"pancreas" poems
I feel like a friend-- a true friend,
is more than a profile on a website.
And peace is more than a handshake agreement
brought by the outcome of a gruesome fight.
I know that self worth is more than someone's opinion,
and in no other dominion but mine own to foster and care for.
And I can see that happiness is more than having money, sure,
cause most of us laugh everyday here, and come on, we're dirt poor.
And I pray the human soul is more than Casper's counterpart,
somewhere between the heart and the pancreas.
And God, faith is so much more than cryin' and dyin'
over spilt milk between religions.
And in case you were confused, "I love you", is more than
pet names, bed games, and ***
Music is more than pimps, hoes, and MTV Shows, and T-Pain singin through a computer.
Believe that life is more than grades and degrees,
or drugs and disease,
or the 'ABCs' of success that some old man wrote a thousand years ago.
This poem has to be more than words strewn together
to voice my discontent at the status-quo..
Hell, the word "more" itself is more than a one-syllable statment
that what we lack in the present
is just a larger quantity of the **** "we already have",
and no!
The power of your silent agreement is more than that
of my voice alone, so...
What is "more"?
In many ways, "more" is the friend you never had.
More peace in the world would end all the mindless bloodshed.
More respect and selfworth would bring beauty back to youth,
especially to the women in the world,
that sell their unique souls to look like the cover of Cosmo.
More faith, that grants serenity in the times of hardship,
will be the soothing hand of an Angel on our shoulders as
we say, "I love you" to our enemies, martyrs for a better world.
More positive music will inspire us,
to be the change we want to see in the world, today,
instead of, "Waitin' on the World to Change "♫ ♪ ♫♪
So ladies and gentlemen, make a decision: if you want to be
critics and vipers,
war mongers and hope-snipers,
ignore my intention, and live with more division.
But, if any of you are artists starving for meaning and inspiration,
if you envision a world of more than... THIS...
Then let a word change a feeling,
change a thought, change a meaning,
change your mind...
And get more out of life.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 1:38 PM UTC
Albert had an ARTHRITIC knee
which gave him curry
The core of a BOIL is oft hard
to extract
Yesterday June experienced
a server stomach CRAMP
Too much dry weather
can cause the outer DERMAL layer to peel
Never read in a poorly lit room
for you'll have EYE strain
After eating spicy pickles
dad had bad FLATULENCE
Some twenty eight years ago
my friend Helen had her GALLBLADDER removed
They say that a glass of water
will stop HICCUPS
From end to end
our INTESTINAL tract is thirty foot long
On Sunday afternoon John
broke his JAW playing football
Some people have
very boney KNUCKLES
One of my work colleagues
is prone to getting LARYNGITIS
Colin suffers terribly
with MIGRAINE headaches
Sometimes people tend
to endlessly NAVAL gaze
A woman's OVARIES need to be checked
on a regular basis for any abnormalities
The PANCREAS secrets a hormone
known as insulin
QUININE once was extensively used
in the treatment of Malaria
Since my sister has put on weight
she cannot find her RIBS
The STIRRUP bone lies
within one's ear
Dan Aykroyd the famous comic star
has webbed TOES
Should you bump your ULNA bone
it may give you reason to groan
The VARICOSE VEINS is great aunt Ruby's legs
were very pronounced
Does anyone know of a good remedy
for unsightly WARTS
At our local hospital
we have an antiquated X-RAY machine
As tiredness and weariness sets in
one YAWNS quite a lot
****** ZOSTER can make
a person constantly itch
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
Don’t read this if you’re squeamish,
Or if you’re eating food at the present,
Since some of the subjects discussed in this poem,
Are let’s just say rather unpleasant,
On the subject of donating organs,
Or the subject of organs at all,
It’s not unusual for my claims to leave,
Some subjects feeling pretty appalled,
Now I’d say that most people die,
In fact I’d vouch that it happens quite often,
But when my time comes, set has my sun,
I want all of me in that coffin,
Now I get it, I’d save lives if I donated,
And I don’t mean to sound like a **** (yes I do),
But the unmissable flaw, the foot in the door,
Is that not all of my parts seem to work,
My eyes are screwy, my heart’s far too cold,
The state of my lungs’ll make you shiver,
My kidneys too small, I'm not sure I have a pancreas,
And don’t get me started on my liver,
And let me tell you with a face like mine,
Not showcasing this beauty’s a sin,
But it’s awfully hard to have an open casket,
If I’m not sporting any of my skin
It’s selfish and weird I know that,
But my eyes are where my soul is exposed!
