"stretcher" poems
I wonder why you want to row
When there are just so many terms to know
Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water,
Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to
Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces,
Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t)
So forgive me if I leave some out.
Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell):
The seat you sit on,
slides, backstop, shoes and riggers.
The skeg that stabilizes the shell,
shoulder, saxboard, and pogies.
The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place,
swivel, stretcher and rollers.
Now for the oar (or rather the scull):
There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade,
Smoothie or Tulip.
Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ?
An Airstroke (in the air) ,
backsplash, backwater, or body stroke,
Go on bury the blade, check the cover,
but don’t catch a crab!
Mind out for the drunken spider,
watch the feather and the finish,
Inside hand, outside hand,
hands away, miss the water,
Leg back, lie back,
pause the paddling, watch the pitch,
Release and recover,
don’t shoot your slide,
Swing the stroke rate,
and space those puddles.
Careful there’s no skying,
and absolutely no washing out.
Ready for a repecharge?
Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater?
Ask the *** to call a flutter.
Easy oars
Hold her hard
Ship oars
One foot up & out
Waist, ready, up
Shoulders, ready, up
Way enough!
Feb 7, 2013
Feb 7, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."
When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"
4k
Closed like confessionals, they thread
Loud noons of cities, giving back
None of the glances they absorb.
Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque,
They come to rest at any kerb:
All streets in time are visited.
Then children strewn on steps or road,
Or women coming from the shops
Past smells of different dinners, see
A wild white face that overtops
Red stretcher-blankets momently
As it is carried in and stowed,
And sense the solving emptiness
That lies just under all we do,
And for a second get it whole,
So permanent and blank and true.
The fastened doors recede. Poor soul,
They whisper at their own distress;
For borne away in deadened air
May go the sudden shut of loss
Round something nearly at an end,
And what cohered in it across
The years, the unique random blend
Of families and fashions, there
At last begin to loosen. Far
From the exchange of love to lie
Unreachable insided a room
The trafic parts to let go by
Brings closer what is left to come,
And dulls to distance all we are.
3.4k
a magician never reveals their
tricks to the joker is what you’d
told you that sunday night last
september as you had sloppily
crashed into a river and made
both of our cold bones shiver.
we both knew this was not a
typical drive down the road
because you had broken the
moral code and would soon
be toad while i lay with still
bones and a frantic call home
on a stretcher in the back of
an ambulance with hands
holding my body together
as you asked the police to
give you a moment so you
could have a breather and
a smoke or two because
you knew you were through.
they asked if you wanted to
leave me alone and head
down to the police station
and you just shrugged like
this was not your creation
because your court costs
were more expensive than
the knowledge of my pain
and i wished I had caught
that last sunday night train
instead of drinking with you
in the rain and making fog
against the window pane.
i was told not to move as
i waited for the helicopter
and you were pushed up
against the side of a cop
car and cuffed with angry
resistant will and the tears
spilled down hard and fast
from your pretty little face
because for once i would
not save your ****** ***
and get you out of this gory
mess that had turned your
sunday best into a disgrace
and made my bones buckle
and cry out for some rest
for they had been pressed
and strained under the now
drowned window pane with
blood creating a vivid stain.
your head ducked down as
you were pushed into the back
of the car and you glanced up
to see my motionless mangled
body watching from afar.
how’s that for a date night?
you laughed as the tube
down my throat made me
cough and the police officer
gave you a stern look before
slamming the door on your
smirking face so hard that
the car shook like my body
did with hollow echoing sobs
that made my eyes run like the
river that had made both of us
shiver as you had claimed that
the joker would always deliver
even if the magician would not
reveal their spells for the joker
had his own secret way to hell.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
I almost died the other day
And I came back to this place just to say
That you never know when it all can get taken Away
All your life's lessons suddenly play
like a highschool production through your mind's electric grey clay,
a mind managing to keep itself oxygenated enough to operate even as consciousness fades
A body lying there, blue as a mid summer's day, gasping
For breath, and for a chance to stay
Alive.
I woke up, having almost died the other day,
To a room full of strange faces, whose eyes all aimed my way.
