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Jun Lit Nov 2018
Ang Wheelchair, [Bow!]

Alalay sa may karamdaman
Sandigan ng may kapansanan
Kublihan ng mga tampalasan ng bayan
Gamit sa pang-uuto sa sambayanan . . .

Ang Wheelchair . . .

Translation:
The Wheelchair, [Bow!]

Assistant to the sick human
Support for the disabled man and woman
Convenient cover of the corrupt gang
Used for fooling the people all and one . . .

The Wheelchair . . .
Through this I wish to express utmost dismay at how big-time corruption flourishes in the Philippines where convicted politician plunderers and thieves feign pain, pretend sickness, and gain release from incarceration on plea of humanitarian or health reasons - these things really make me sick.
Ju Clear Nov 2016
MS
Multiple Scleriosis
Aka Miserable Self
"Listen to your body"
Says MS nurse
Your mind keeps going
Burning sensations intermittent
Stabing and shooting in arms and legs
Crawling in your head
Numbness in your ***
Forget fullness
Wobbling  stumberling
Fear
Pregablin *****
Dampening your fuesed nerves
Limping dragging
"rest"
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Days are half days
Taken up by sleep
Fear
Weakness
Dropping
Numbness
"pace yourself "
says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
job half done
Delegate
Let go
"Use your alternative technology "
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Stick
Mixer
Steamer
Robotic vacuum cleaner
Hose
Wheelchair
Automatic car
It's challenging Managing Self
Be kinder to yourself
Kindness rules
Challenged by Multiple Sclerisos  ,mother hood ,
Tori Sep 2017
I long to fly

Into the sky

But broken wings

Disable me.



I long to play

But here I stay

Wheelchair bound

Still on the ground.



Look in my eyes,

These grey blue skies,

You’re soon to see

Past broken wings.



My body’s bound

But my soul roams round

The sky of my mind

Where you will find



Imagination abounds

My soul roams round

No chains for me

For here I’m free.



So, though I’m o'erlooked

And my wings are all crook’d,

There’s more to me,

I’ve  a soul with wings
This is dedicated to my little sister who has cerebral palsy.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2018
Joe without his legs
Wheelchair, bedside G.I.
At a meeting
Ruminating and feeling
It’s like A.A.
Rehabilitation games
The system plays War
Craft with missing halves
PTSD R e s p e c t
That ain’t the half
Of the stink and the taint
Sniffing glue
Replacing chipped paint

Joe only worries
If there’s somewheres
To be
After rehab
Need a Lyft Uber quick
Downtown a ton to do
Joe worries arriving in 12 steps

Sponsor anonymously
Befriend responsibly
Joe worries
Like long time buds
His legs
That they won’t work
Like they did back when
He got laid
And was paid
By way of Vietnam
And ****** Uncle Sam.
Joe worries

Of wheelchair accesses
His favorite places without
Doors he’d like to
Fit in
And go on
Normally
Accepted
To be loved like a brother
That no one knew
And no one seems or cares to

Joe feels like
A third wheel
A phantom limb
Who’s bucket list is to
“Invest in the Google”
“Learn how to use
The cloud”
Revised
zebra Aug 2017
she sat quietly in a cafe
pale
freckled with only one arm
and a missing foot
always shaking invisibly

deformed
from the curse of desolation

facing downwards  
she read the couplet

her maiden voyage was a lonely one
and it lasted all the days of her life

she wept silent tears
through interminable silent days
and starless nights
fearing her resemblance
to that ode of the forsaken

her countenance
a broken heart

i've come for you
i murmured

i'm a busted doll she said
see my pretty stumps
wheelchair
crutch
do you like them

strangely yes ...so very much
i wept softly

no one wants me
she whispered
i'm a blight of horror
a castaway to be avoided
my life a nightmare
of dark estrangement
a walking wound in tears
to crooked to be loved
a torn doll

looking into the depths of her soul
i called
i've always wanted a lopsided girl
with flaying stumps
and a brooding heart
to save
to love
to heal
to cuddle
and adore
to cry over
with wild warping hugs
always aching
for my darling
little *******

we kissed
wet mouthing clamors
lips and tongue
like oleo spread

i picked her up
and tangled her in my arms
as she thawed like heated oil

i ran off with her
tears streaming
and visited upon her
every kindness and pleasure of heaven
*and it lasted all the days of her life
LOVE
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.

Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear  
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.

Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
stefan badham Nov 2017
Hell yeah!
that's wot we need!
Othello as a *****
A lesbian *****
Lickin Desdemona out
tungin out that *****
cos that's wot we need!
it's more alive!
for them modern crowds!
tacklin all dem issues
that affect us all right?
gender ecwalitty
homofobya
Yeah!
Yeah!
but don't stop there
amputee lesbian Othello!
wheelchair Othello!
Spastic Othello
black spastic Othello
whitey spastic Othello
No!
Othello woz black right?
don't change that bit!
that would be like just silly
wheelchair Romyo
played by a butch *****
callin up to Julyet
played by transqueen
let's get refuckinwrit
all that classic ****
it's too borin innit
no meanin anymore
rip it all up
**** on it
it's English innit
and that's *******
innit
mark Aug 2018
I often had dinner
with my ninety four year old father
at the nursing home,
who,  towards the end
had little to say.
what he said
was mostly incoherent
and softly spoken.
after one dinner,
where little was said,
we sat together,
he in his wheelchair,
I in a lounger,
in the lobby,
in front of the television,
digesting,
he turned to me,
and said,

"I didn't think this would go on so long."
Joe Workman Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Deborah Downes Sep 2016
Fever-flushed children and
Broken bodies
Litter hospital halls like so much
Human refuse
….Wondering why
their need for care is treated so tepidly by a
Society which worships
Profits
Power and
Prestige
….Waiting while
they wallow in anguish as
Privacy
Paperwork and
Payment are
Debated by bureaucrats in cubicles
….Wanting to be refreshed and
restored to some measure of usefulness
….But
Free to Pursue Life on their terms in exchange for  
Silence
Acceptance and
Despair

Huddling for warmth and in
Fear of discovery
they assemble in rag-tag formation
having scaled formidable fences
Seeking freedom from
Poverty and oppression
Searching for work of any sort
….No matter how
Humiliating or
Hard
….No matter the
Cost or
Conditions
Disparaged and despised they labor
in hope that their children will have a chance for success
instead of suffering a similar fate
…..But
Free to Pursue Liberty
in a land where their presence is
Ignored if not Denied

Unkempt in camouflage
One-legged and
Vacant-eyed
he rolls his rickety wheelchair along grassy median with muted effort
displaying cardboard sign
childishly scripted
in one weather-worn and gnarled hand
while clutching a decapitated jug in the other
Forgotten
Forlorn, and
Discarded veteran
Victimized far more by country than foe
….But
Free to Pursue Happiness while
Begging on street corners as
Upright citizens dispense
Unwelcome opinions or
Pocket change with equal
Self-righteousness


Life
Liberty and the
Pursuit of happiness….
Ideals that slowly incinerate on the
Altar of Capitalism
….Songs forever lost in the
Cacophony now
Played on the
Instrument of Politics
r Mar 7
There’s a kind of grief
in a long leaf pine
with a scar cut deep
in its bark from lightning
that shines beneath
a winter’s moonlight
all alone out there
down by the water
like a man in a wheelchair
grieving for a daughter
at the end of the dock
hard and gray
old as the rocks
and cold **** waves
that break in time
along this god forsaken
piece of coastline.
Deb Jones Oct 2017
Cataclysmic entities
Earth, wind, water and Fire
Have joined forces
To teach us a life lesson
About taking them for granted
Earthquakes
Hurricanes
Tsunamis and flooding
Fires burning so fast people
Can't evacuate soon enough.
It feels like Biblical prophesies
Are happening so fast
How many of us will outlast
This chapter in our lives
We are scarring our land
With fissures
With withered shrubs
With thousands of acres filled
With blackened stumps
With flooded cities
With mud and mold
With countries devastated
With yet still, talk of nuclear war
With so many people
Without the simple basics
Without water to drink
Without food to eat
Things we normally take for granted
My states treasures are burning so fast.
Napa Valley has been wiped out
So many deaths and lives left
Unaccounted for...
The blind and deaf elderly
Woman who died in her driveway
The 26 year old wheelchair bound
Woman who was forgotten by her own father.
The elderly couple trying to save
One another
But the fires were burning to hot and fast.
Miniature Stephen King stories
Of unimaginable horror and pain.
But yet...
The mass shootings carry on too
The police accused of brutality
While still trying to save others
It's never enough
The Trump pretense
The microphones ****** in the faces of people during the lowest point in their lives
And yet...
The undauntable human spirit
Continues to thrive.
The rescued, the rescuers.
The beleaguered, the relievers
The respect.
Media, leave us alone to try and Fix our homes and hearts.
Don't feed on our immediate pain
But don't go too far
Just wait until we are ready...
For our close ups
Johnny walker Oct 2018
3 am I awoke to a call disorientated I answered it was Helen she was
calling from the Hospital, this was the
the beginning of her fourth week In there due to being so
poorly
But never heard Helen like this, get
me out of here, they talking about me bring the wheelchair, I'm dying they no I'm dying, get me home now then the phone went
dead
I heard no more but the next day I asked her, she remembered nothing later that day the doctor asked to see me In private he said he could no more
for her
So I asked If could stay In Hospital
and look after Helen In her final
hours 3 days and nights never left
the hospital,while helping nurses
Helen's body was slowly shutting down
I was holding her on her side
she looked up with those beautiful eyes can't breathe Johnny she said I kept saying you'll be ok  don't worry you will be
fine
Shortly after that Helen said she was
giving up when asked, can't do this
no more the poor girl had no fight
Left
Helen was brave to the end I'm
crying as I write her story she
was truly special to me, and her memory deserves to live
on
Hardest thing I've had Is watch my wife
due try avoid breaking try not to show
tears
trf Nov 2017
Another haunt is arriving, feverishly fast tonight.
Somehow I managed to delay the feeling, briefly,
as it usually takes the manageable Subway and begins to fester around high noon, but today I skipped lunch,
and the feeling didn't go underground for her mode of transport.