…Yeah actually my soul’s pretty tainted,
Can someone make sure that my eyes are closed?
I only want those I love to have a part of me,
So if I’m forced, if I’m forced, to partake,
-
-
-
They’ll be frying up my organs,
For refreshments at my wake.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
This small green bear,
your name embroidered on its chest,
was never yours. It would have been
our Christmas gift to you,
had you lived a month longer.
The ones you would give
you had already bought,
wrapped, labelled -
thoughtful, organised
to the end,
to the bitter end.
We unwrapped them on the day,
smiled at your kindness,
wept at our loss.
Early Christmas gifts
that you had not organised,
that nobody could have anticipated,
went to strangers: your pancreas,
a life free from daily injections;
your kidneys, two lives free from dialysis;
your liver, divided, to a young girl
and an older lady, who would
quite simply have a life
they had almost given up hoping for.
Your heart, damaged by extended life-support,
not suitable for transplantation,
yielded its valves
to repair the damaged hearts of others.
Even bone and skin were harvested
for people you never knew.
That Christmas you gave hope
to so many people,
and to us the consolation
that they live on because of you,
and that you live on in them.
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
your heart pumps kerosene
to your matchstick veins,
& maybe i imagined things,
but i remember your eyes as ember rings
& i can't wipe my memory clean
of the dingy debris--
the delicacies of your legs & knees--
this fire's not extinguishing!!
those ashes you disguise as eyelids
won't keep me from the iris
i know i'll find inside them
& i'll skim past your skin grafts
to your smoke-smothered stomach
then plummet to your flame-engraved pancreas
((scarred from swallowed promises)).
these propane x-rays
can't scan the barcodes
on the charcoals
that the holes in your heart hold
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 7:57 PM UTC
about pictures of bears without any fur, and they look horrendously terrifying. Like ****** space gorillas you see in poorly done sci-fi movies. Do you think panda bears are still the cutest bear without any fur?
I wonder if dragons get lung cancer from all the smoking they do. I'd rather think about a hairless panda bear breathing fire--it's jaws sinking into the underbelly of a mortally wounded dragon and as it starts munching on the dragon pancreas, it accidentally sneezes causing it's lunch to incinerate to ashes.
That's probably why dragons are extinct. Hairless panda bears donned armor, riding horses; questing to eat dragon pancreas.
They also thought amor prevented lung cancer. It was the middle ages, people or animals didn't have modern technology to explain diseases, let alone where babies came from. Except for dragons, and look at how their species turned out. **** I'm throwing my phone in the toilet right now.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 2:58 AM UTC
In your past, this past
they weren't valued
no one said they were members of the family
what walks on four legs and is furry and cute is only
to last as long as nature intended and then to be disposed of
Veal calves in crates, taken from mothers on the day of their birth
to make more milk for humans, horse slaughter for glue
and foi gras, ducks and geese locked in a vice grip of their cages
metal tubes rammed down their throats and force fed until a liver disease
develops, painful, but given no respite
and served as a delicacy and
fur coats from animals skinned alive right here in America
still when mink farms are outlawed in the Netherlands and
two million dogs and cats skinned in China every year not to mention
other horrors and no one cared or looked their way because they are
only animals, and voiceless and helpless and no one cared to give them
a voice or advocacy
"that's why they're there, for our use, people still say" who profit from an industry
of suffering
And today, there are people who try to give them a voice and there are veterinarians who will try to help you with your member of the family, as he suffers, in his old age
a bag of fluids hangs from my exercise bike, and intermixed with my medications
is the painkiller and anti-nausea pills for my dear old friend
whose pancreas is failing
and father, this is foreign to you
you pretend it is a crime
silence is the only thing connecting us now
I hope you enjoyed your last barrage of unkind words
I think you did. The saddest thing I've learned about people like you
is
you feel better after such an attack, to see me reeling, bleeding on the ground
and you feel better, calmer and purged.
