group we can become manipulated.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 3:45 PM UTC
"Soldiers Heart"
Two brothers on their way
one wore blue
and
one wore gray
one came home
one stayed behind
one mother mourns
on a November's day.
212,938
bled and died
on
American soil.
"Irritable Heart"
14 years in the Philippines
far too many days
4200 died
so many miles away.
"Shell Shock"
Johnny got his gun
alive in the tomb
of his mind
no eyes
no ears
no arms
no legs
a beating heart
an active mind
alive
with memories and sensations
Paths of Glory
leads
the way
and 53,402 stay
while one came home.
"Battle Fatigue"
291,557
perished.
Nagasaki got its bomb
six million died
before our fathers and grandfathers
liberated them.
To the 38th Parallel
we did go
where old soldiers
never die
they just fade away
with
time.
33,746 died.
"Stress Response Syndrome"
Apocalypse Now
Jacob had his ladder
in
the jungles of Vietnam
Full Metal Jacket
Born in the USA
homeless veterans
now aged still pay today
while 47,424
lay in their graves.
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder"
My daughter
my son-in-law
bring it all
back home to me
Navy Medics
seven years
they traveled with the Marines
picking up the pieces
as they went their way
many too many trips
for all those young
troops
now we are
seeing
their heroism
proceeding
despite being afraid
a price
dearly
we all pay.
5,282 and still counting.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC
Band-aids to prevent the social infections that could eventually
spread to the frontal lobe,
Diseases started on Fox News, spread to the living room,
circulate around the family dinner table
putting victims of ignorance on the coroner’s slab
Alleviate the pain.
Should we let the gapping wounds of intolerance fester, decay and grow maggots?
***** bigotry, vile illiteracy, primitive ideas coat the skins of society like a black goo.
Band-aids: self adhesive bandages
We aren’t teachers. We are medics.
covering the gapping wounds of life
lathering the lesions with Neosporin.
Healing the scars from parenting gone wrong
- scars from wounded self-esteems
-lacerations to the proverbial heart
Scars lasting longer than the body itself.
No one knows where its impact will end.
Band-aids
temporary fix
heal the wound fast, heal the hurt faster
A Johnson and Johnson remedy for damaged organisms
Well-meaning ones hurling scriptures scald hands with tainted words
Healing is a matter of time.
Arm teachers to protect children from the crazies who loom?
What will protect them from their own inherited ignorance?
The damage is already done when they get here.
Equip us with Band-Aids, boxes and boxes.
Hello Kitty over their ears to block the infection from coming in
Spiderman for their mouths. Stop the seepage of any contamination from spreading to others.
The remaining scars will fade, but not disappear.
even with a band-aid.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
"Soldiers Heart"
Two brothers on their way
one wore blue
and
one wore gray
one came home
one stayed behind
one mother mourns
on a November's day.
212,938
bled and died
on
American soil.
"Irritable Heart"
14 years in the Philippines
far too many days
4200 died
so many miles away.
"Shell Shock"
Johnny got his gun
alive in the tomb
of his mind
no eyes
no ears
no arms
no legs
a beating heart
an active mind
alive
with memories and sensations
Paths of Glory
leads
the way
and 53,402 stay
while one came home.
"Battle Fatigue"
291,557
perished.
Nagasaki got its bomb
six million died
before our fathers and grandfathers
liberated them.
To the 38th Parallel
we did go
where old soldiers
never die
they just fade away
with
time.
33,746 died.
"Stress Response Syndrome"
Apocalypse Now
Jacob had his ladder
in
the jungles of Vietnam
Full Metal Jacket
Born in the USA
homeless veterans
now aged still pay today
while 47,424
lay in their graves.
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder"
My daughter
my son-in-law
bring it all
back home to me
Navy Medics
seven years
they traveled with the Marines
picking up the pieces
as they went their way
many too many trips
for all those young
troops
now we are
seeing
their heroism
proceeding
despite being afraid
a price
dearly
we all pay.
5,282 and still counting.
For all those who have walked in the horrors of war
and the grief too countless to tell.
Let us all pray in our way,
work in our days
for the end of war.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:42 AM UTC
“Doc, over here.” I heard them cry.