"Maybe I hit the lotto?", I secretly questioned,
and the haunt would forget her requiem, passing over me
like those lucky "Kennedy Husbands" during the sixties' draft.
But I was getting divorced while all the other couples
were on a faster track heading in the opposite direction.

Tonight the haunt is traveling 248 mph,
on the Fùxīng Hào bullet train from Beijing to Shanghai, en route to Vietnam.

The conductor yelled, "All Aboard."
and as if that period denoted a punctual mark,
everyone manically crammed into the narrow vehicle.

The first influx of lovely passengers to board were,
Missus Anxiety, Sir Prior Transgressions and Dr. Heartache.
Unlike Dr. Feelgood,
They had been waiting in line from the previous night,
like those idiots for last week’s black Friday sale.

Mr. and Mrs. Payments Past Due cut in front of
Bills Esquire and Judge Job Insecurity,
for the Belmont Superfecta win, I guessed the right horses, just didn’t box my bet.

Congressman Careless and Deputy ******* nearly trampled Senator Surrender on the way through the turnstiles,
while Mayor Moan was flagged by security for groaning
and pulled aside for a pat down and wheelchair inspection.

The  Mayor was found to have ******* residue on his sleeve, but legitimate prescriptions for his aches and pains,
so TSA
wheeled him through the crack rocks

Analog veins pump analog blood to my analog heart;
traveling for the journey and not its hasty destination.  
My analog heart will eventually be shelved,
as it still salutes the Subway on its journey to my soul,
but like dusting off an old Coen Brothers flick,
my analog heart is still entertaining its vintage tick.
The night sings through
Tree leave windpipes
With mild cool breeze

In the front yard
On white sand
The night paints
With silvery paint,
Borrowed from the moon

Night invites me out
With its enticing wonders
Seen on the CCTV

I wish I know
How to repair
My wheelchair
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Helen never had malice
in anything she said
but simply would say
what saw
While In town one day
sat In her wheelchair
a policemen coming her
way
He was speaking Into his
radio with the ear peace In
Helen called out In very
loud voice look a pig with
a stereo
The policemen could do
nothing other than to laugh
but Helen still had Innocence
about her, she just said
what saw there no malice
to what she had
said
Helen was so much fun to be with
very unpredictable, but that's what
made her special, I wouldn't had her
any other way
Johnny walker Nov 2018
Sometimes looking back on my time with Helen to be absolutely honest I believe Helen new long before I
ever did her days where numbered
Or perhaps maybe I didn't want to admit this to
myself for fear of being alone, but Helen would ask me to take her out In her wheelchair at 4 o'clock In a morning
Freezing cold wet windy just to wheel her up the road and back, less time to
take her, then It was to get her ready afterwards she
always be so grateful In thanking
me
It was If she wanted to make the most everyday
the day every hour minute and second, no matter what nature threw at her she was not going to be robbed of an opportunity to go
out
Will admit there were times because of the weather I didn't want to take Helen for fear she would take poorly get pneumonia the last Saturday she insisted on going out for a drink, our son begged his
mum not go
out
But of cause Helen refused
his advice went out within a day of doing so she took
Sick, double pneumonia and along with all her other ailment she went In
Hospital but never came home
Helen was In  Hospital with pneumoina she never came home
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.

As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.

He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.

There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.

Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.

The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…

With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,

The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.

But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
I wrote this while watching "The Cider House Rules", one of my favorite films. Homer realizes that his life on his own is not that much different than it was at St. Cloud, yet it's much emptier.
Sketcher Oct 2018
Do not try to force out rhymes you cannot make,
Deplorable bars oftentimes makes me ache,
If you have nothing to talk about then keep your mouth shut,
Leave open mouths to the poets and the *****,
Your words are a disgrace to poets everywhere,
I read your new "poem" and saw you in my nightmares,
Visualized a grotesque brace face in a wheelchair,
Not only your verses, but your looks give a scare,
Don't think you created magic and will be big tomorrow,
That would be tragic considering what you will undergo,
A world of pain realizing you're nothing more than,
A miniature grain of Sahara Desert sand,
That doesn't and won't ever stand out in the slightest,
I'm burning you everywhere, I'm the sun, ***** I'm the brightest,
I will leave now but I will be back in the morning,
You better leave without a bow, this is your last warning.
It's a dis.
I teach her to paint flowers.
I play cards with her.
I wheel her outside in her wheelchair.
In the warm, sunny air.
I show her I care.
While my dear mother in Heaven
looks down and smiles.
I smile too.
And then.
Shed a tear.
My beloved mother always wanted me to work with the elderly. This poem is for her. I miss you, Mom.
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