A room full of strangers,
My vision regaining clarity,
I see equipment of many types, lying around a well decorated living room, it seemed out of place,
devices dreamed up by engineers a few hundred miles away,
At an elite institution, of mechanical engineering and science, engineering devices that now lay about my horrified friend's living room,
Then the puzzle regained its shape, and I was graced with the understanding that it was all going to be okay,
this time, anyway.
the first responders,
My saviours.
Real heroes,
Who wear no capes,
Nor spandex,
But who know their job well,
And do it without delay,
And these people who saved my life today
Are out of my life now forever, and onto saving another fragile life, on some other street,
On some other day.
I saw people in blues, reds, and greys, yellows and oranges, and then the light of the day.
The light of the day on which I did not die,
But I could have, had it been another time,
Another place.
My stretcher was bright yellow, by the way...
I almost died the other day, and its implacable oncoming rush scared me.
The fear of not having lived a worthy life, an unobserved life,
Of dying too soon, with things left to do
Of leaving people behind,
Of wrongs left to right
Of lying here blue
On my dear friend's plush carpet,
And her child witnessing it as he comes home from school. Innocent as day, then scarred for life.
Luckily I have a few friends and modern miracles on my side.
I almost died the other day, and I came back here, having missed all the poetry, that makes life worth living, day after day.
Beyond the biorhythms we must feed
In order to stay
Alive.
Peace.
Love.
Breath.
Focus.
A good enough mantra,
Wouldn't you say?
I almost died the other day,
But I didn't. I breathe
in with gratitude,
And I exhale with relief,
that I still got the knack
for it.
Dec 9, 2022
Dec 9, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC
There he is
the loudest guy in the bar
Boasting about clandestine OPS
and battles he’d ‘prefer not to remember’,
But he does,
because he has an audience
There he was in Ramadi, Korengal,
Tikrit, Kandahar, pinned down by dozens,
no hundreds, of enemy fighters.
His best mate, was hit by shrapnel or an enemy round.
He screams for Doc
But no help comes
The barroom hero
applies a compression bandage,
but the blood continues to flow through his fingers
Minutes pass, his buddy worsens.
Doc arrives, finally.
The buddy is stabilized and loaded onto a stretcher
He’ll be on the first bird out
The battle hardened warrior continues his tale,
regaling his table with airstrikes, CQB, and
taking the battle to the enemy.
Someone asks, “What unit were you in?”
He replies proudly, “The Second Ranger Battalion.”
You set your own beer down and spin from your chair.
You make your way from your table to his.
You place a silver coin upon it,
“Second Ranger Battalion,” you say,
“Coin Check.”
The color drains from his face
Fear in his eyes and an ‘Oh **** expression on his face,
He stammers something about being ‘attached’
and having orders for Ranger School once.
Your icy glare tells him that he’d better
**** and **** before he is no longer able to do either.
He throws a $20 onto the table and finds his way to the door.
******* ****
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
Paramedic 1:
"He's losing so much blood."
Paramedic 2:
"It's a miracle if he can make it past this."
*Saturday night, and I'm in the back of an ambulance,
But not in soul, just in body, oh and in the company of so many wires,
I can't tell where they end and where I begin,
But the paramedics say there was a tragic accident and some flying tires.
We reach the ER, my stretcher is flying on the white tiles,
And soon enough I'm greeted by more wires than I can count,
They're saying that they want to hear my heart,
So I'm opened up past layers of tissues and my heartbeat is playing aloud.
I'm somewhere in a circus, learning how to walk on a tightrope,
One arm on the verge of life, the other on the verge on death,
And my feet are stronger than they've ever been,
I'm not afraid of the fall, I'm afraid they'll see the mark I've had since birth.
And they do, I see it in the face of those people wearing white scrubs,
Their faces become the color of their operating room attire,
They don't know what to do with me,
As they come to realize what's got me here is not the flying tires.
They see my heart, a land that is home to no one,
Yet a massacre is taking place between the northerns and the southerns,
A border holding together the mismatched territories,
But there is no compromising between two armies this stubborn.
Each side wanting to flood the other, wanting to conquer,
And the small canal that was once an uncharted place of peace,
Is now holding a rowing contest to the mind of the victim - me -
Who will reach it first and incorporate their power with claws and teeth...?
It was the time to surrender, ending all attempts at making amends,
And watch cannibals sailing in rivers of blood,
They think each accelerated beat is a new victory,
Yet it was a far away cry from it, it was a new tear, a new cut.
And when each side invades the other, they claim it as their own,
But they are only emigrants thinking they can reconstruct a desert,
It was only a land of chaos, they themselves have caused,
Where was once life flowing in veins, is now where resources are tethered.
And with no winner, the end approached,
The curtains already sweeping the ground,
Doctors wiping sweat from their foreheads,
Letting the hospital gown cover the battleground.*
Paramedic 2:
"Maybe there's a wife we can call, to you know ... deliver the news..."
Paramedic 1:
"It appears, he just went out for a drive in the middle of the night, with no phone or ID... not even his driver's license..."
Paramedic 2:
"Maybe it wasn't even his car..."
THE END
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Lieing on my body is my soft little feline
So cute and sweet like a flower of clementine
I pet Young Gunther softly as he stares into my eyes
I however was yet to meet my despise
The claws came out all sharp and about
Blood everywhere as I fought him throughout
Feeling such pain I fought back the best I could
His speed however was misunderstood
Bleeding out I grabbed the phone
In mid-brawl I began to crawl
Dialing 911 to save my life
At this point even a knife would not suffice
Nearly dead the ambulance arrived
Deprived and hurt I continued to cry
"Why Gunther, why?"
I was put on to a stretcher and taken away
Gunther running he escaped in some way
In the ER with little blood left
No hope in my mind remains about to be swept
Into a can and in a number of minutes
My fatality occurred
Words were slurred
And I died slowly painfully and without any last words
But "Oh Young Gunther, you little ****
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:13 PM UTC
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses...
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind, I'm blind!'
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
'I can't' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting Next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
* * *
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
2.5k
In the distance, I see a Hound bus cruising down the country road
The stretched out Greyhound dog in front of the bus with look and behold
Now watch as numerous stories unfold
I hear a Greyhound Driver narrating his tail of his stories surrounding the hound bus
I will narrate a couple for you
Our story starts in Topeka, Kansas enroute to Kansas City, Kansas
The bus left on time during its usual run schedule
However, the weather started getting rough
Driving in the wind and rain made it really tough
A Tornado could be seen in the distance destroying everything in its path along the farmlands
Yet that Greyhound bus steadily kept moving
But the fierce violent winds were blowing
Suddenly, the Greyhound bus got a lift
Up in the funnel of the Tornado the Greyhound bus went far from any drift
However, a miracle took place, and the bus was slowly let down gently to the ground
The Greyhound bus remained in tacked and nothing but praises in God’s thanks was the sound
This is my account of another story
I was travelling from New York City to San Francisco, California
It was a vacation being a 4 days journey and New York City back
We had just crossed the Nevada state line being a rest stop
A Young Woman went into labor on the bus
The Driver was counting the contractions, but we all knew what was going to happen
This was supposed too be an 30 minute rest stop, but turned into a 2 hour rest stop
Luckily, the bus was near a major hospital nearby, and an ambulance was summoned
The EMS carried the Pregnant Woman on a stretcher off the bus and her Boyfriend (Husband) followed
Later, the bus pushed on, and I arrived at my final destination ahead of schedule into San Francisco
Another story tail
This time I was travelling to Los Angeles from New York City
We stopped in a Ghost town
There were tumbleweed flying everywhere and shutters were hitting all the houses along with wind blowing
Yet, there were no citizens in the town
Meanwhile, it was 6:00 AM in Arizona
Suddenly, all the passengers wondered who was coming aboard
But everyone was thinking thriller oh my Lord
A Male Passenger boarded, but spoke Spanish
He was drunk and wanted to sit with anyone, but passengers refused
So he had to go to the back of the bus where the restroom was
He talked from the time he boarded until we arrived in Los Angeles
So Greyhound is more than a ride, it became an adventure
Stories upon stories
Go Greyhound with its own storyline
The venture being the bus, but no need to fuss
Greyhound is the American Frontier and that involves us
What is your Greyhound traveling story?
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 7:19 PM UTC
I have friends who went,
to Bethlehem, to Paris, to Spain.
Left for London, Beachy Head.
Those friends came back,
back to Halifax, Portland, Bangor–
My friends go.
They go
to the bar for a pint.
They go
to the South for the summer.
They go
to plant trees in Alberta–
The friends who go
are the friends who went.
But I have friends
who are
gone.
Friends
who are
gone
cannot go
to the bar,
to the South,
or to Alberta.
Some friends have left–
through some door,
in the night, in the day,
in a car, on a bed,
on a stretcher, in the street–
and yes, they are
gone.
Where will I go when I am
gone?
Will I be with my friends?
Perpetually traveling
to the South, to Alberta,
to the bar for a pint?
No. I will not go.
I cannot go, once I am gone. When I go, I will be
gone.
I could go anytime,
night or day,
In a car, on a bed,
a stretcher, or street–
Yes, I could go. And when I go, when I leave–
I will be
gone.
So,
Friends who have
gone
where I cannot go,
they must know–
that we all will go, we all leave–
soon, yes, soon. Now,
in the pause
between
moments,
in the quiet space
of a last
breath–
we
all are
gone.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
I think trauma is a strange word.
I was probably twelve or thirteen when I first heard it - oh yeah, it's when you get really hurt, right?
Blood and guts everywhere.
Thank goodness that doctors exist.
They can patch you up and make you whole again.
"Incoming trauma! All hands on deck!"
I think it's a strange word because, supposedly, trauma is what happened to me. But that can't be right, can it?
I imagine myself being rolled into a hospital on a stretcher, doctors and nurses taking me from paramedics.
"Eighteen year old female suffering from internal cardiovascular and neuro injuries. Speech and sight is impaired."
I'm okay. What are you talking about? All I did was love two people.
"Injuries are consistent with loving parents that don't love you in return."
Wait, what? No, my parents love me!
My dad likes to drink sometimes but at least he doesn't act unpredictable anymore when I suggest he go to bed.
Well, there was that one time he fell down the stairs. Also the time he peed on me while I was sleeping because he believed my room was the bathroom.
But my mom is okay! She likes to leave a lot and there were those times she had loud *** with strangers in the room next to mine late at night. But she's good, I swear. Even when she had chlamydia and I held her while she cried.
Even when she left and never came back.
"I need a crash cart in here! Patient is bleeding out and her blood pressure is dropping - "
I'm fine, I swear.
All I did was love them.
Wait, hang on!
What about that time my parents argued and my dad tried to choke my mom to death?
I mean...I did run away from the house, crying, to find our neighbor.
I did beg her to call the police.
But that's not trauma, right?
I just wanted them to stop yelling. I just wanted him to let her go before she stopped breathing.
That's love.
"Paddles, please! Charge to three hundred..."
"Clear!"
These doctors really don't know anything.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC
I always swear work doesn’t affect me.
Trauma?! HA! Never.
And for the most part I am ok.
But suddenly I realized as I counted every single calorie; every single bite… scrubbed every surface and washed my hands far too many times..
The fear of gaining weight; of relying on everyone else to care for me…
Just might be coming from the living people whose bodies are actively rotting. Flesh and fluids dripping off the sides of my stretcher.
My ambulance regularly becoming a biohazard until I’ve scrubbed every inch.
Listening to the sounds of weeping patients on their way to the ER for the 5th time this month because no body cares about them.
It’s not death that scares me. Not loss of limbs or sight that worries me. It’s not having anyone who wants to love me. Not having anyone willing to speak for me when I am broken. It’s the idea my mind can be pristinely sharp but my body defeated and needing someone. But no body cares.
That possibility is petrifying.
-ARI
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 11:56 AM UTC
I've been cracking my knuckles since I was six,
but back then my bones were still practically cartilage.
My mother could only make me stop during dinner.
Her brass voice echoed through the house,
like the trumpets in a marching band on the Fourth of July.
(Although not as patriotic.)
My mother didn't know about all the times I cracked
my knuckles when I was by myself.
Sweet sixteen and the joints between my fingers still
crunched secretly under my skin and between
what was now developed into hard white bone.
I've only broken one bone in my entire life.
It was my nose during my homecoming soccer game,
senior year, under the lights and across the street
from the stone-cold brick building that housed
my Catholic education.
Soccer ***** have hit my stomach and my chest countless times,
leaving hexagonal imprints in scratchy blotches of red
over an empty envelope of acid and oxygen.
This time it hit me and I fell to the cold and frozen dirt,
my jersey conforming to the brown-green of roughened grass
and the blood from my nose providing contrast
and complement all at once.
Someone picked me up and I became conscious and self-conscious
that someone’s hands could touch my skin and
that someone’s hands could feel my body.
My hands hung off the sides of the stretcher I didn't need
(I thought it was crazy, all this fuss over a broken nose)
and they swung as I was carried, bringing blood
to my knuckles so that they could swell and expand.
My mother tripped over her questions
when she asked if I could
breathe or eat or speak or if my choking was cause for concern.
“B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made rice and b-beans.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made your f-f-f-f-favorite.”
You tied me in a robe and stuck a tube down my throat.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
it’s your f-f-favorite.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
It's the 50's and I'm walking home from school
a truck rolls by and i see a body boom.
"whats that" I say and I look down the drain.
It's my friend, a girl, oh I have forgot her name.
I finnish my walk home and I walk through the door.
The first thing i say "Where's my sibling's mom?"
she simpy replies " At the old hospital ***
So I start to walk and find that place.
I start to climb the rusty fire place.
I get inside the buliding,there are kids every where.
screaming and yelling
"QUICK, HURRY! THERE'S A FIRE OVER THERE!"
I freak out
Where's my siblings, oh dear.
Maybe i can find them if i go down here?
I climb in a dumbwaiter not knowing what I will see.
I get to a floor where there was just her and little ol' me
"Hello there new friend, would you like to play?"
Why sure of course, I have some time to play.
She was small petite, with gorgous red hair
her smile, he laugh, her skin was so fair.
She was beautiful like a angel, but something was wrong.
she offered me a drink, what happened next i wish i would have run
she opened her fridge and what i saw
1 million little peicese, her parents cut small.
She came after me with her knife in one hand.
How the hell am i supposed to get away,
get away from this scam!
So i scurry up where i came from,
and i said my goodbyes to that little one.
The hospital is blazed,
and my heart has sunk.
My siblings have died i just know this one.
I get out side just in the nick of time,
before that building fell I was sure I would die.
I see right before me those flashing lights.
maybe they got out, maybe they are just fine.
Then what i see is my youngest sister.
Bleeding right there all over the stretcher.
She no longer had arms or legs and it just broke my heart
i ran to her to hold her, and tell her my goodbyes.
Then before i could speek my words
she said
"Goodbye"
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Brown hair blue eyes awakes from a brief slumber,
respite isn't found in the black curtain of sleep,
not in the office chair at a desk,
respite is not,
respite cannot,
As he trudges across the mess on the floor,
cutting his soles open on the trash accumulating over the years,
the metal and plastic,
cold iron of promises and betrayals when he said he'd grow a thicker skin,
the paper-cuts of childrens' cards as a breeze kicks them up,
it's December and the window's open,
it's freezing in here.
Close the window,
stopping the draft,
he gets changed in front of an open window,
exposing himself,
luckily nobody notices.
Freezing air shatters the warm membrane of his lungs,
they contract and shudder,
and don't expand again,
the morning ritual is painless but uncomfortable,
ignored until it goes away,
instead of dealing with it,
because it's easier,
focusing on breathing,
and driving,
than acknowledging the weakness.
This is lumbering,
shambling when it should be gliding,
huddled,
when it should be upright,
instead laid out on this stretcher,
they're making way,
just hoping it'll be over soon,
out of sight,
out of mind,
as it crashes through the hallway,
next to them,
a disaster stuck in their minds,
alive,
dead to the world outside the hospital window.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
(ɘɔnɒludmA)
I don't know how to talk to you
without feeling like neon red siren screaming ambulance
with bad brakes and a blown tire
hauling through a busy intersection
where the crosswalks are full of children
laughing.
And you're a pedestrian
soon to be in need of my stretcher.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
When I was eight years old I told my mom I’d play in the NBA.
And she believed me.
A year later, I was nearly dead.
A quick cough in January caged my lungs with such force
I could almost hear them fighting for breathing room.
I don’t remember much.
All that comes to mind is the panic
Like an animal that lives inside your skin,
That only awakens when he is least needed.
I came to with my mind split in half.
In reality I was on a stretcher, in a hospital.
In my mind, I was chained to a sheet of wood.
Floating in a pool.
Spread out like the vitruvian man.
I watched the water run through my fingers.
On second glance, I was not alone at the pool.
Men in all black stood around the edges
Staring like henchman do at helpless prey.
On third glance, I am in a stadium filled with cheering fans.
I could never really tell who they were cheering for.
One of the men shouts out, and I am drowning.
A godlike force pushes through the chain and I am engulfed.
No breath.
No sound.
Just blue and black
And the muffles of panic.
Only interrupted by a brief resurface
And the roar of an audience
Followed by blue and black.
My mind began to converge,
And two worlds became one again.
As the water around me turned to tile,
My hands still felt wet from the pool.
The nurse asked me why I kept screaming to get out of the water.
I never learned how to swim.
I never played in the NBA.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:13 AM UTC
This morning at daybreak
and half awake still
he bundled his memories
on to a stretcher
and carried them up atop
Cothelstone hill
and sorted them through
for the moment he met her;
the memories bandaged,
the ones with bruised limbs,
he laid on the heather
like hospital beds
but the one of their first kiss
he threw to the wind
and asked the wind's help
for to help him forget..
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 1:50 AM UTC
15th of April 2013
26 miles, 10,000 strong,
Ready at last after months of practice,
To test their endurance.
Proud family members, straining to see Johnny or jill run by.
Or to cheer on the wheel chair racers.
The Boston marathon,
Patriots day,
Flags flying
from the many countries represented.
People of every variety, old, young,
Each beautiful in their endeavor.
Most just trying to beat there own time
And be able to say
“ I ran the Boston Marathon”
Well-wishers bound the route,
On both sides of the road.
Hands holding out water bottles for the runners,
Other Hands applauding
Enjoying the day’s excitement.
“It’s another gorgeous day, here in Boston
For the 80th Boston Marathon”
Comment the watching newscasters.
The women start first, then the men
The Africans, tall and thin make the first rank of runners.
At heartbreak hill no one is surprised at the leaders.
Then the leader crosses the finish line.
First second third and so on.
Did you better your time?
Some, as they cross the finish line,
are so exhausted they just stand staring ahead.
Wondering how their bodies could have given so much,
while paramedics gently guide them to the medical tent
The crowd, amassed at the finish line, applauds
As one by one and in clusters of two and three
Runners reach for the finish line.
Suddenly there is a kind of wompf,
It’s an alien sound that doesn’t belong here,
Out of place with the laughter and the joy.
Then screams replace the joy and there’s a second explosion.
People are stunned, this can’t be happening here in Boston.
A cloud of smoke rises from behind the watchers
Flags billow then fall,
A South African flag, a Thai flag, one from Kenya
Why would any one want to hurt these athletes
Their waiting friends and families?
The sickness of this action so unfathomable
In one moment
Changing a day of joy and celebration
To a day of death and mutilation
Did these sick people mean to **** that 8 year old boy
Who’d come just to see his dad run?
Did they mean to carve off the legs of a that woman
Lying in pain on the stretcher,
Did they mean to bring down a 78 year old who had almost
Almost made it to the finish line.
Perhaps for the last time?
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
It was a warm summer night like this,
the night they came for Mister Marindino.
The ambulance stopped in front of his house
as the neighbors gathered in the shadows
"t must be his heart." one muttered.
"Too many of those good Cuban cigars."
I was just a kid, standing at the edges.
I loved those kind old people;
They husband with his stories,
Mrs. M with her Anisette cookies.
Now poor Mrs. Marindino
stood silent , in shock,
as the EMT's carried him out on the stretcher
His face as blue
as the evening summer sky,
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Trauma Center
Smoke
Liquid on the ground
My head spinning
"Are you ok", I hear her asking
"I'm an EMT"
I hear a male say
"Hold on don't close your eyes, help is coming"
Then what appeared to be the longest wait reaches an end
I hear a man almost ripping out the door from my new red car (doesn't matter it's just a car)
Finally with a neck brace and on a stretcher
Flashing lights and sirens screaming
It hit me
I can't move and my abdomen feels like I got punched a million times
I can feel someone cutting through my pants
My knees where bleeding
"Where your pants torn before the impact?"
" no," I answer
How? I was just driving
"We're here"
Push, push
Hurry, hurry
I feel all, ALL of my clothes being cut off
Tests and more tests
I'm just thankful I'm alive!
------------------------------//////::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The Things we take for granted
I used to breathe without having to think about it
Now I slowly inhale waiting for the pain that follows
I used to get up...in seconds I'd be on my feet
Now the pain is excruciating
I need support to pull myself up
Getting into bed is another eternal task
But thankful to God that I'm still here
And working on recuperating
Please wear your seat belt it saved my life
Pray for me
* the lady that came to my help... she sat next to me, prayed for me as we waited for the paramedics-- her name was Lina! like me:) coincidence? I think not
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 1:28 AM UTC
When we hear the sirens’ banshee wails,
Flying up behind us,
The four horsemen of the apocalypse,
We say a silent prayer:
“Thank God it’s not for me.”
Then continue on our way,
Until the traffic begins to slow,
And the crowds appear
With their clown faces agape
As the sharp reds, flashing blues, hard blacks,
Charge haphazardly into the scene.
An acquaintance approaches to report the news,
Our faces blank to white as a sheet,
Tears spring to our eyes,
The floodgates of sorrow open:
No. No. No. It can’t be him.
The boy, strong and quiet, funny and kind,
Who hiked mountains up and down the coast,
Who jested in stealing cigarettes,
Who jammed the bass,
All with a twinkle in his eye:
Almost gone
Out a seventh floor dormitory window.
Each of us silent,
Our minds race:
Prayers saved for when God is really needed,
Memories of happy moments,
Nightmares of what ifs.
But then silence,
As the stretcher emerges,
And there he lies
Covered only in a sheet
As white as our faces
We all feel it:
A void, then sudden surge
Love, Despair, Faith,
Past, Present, Future,
And we are with him.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 12:13 PM UTC
It’s been one year.
A new coach and some new players
but the game is the same,
pass the ball, slide tackle instinctively.
Focus on slight movements of hips,
the way a player’s weight shifts.
Not a single one will get past you.
Wear your jersey like the scars you carry.
No longer torn, all that glitters is gold.
The heart clenches in anticipation.
Take a deep breath. You are home.
At the whistle, begin again.
It’s been six months.
This foreign country is a temporary home.
Touches still tentative, but your mind is sharp.
Don’t let the ball get torn from your legs.
Your team is counting the strips of tape
holding you together. It’s frustrating seeing
them timidly pass ***** in practice,
waiting around to catch you.
It takes time to get back,
but you will be better because of it.
It’s been three weeks.
Every step is agony, fire worthy of Hell.
You must carry the burden on one leg,
cry behind closed doors and watch
your team grow without you.
Take one step
and another before crashing.
Feel the stitches torn from your knee.
Get back up. Fall again. Want to sit on that floor forever.
Get back up. Your team is waiting.
It’s been two minutes.
Struck in the knee you collapse
into the grass. Scream. Louder.
Time stops. Your captain signals the trainers.
It is cold in their shadows.
Put your hands over your eyes because seeing
is believing. Let them strap you to a stretcher,
strain your leg while hopes of gold
fade from your vision.
Why was it you? You were there.
Can you ever get back? Is this the end?
Feb 27, 2013
Feb 27, 2013 at 2:30 PM UTC
No place for me to fit in, sometimes not even my own skin
The 65th crayon on the floor next to the 64 count special edition tin
The two dollar DVD bin is even out of reach, at a loss as to where else to begin
I guess it's back to the drawing board to start over once again
Not a chance of bein' normal as an outcasted heathen
But that's never been a why for me, to fit in is not a win
I've been sittin' in this same place like a mannikin with a phoney grin
A clothespin holdin' together the fabric of my being with such discipline
But a strong gust of wind tears through like blowing your nose into a cheap napkin
Patched together like a quilt of sin read like a story board of which I'm a star in
Stitched together by not giving in, givin' it all I can, taking every shot to the chin
But life's not getting the win by KO or even by decision
I'm gonna need to be taken out the ring on a stretcher with blue skin
But the goal isn't really to win but to survive this doomed zeppelin
I start thinking maybe I can take this aggression and passion and turn it in...
...to a winnin' combination and spread it through the nation
Empower an entire generation, awaken an entire population
But all they'll see is Frankenstein's monster
©2018
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 12:27 PM UTC