A kind of misbegotten peace settles over you
an exploitive peace from another's tears and pain
And yes, father, there were no agencies to give a voice to children
when you were young
no CPS, to aid my nine year old ***** friend
as a code of silence enveloped her attacker
to protect him, the one who destroyed her
But today there is a small brigade of a modern kind of love
to give a voice, protection, soothing to the ones who can
only suffer at our hands and not protect themselves from
our wrath and exploitation
and it is a better world for that, father
for my furry pancreatic friend and for any other
nine year old **** victims here
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
What I should have said
when Mike Whittle died, was
what a mighty man he was,
though small in stature,
yeah, how he set the students’
minds on fire.
Instead I said
he always jabbed himself with insulin
while we were having lunch
and I said that this was a literary tradition
like Polonius being stabbed in the arras
and Mark Antony falling on his sword after Actium
before Octavian could get there ahead of him.
And then I said that Antony's lover Cleopatra died
when she arranged to be bitten on her ***** by an asp.
And I thought I was a smart *** by saying
don’t get confused and think she was bitten on her asp.
Well, Mike and I did laugh about literary allusions,
along with all that insulin and his pancreas,
during all of those immortal lunches.
But what I should have said was that students
worshiped him, and they said that
‘he gave me my love of learning’.
Mike, you mighty little giant.
And how I loved that you could laugh when the admin staff
tried to cut you down because they hate popularity so much.
Those blasts of laughter in your classes
frightened them and they thought you were
an iconoclast. Oh Mike. I love you, just like all your students.
That's what I should have said about
the gifts you gave us all in
Learn, Love and Laughter 101.
This is your immortal epitaph.
Mike T Minehan
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
You see sod busted up by a long, sepia-toned farmer. He is pushing a plow that belongs in a museum of the prairie. You feel as if this is happening to you. To your insides, I mean. You feel a squirming pancreas, and a dancing spleen. You feel a change coming and you are happy about feeling, about movement, agriculture. You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window and realize that you have grown to be 10 feet tall. You are looking down on the corn; at eye-level with the barn. You imagine your father, the farmer, would be very proud of the tree you have become, and the windbreak you afford his fields.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 3:19 PM UTC
** I wrote this long ago for a friend with cancer - a small malignancy the size of a pearl in her lung. The hateful thing metastasised to her pancreas after two years in the shadows - she lost her battle last week. She was 73. She was firm friends with my mother my entire life, and her own children Isobel and Craig are like my own flesh and blood. I was unable to attend the funeral due to ill health, but she requested this poem be read out at her funeral - I'm sharing it here as a tribute to her, and I've changed names to preserve her privacy and dignity. **
This kingdom's hewn of time and words
And glances flashing over
Shadows, shapes and silhouettes
And pearls of smoke and ochre.
Rude invaders! Generals!
Who dares encroach our borders?
"Naught but pearls my princess, so
We strike! At dawn! No quarter!".
Set shoulders low and feet aplant
And curl your fingers slowly.
Your enemy is swift and lean,
Ten thousand times below you.
No mercy from a princess who
Instilled in fresh disciples
Wisdom, courage, whimsy, love and
When it's called for... rifles.
Gather muskets! Catapults!
Oh marshalls! Summon nurses!
The game's afoot and outcomes?
Well, who dwells on whom we versus?
For masses swell behind you and your
Gleaming armour guides us.
Swords aflame! We saw! We came!
Wakes of pearls behind us!
Ten years hence, one hundred, more
Louises, Davids, Andrews,
Will sing with you your victory,
Sandy Alexandrou.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
My stomach hasn't settled
Since that one day
Butterflies and knots
Riddling my stomach into decay
Like a virus
Eating from the inside out
Always hungry
Never full
Always eating
What's inside of me
Nothing hushes my aching stomach
What's wrong?
Maybe an ulcer
I guess it could be cancer
Of the stomach
Or liver
Maybe even the pancreas
It could even be my heart
But for now I'll just call them butterflies
Eating out my gut.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
Anemia
Thyroid
Lordosis
Scoliosis
Diabetes
Asthma
Depression
Anxiety
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
This is my brain
This is my iron
This is my back
This is my pancreas
This is my lungs
This is my mind
This is my experience
This is my health
This is me
Not having perfect health
Is nothing to be ashamed of
It is something to be proud of
Look, I have so much going on
And I am still here
Standing tall
Taking life day by day
Getting through school
And work
While dealing with all of this
No one has perfect health
And if they do,
They are lying
Life was not meant to be easy
Life was not meant to be a breeze
Life was not meant to be clear
Or make sense
We may question life
We may question a higher power
We may even question ourselves
But
Just keep pushing
Because I believe anyone can get through anything
When the
Proper health
Is provided
I am not a doctor
I am a student
Who is young
And has her whole life ahead of her
IF she remains healthy
I am not educated on the human body and its functions
But I know
From experience
That hardships come
And that effects you
Physically
And emotionally
I am not a doctor
But I am here
And I am spreading my word
And offering my shoulder
To those who want or need it
This is me
This is my health
This is my experience
This is my mind
This is my lungs
This is my pancreas
This is my back
This is my iron
This is my brain
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Anxiety
Depression
Asthma
Diabetes
Scoliosis
Lordosis
Thyroid
Anemia
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder
This is me
This is us
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC
Through the laden flights of pot-stewed gulls -
Deepening in red rosaries to poltroon,
Contaminated by an urgent wish,
The sun-soaked merry bandits blew.
Each to each, and, mingling with that sweaty palm,
Dolorous eyes sad-greeted the fleeing dawn.
Pancreas then, the earth-girdled Titan swam,
Anon the rising tide to stem.
Dentist the night, repair to dance-floored beams,
And rising melodiously ever anew to pine,
Sweet ***** dreaming of her saw-toothed chemise
Saw the fine end to the upstart king.
Curtains swayed against my pearly doom
Not brightly was your plainting song
Palpitating in earthly measures anew
Or seeking once more the mighty to appease.
O David, in thy glance the silver moth did live
Long dawns. An enemy of the swordfish,
He menaced us so long. And now?
Sporadic is the demise of depth!
A silver sea, or rather a sea with a fine multitude of
silver points
Caressing my eyes like toothless counterpoint to the
stately blue.
It gave a floor to a weening being of prancing gait and
measured thighs.
She smiled.
And the sea broke and roared, as ever,
and I heard it once more.
I saw too the sky, which had sufficient blue.
Cooled by the sea,
warmed by the setting rays and mild air, the body
luxuriated in perfect
temperature. She did not smile, but perhaps she did..
My body, I mean.
We came away, from there, as from all places to meet
another need.
of darkness and quiet. Foamed the elements of slaking
portions of
mysterious
substance. Surrendered to the moving body without
real life.
Borne along on a
stream of liquid desire residing in another's
breast.
Relinquishing her to a
perfect nothingness like lead or caviare.
Oh, and who awaited me? She was imprisoned
but beautiful
and I thought
quite happy. I don't think she even wanted to come
to me,
or so it seemed. But she was happier too outside,
in the waning sun.
Mainly she had been safe and free.
And there's an end of this day, which roamed
whither it would,
for I did not attempt to chain it. Now I flee it.
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
I sing along to drown out the voices
My sad playlist and I sit
listless
and I stubbornly ignore myself
If you can't say anything nice
then take your fingernails
and curl off my skin
starting at the genitals
effectively preparing me for taxidermy
Off I search
Alone is notsafe
Alone is smiling crookedly
from empty bones and a few yellow teeth
My naked pieces scattered carnage
on the dank floor of my cell
covered in hotel carpet
So ******
it almost gets me off
Reminds me of venereal hookers
and air freshener
which always results in tainted pleasure
So I put on my dark circles and bags under my eyes
to fit in
and I leave the thousand unlit cells
some empty
some containing rancid bits of pancreas
and I keep climbing blindly
I lost an eye in 14D
I humorlessly squished the other as I bent to pick it up
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC
There's an earthquake going on inside me, my chest is the fault line, My stomach is a shoe lace factory, and a tornado decided today was a great day to do tornado things.
Ya know? It really ***** when your lungs turn to vacuums and not the good kind, the kind of **** when you can hear sand knock around trying to find a way down. There's a sandstorm in your lungs and all you need is an inhaler, but breathing is easy so you don't need an inhaler.
My mom taught me how to handle this. She handles this.
She taught me cold weather can freeze this over.
But when this fails it can turn into tar and we know that tar is hotter than ****
Are you aware that it doesn't work out when your stomach becomes a shoelace factory and a tornado happens to do tornado things?
My mom handles this. I asist.
Her guts turn to strings and don't do very gutsy things.
Her pancreas called in sick.
That was 3 years ago.
Her cheeks aren't very cheeky.
Her bones show through her skin.
Every now and then I feel the ground start to rumble and I wait for us to fall in.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
I look into the mirror
And who is that I see?
Someone I don't recognise
Is looking back at me
The lines upon the forehead
That are called ‘worry lines'
Are caused by getting stressed
Far too many times
A line next to the right eyebrow
It’s the liver that's to blame
Due to excess alcohol
Or so the doctors claim
The line next to the left eyebrow
Is connected to the spleen
So much for thinking the body
Is like a finely-tuned machine
At the corner of both eyes
Are very deep crow’s feet
These are connected to all organs
As they admit defeat
We used to call them ‘smile lines'
But not much smiling has been done
When you have ill-health
Life is not much fun
Black bags under the eyes
Are signalling poor circulation
Or maybe just a lack of sleep
Nightmares without an explanation
The pancreas could be at fault
If there are ‘laughter lines'
But they could just be caused
By laughing numerous times
Lines above the upper lip
They could be caused by smoking
But they also indicate spleen trouble
Those lines are thought-provoking
Lines upon the neck
Otherwise known as a ‘double-chin’
Can be caused by too much gluten
Putting a thyroid in the spin
In the mirrors reflection
There are so many lines to see
Then I realise the person in the mirror
Yes, it’s me!
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 3:58 PM UTC
She scheduled her death for November 3.
Her orphan hope,
If hope could still be cradled,
Was for a thin sweep of snow on the ground,
Maybe a bit of a howl out of the northwest,
(A dog whistle wind, her son Duncan called it,)
and,
If these fertile and malignant aliens at outpost
In her pancreas and liver,
If they held gracious,
Then she would attempt one last respite
and
She'd stand alone at winter’s edge
Inside the pencil sketch of a forest,
The oak and barren elms asleep,
Their crooked witch’s fingers
Scratching upward, thin and still,
If she could endure long enough,
She’d tempt a final plea,
To overwhelm the Carciginians
and
She would wake these slumbering giants
With her soft envy,
She would beg the forest for its for secrets,
She would kneel and ask for the gift of a long nap,
Her wish to rise,
When all awake in spring again.
Of course in the end,
She bartered her desperation,,
Exchanged the ignominy of begging for her life,
For the crow’s caw,
The ivory of a full moon,
The damp step of a midnight in dew,
Her forest held her,
The wind whispered her name in soft repeat,
As she realized her eternity,
Her evermore,
Her head up, her heart insured.
Always this sheltered wood had counseled her,
She was careful to apologize,
Offer a traveler's grace,
It was her last goodbye.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
A while back, Nick and I sat
side by side
in split-back forest lawn chairs.
Huff and huff
the porch's coat of scarlet stain,
talking like
existential cab drivers.
Legs on legs
crossed like war trenches or
window blinds
or a cold zipper's cold teeth.
Life or death.
More life on rye, Swiss cheese.
Holey talk of Jesus Christ.
Cross the cross
and hope to die; I know we will.
For now, though,
skip small to get to big talk.
Cursive hand
separates notes and throws out
the ********
but *everything at that age was ********
Challenger
never blew up, Dillinger
never robbed,
we never dissected life
to see its
uncertain pancreas.
We're kids but can't act like it.
Qualms with calm,
and clever wordplay plays footsies
with my thoughts.
My stale bread secrets take up
too much space.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 1:20 AM UTC
O Dear Heart...or pancreas...or some vital *****
When I gaze into your ear canals
And cuddle you in my comforting feet
Oh, yeah, I wanna hold your earlobe
You make my sella turcica skip a beat
Your nostrils are so very soft to the touch
Your toenails are like silver-pale moonlight
Your elbows smell like roses in the spring
Your hair follicles are so sunrise bright
And when I meditate upon your liver
Cupid shoots every arrow from his quiver!
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 3:34 PM UTC
why don’t you open me up & sip from my heart
then glance towards your landscape
and pull it towards you with an umbilical cord
stolen from one of my countless holes, gaps in me
why don’t you open the sun up & let it breathe
just the way my pancreas pumps, sinking in
and spitting up
little shards of glass you wedged inside
gathered from tree-babies, lifted from the sky
the world’s so green but you would rather separate
my thighs
see the realm that grows in my body
give the fauna a wet kiss & sip the gore stringing
from the core of it, pure poreless skin
i tell you what to do but i really just want you
to want me the way naïve terrain curls around life
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
Fallopian draino
I sank into the cushions of demure and sell by date tumors
I press google send, topic in search
Leftover pancreas feelings
Could you believe in monsters just for me
Because i can't handle the potion
I couldn't handle you pressing repeat on your keyboard
Oct 15, 2015
Oct 15, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Dear pops
1) You died and will never get to see your grandchildren. I always used to tell you if you didn't eat better you wouldn't get to see them. I was right
2) I told you if you didn't eat better you would get diabetes. In the end they cut out your pancreas and I became right
3) I always thought hospitals were cool. Thanks to you I can't bear thinking of one
4) Why did you never say you were proud of me?
5)Why did you never say you were proud of me?
6) Why did you never say you were proud of me?
7) Never. Not once
8) Were you proud of me?
9) Why was it always about my looks?
10) Why was I always annoying to you? *edit - why did you always find me annoying?
11) Did I matter?
12) Did you think I was smart?
13) Did you think I would become something?
14) Did you think I was a stupid girl who would outgrow her rebelliousness
15) It's been 17 years and I haven't
16) Did you think I was smart?
17) You never thought anything I did mattered
18) You always mocked me, made fun of me, never listened to what I had to say
19) You thought I was rude when I wasn't
20) You labelled me all the time
21) There's a small part of me that's glad you died because now I can love a girl more easily. Now I can love a boy of a different race more easily. Now I can speak to my mother more easily
22) Did you love me? It didn't seem so
23) I always thought my life would change if I lost someone I loved. It didn't ,not much
24) I'm always looking for older men to tell me I'm intelligent. Your best friend. My uncle. My teacher.
25) Guess why
26) I'm damaged. I was damaged before you died and a large part of why is you
27) The boys and I always said you reminded us of Homer Simpson because of your gut and baldness and mild foolishness. In the end you were so ravaged by jaundice you were as yellow as him. I will never watch The Simpsons again
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
my father’s younger brother
was quite an interesting fellow
worked over time in different jobs
and on the sided wrote poems
stories novels texted songs
we lived about 150 miles apart
exchanged occasional mails and comments
on each other’s writings
then I received an email rather strange
stating that he had underestimated
his sickness but wished to have no visits
at the time
it seriously felt
like something was not right
and two days later
I was just about to call
a weeping aunt was on the phone
and told me of his death
from what she said
it was not nice
he died of cancer of the pancreas
could hardly move in his last weeks
and only weighed one hundred pounds
down from 200 when he died
guess his demise was a relief for him
as well as her
how sad that he a man of letters
who wrote thick novels and articulate verse
could not find words for his own pain
maybe like many of his generation
he felt his sickness was a shame
or he was furious at his body or his fate
or did not want to burden others
or did not like them to be witness
to his waning health
I do not know
what I shall remember
is the loud silence
in his last mail
* * *
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC