"prescript" poems
My family doctor suggested bed rest.
If that was a statement rather than a suggestion,
I wouldn't know, because the redundancy of those
two words was enough to keep me idle,
awake, agitated for days.
It was around the time he carefully
scribbled his script onto the blue pad
that I began to chuckle. This prefixed
prescript was only a temporary solution
that was barely legible. Whether or not
a scribe in this profession is meant to
be as erratic as nomadic cavern canvas,
it speaks volumes that the DSM IV considers
substantial. Until a once thought preconceived
notion becomes precedent in the ongoing
sought after expansion of knowledge.
A continuation of disorder and disease,
the facts and fallacies,
all become testing.
The standard practice is only as strong
as its weakest hypothesis.
More so when it becomes general practice.
I would like to believe
this to be an emergency,
but the white-coat before me
felt the need to sidetrack,
and thought it appropriate to mention
youth in Asia.
The deadpan humor
was disconcerting.
But not as unnerving
as the redundancies that
were given to me as a solution
for my sporadic sleep.
Some insurance!
Reassure me, doctor!
So, he did,
through his proclivity
for pharmaceuticals.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
*My doctor offered me a cure,
For my dull ill heart so pure,
He nodded his head,
And grabbed a paper instead,
Which he left next to my bed,
"Don't open it till I am gone,"
He said.
I waited for a moment,
Till I heard the cracking of the door,
He gentley slammed it for sure,
''Why would he do that?"
I said.
I took the paper to unfold,
To read what was untold,
My hands shivered,
My heart stopped,
instead,
It was eloquently folded,
Like the coffin of the dead,
His black ink on white,
His italic messed up writing,
Not a prescript, but a funeral,
Instead.
Between those elegant lines,
He said,
**"You, my dear patient,
Are lost in despair,
You are on earth,
With a lofty heart,
Pardon me,
Pardon my knowledge,
There is no cure for that,
You are a poet, cures are futile,
Medicine is useless,
Your desires are uncontrolled,
They are not meant to be,
But they are your drug,
You are addicted to that,
Pleasures are your weakness,
Such a lofty weakness,
But alas,
Such a dreadful terminal illness,
Try a poem a day,
instead.
As there is nothing to heal you with,
in my head.
A poem a day,
Keep me at bay."***
Copyright© protected
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
Who are you? and where did you come from?
I love you so much and yet I don't know your story.
We're proof, you and I,
that love comes out side of fully knowing.
How did we both end up here in this place together as we are?
What is it that draws two people together?
I won't claim to know.
I - the wizard of algorithm -
have yet to find a constant formula,
a consistent equation of explanation.
Your humor and cleverness plus my wit and fire
divided by our mutual sarcasm raised to the power of two.
The recipe of us:
a mathematical prescript with a solution of love and
a limit that does not exist.
More complex than what can be written on a page,
unbounded in potential by discrete definitions.
I don't need a proof and I don't need a story;
I love you, my friend,
to infinity and back again.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
She whispered with a silent symphony as in solitude.
The piece indecently rhymed to prove a point unknown -
Of belonging, and beatitude, and an untamed soulfulness.
My innocent spirit struck ablaze with a thoughtfully eternal flame.
Her doll eyes, pale with a seemingly clear whiteness -
Of beauty, and of purity, and of heathen health,
Bribed my ignorant heart with a big sum of worthless treasure
To prescript my dreams, and also my wet dreams.
I succumbed with a lot of faith
And let her in,
Then out,
But left me inside-out
With a banquet,
But of thorns!
Nov 22, 2019
Nov 22, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC
[This is the start
to another goodbye letter
that—if I ever actually finish—
I’ll certainly never send.
I haven’t stopped believing
that my heart
beats in rhythm
to the echo of yours
and every lover before.
That the places I leave
stay with me
hanging like a beech leaf in winter
yellow and holding
after a new bud forms.
So, yes, this may be a resignation
or the start of the means to another end.
But even when I couldn’t love you
you still let me have a friend.]
Dear California…
Oct 15, 2021
Oct 15, 2021 at 6:23 PM UTC