I raced on black volcanic sand,
I know snipers target medics with
a corpsman's pouch in hand.
“It’s Mike Strank, they got him bad.”
Mike was down, writhing in pain.
He was losing blood
and awfully pale.
Shielding his body with my own,
in a depression in the ground
I cut away his Khaki shirt.
Until the entry wound was found.
A ******* wound, an evil sign-
red frothing bubbles from his chest.
A styrette of Morphine- all I had
to ease the pain of every breathe.
Suribachi loomed above us.
Barely had a week gone by
since this man had helped to raise
the Forty eight Stars on high.
Now he was dying, fading fast.
A grave awaited, far from home.
There was nothing I could do
except not let him die alone.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 9:30 PM UTC
Standing naked on the porch
New gold rings on my fingers
Morning mist in the valley
I couldn’t stop myself.
I couldn’t even try.
Call the healers and call the medics.
Send for a witchdoctor.
Someone needs to wake her up
Morning sun in the valley
It’s gonna be a hot one.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)
Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova
While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks
The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease
So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings
Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.
Wagner and Chopin got frightened..
..and off they ran.
But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park
Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.
While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel
But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.
Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics
Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics
The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing
Oooh look.. the good against sinner
Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.
Cometh the day cometh the morn
Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.
Here is Joshua blowing his horn
And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets
Are the countless dead lining up on the streets
And the wounded and deathbound far far below
I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.
But Picasso arrives and cries
My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche
Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)
Then Pollack turns up totally ******
Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?
What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing
The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing
Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot
Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot
Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed
By Beelzebubs prototypes
Those that live in the black nights.
But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes
So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions
Take arms and do battle
Till we hears Satans death rattle.
And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.
Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well
Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.
Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part
Of something vast something grand
A spiritual war being fought in this land
I am alive and I shall survive.
PRAISE BE.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 9:08 AM UTC
It's been 2 years
Thinking about it now, I can hardly believe it was real
I was drowning inside with pain: while on the outside I was drowning in tears.
My emotions were eating me alive... all i knew was I no longer wanted to feel.
After another family argument I rushed up stairs to the bedrooms
quickly I grabbed the first orange bottle of pills I could find in my aunts room.
Hiding beside my bed with my sister in the room unaware
Desperate for death I force all the pills down my throat.
Once the deed is done , my aunt calls us down to talk
during her lecture, I start to wobble
she asks if I took something but I insist I didn't and that I was just tired.
After a while she realizes what I have done..
though unlike most she found it funny and recorded it on her phone
Finally once I stop responding to things she calls the police...
only one officer showed up
realizing the situation wasn't a joke he gets back-up and medics
I am rushed to the local hospital.. then moved to a more advanced one
As the doctors and nurses try to save me
I continuously rip out my IV's refusing to live
They are able to put me down.
I wake up 3 days later with dry blood on me and cry because all I wanted was to die .. and I failed.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
Jack Cornwell was a Boy, First Class
On the Chester’s forward gun,
There to relay the settings with
A pair of headphones on,
He’d turned sixteen just months before
Was trained for his chosen task,
And hoped for a life of adventure as
He sailed, before the mast.
The Chester sailed to join the Fleet
That had left from Scapa Flow,
The Grand Fleet with its battleships
Sailed under Jellicoe,
They’d intercepted the German codes
And knew that they’d put to sea,
Hoping to split the British Fleet
And gain a victory.
The Chester turned to meet the flash
Of gunfire, far away,
The light was poor before the dawn
And the mist was thick that day,
Three funnels of a German ship
Came gliding through the mist,
And the Chester turned to starboard
Ready to show the British fist.
But the German ship was not alone
And the shells began to rain,
From the following battle cruisers
Shattering decks, in blood and pain,
Jack Cornwell stood at his post while all
His gun crew lay there dead,
Ready to take his orders, though
The Chester turned, and fled.
The medics found him with shrapnel wounds
Steel splinters in his chest,
He wouldn’t desert his post, he was
As brave as all the rest,
The Chester sailed for Immingham
Disembarked the wounded crew,
Put Jack in Grimsby Hospital,
There was nothing they could do.
He died just two days afterwards
Before his mother came,
She’d hurried on up from London
Where she’d caught the fastest train,
They buried Jack in a communal grave
So many men had died,
Fighting for King and country
Steeped in duty, worth and pride.
His name was honoured from lip to lip
How he’d stood beside his gun,
Determined to fight the German ships
‘Til the Chester turned to run,
Such courage born of England
Where it was tempered at the forge,
Was so inspiring in one so young
Said the Navy, to King George.
‘For shame,’ then cried the ‘Daily Sketch’
When they heard of the communal grave,
‘Is this how we treat our heroes,
Jack deserves the nation’s praise!’
The coffin was shortly disinterred
And draped with the Union Jack,
Drawn on an open gun carriage
With the Navy at its back.
His name went down in the history books
As the boy who stuck to his post,
In the midst of dead and dying men
As they made their way to the coast,
King George conferred the highest award
That there was, for bravery,
Awarded him the Victoria Cross,
Jack Cornwell, Boy, V.C.
David Lewis Paget
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
their legs are marching,
their boots are marching,
their arms are straight and still;
but are marching too in time to the rhythm,
the gradient of the hill.
their tanks move in,
their medics move in,
their formations froth and swell;
but move in regardless in time to the rhythm,
ready warfare and hell.
their uniforms sweat,
their foreheads sweat,
their arms are warm and glazed;
but onwards they march in time to the rhythm,
bouncing in boots of rage.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
Christmas Workers, To Place Your Mind Ease
There are some who work on Christmas
Protecting those in need
To give the gift of comfort
And place your mind at ease
Policemen who patrol the streets
Responding to your calls
Fire and Medics always there
Helping one and all
The nurse who gives out comfort
Who tries so hard to heal
A doctor there to fix whats wrong
To ask you how you feel
The dispatcber who is ready
To send whats needed most
The soldiers standing straight and strong
To honor at all costs
There are some who work on Christmas
Protecting those in need
To give a gift of comfort
And place your mind as ease
Poem by: Carl Joseph Roberts (Joe)
Take a moment to thank a Christmas worker
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Christmas 1968
the whole hospital hurt.
my bed hugged a corner
and the ward ached
away from me.
endlessly away.
I remember Nurse Merz,
who saved my leg,
and Fender,
who lost his.
mine was a small world.
we had clean sheets.
no one wanted to **** us
at night.
it was Christmas.
after rounds,
the medics
brought us shots of whiskey
in dosage cups.
far away to the south,
the hills
were swallowing people up.
I almost slept
without dreaming.
(106th. Army Evacuation Hospital
Kishine Barracks
Yokohama, Japan)
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Shamans
Psychics
Schizophrenics
Mystics
Medics
Psychoanalysts
Politicians
Hypocrites
It’s in your head
It’s out of mind
It’s before our eyes
but most are blind
Buy Dark
Deal Light
Write left
Felt right
Free consciousness
from the physical fight
to dominate
through fear and hate
Religion and government
feed from the same plate
Inquisitions
Constitutions
Impositions
Insoluble solutions
in poisonous bruise
Drip-fed
in 24hr news
Brain dead
Twisted views
Controlling hands
that turn the screws.
© Verso-(David Moule) 06/03/08
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 5:34 PM UTC
She turns around in her seat
To see him sitting quietly,
A low hum rests in the class
As students pretend to do their work,
She takes a breath to say something
And he glances up,
Shyness overwhelms her
And she turns back to her work
The boy says nothing
And goes back to his
The girl bites her lip
Nervous, unable to focus,
She turns abruptly and speaks
The boy looks up in shock
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth
A new friendship has started,
She soon learns
The boy is bullied
For his worn cloths
Yet she does not mind this,
In the halls after school
The boy sits against his locker,
The girl approaches him
Noticing his black eye,
An outstretched hand
Was all he needed from her
To smile again
And she did just that,
Their friendship grew
And blossomed into love
But he had another detail
One she did not know yet,
At his mother's grave
He speaks to her
Explaining the subtle scars
Her eyes water in sadness,
How could a father
Be so cure to his own son?
To hit him repeatedly
Until his skin broke,
This had to stop
He had to be freed
From the horrors of home
But he won't let her,
He said his dad would **** him
If he saw any legal authorities
She bows her head
Wishing, praying for his safety
On a cold night a siren awakes her,
Sitting up in bed she watches
To see the way
The emergency response vehicle goes,
Her heart stops,
She knows the path it took all too well,
Climbing out her window
And grabbing her bike
She starts after it
Her eyes stinging from the night air
She arrives to see
It was his father's new girlfriend
Who had made the call
To put an end to things
But it was too late
She hadn't reached the phone in time
The girl runs inside,
Past the medics,
To see his body at rest
On the floor still bleeding
She falls beside him
And cries out his name,
If only he would answer
Everything would be alright,
Holding his hand tight
She whispers her apology to him,
Sorry she never did anything
Sorry she didn't save him,
The father thrown in jail
The boy buried six feet down,
The girl stands at his stone
Vowing her heart will never love another
She places a single rose
On the cool gray stone
And turns to walk back to the road
Her head hangs low, eyes fixed on the ground
She never saw the car that hit her
She never heard it
All she knew was it was over and done
And she was in his arms once again.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
**** you
for everything you said to me
all the dreams you told me
all the lies you fed me
disguised as caring
i knew from the beginning who you were
but i refused to see it
i refused to see the flashing red lights and the blaring sirens
now the only lights i see are the ones on the ambulance
the sires pulsing in my ears
the medics screaming for me to hold on
i am slipping in and out of consciousness
and you don't even care
**** you
Sep 27, 2019
Sep 27, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC
Moving at the speed of sound.
We took that turn just a little too fast.
We were livin’ on the wild side,
No seat belts,
Just watching the night go past.
Thought we were in total control,
Didn’t realize how much we had to lose,
Not a care in the world,
It wasn’t suppose to happen like that,
Didn’t know we were just a burning fuse.
But it wasn’t even our fault.
Just the wrong place and the wrong time.
If the drunk driver had never left the bar,
We’d still be cruising around town,
Instead of being victims of that crime.
The lights grew brighter the closer they came,
Didn’t take in the fact the car was actually in the same lane.
But coming at us instead of moving away.
Getting closer at high speeds,
Pause the moment, say a prayer, then proceed.
Feel the jolt,
Feel the pain,
Feel my legs break,
Feel the blood start to pour,
Feel nothing.
Unconsciousness was welcoming,
Put me out of my misery, for the time being,
Floating up, higher and higher,
Becoming the bystander,
Looking from above, realizing what my eyes were seeing.
His head was laid upon the wheel,
Arm across my chest, tried to hold me back,
Eyes shut, feeling as I was, nothing.
Not even the rise and fall of his chest,
Which alarmed me and sent my mind under attack.
Screaming down to him,
But seeming like my voice was on mute.
Like a loaded gun,
Bullets and all,
But unable to shoot.
He stayed unmoving,
No signs that he might be improving.
I felt helpless looking on from above,
Like there was nothing I could do,
Then came the sirens, flashing red and blue.
See the paramedics stop at the scene.
See the men run out of the bus.
See them take our pulses,
See them begin to move faster,
See that there was still a chance.
As I watched the scene from above,
The drunk driver stepped out of his car,
And was able to walk just fine,
No limp, no scratch,
Not even the smallest bit of a scar.
The medics took out the long straight boards,
And brought them to the car we’d been victimized in,
Cutting both of us out of the vehicle,
Placing him and I on two separate stretchers,
We were apart, the first time since I couldn’t remember when.
Speeding to the hospital,
I kept my eyes on his ambulance,
Instead of my own,
His chest didn’t rise and fall,
His eyes didn’t give me the slightest glance.
Feeling anger all at once,
Feeling more alone than ever before,
Feeling stupid for being so crazy,
Feeling ugly because of the big cut across my face,
Feeling dead.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
Simpson had been a mechanic by trade
back home
& out here on the arid range,
he dismantled homemade bombs.
On that one particular sunny day,
one dismantled him.
We saw him disappear
in a pink cloud,
hear a loud boom &
once the smoke cleared,
the medics
picked him up
in several pieces.
It took them three body bags.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC