Author: Sara Wasson (Page 2 of 11)

‘Stroke’ by Lizzie Heath

May 15, 2019 / Sara Wasson

There is a snuffing out
when the synapses stop firing.
The ex-wives fade to black.
His hawks blink.
Extinguished.
The Co-op, Jesus, trains and snow glimmer.
Cut.
Planets spin off the axons.
Our kisses are ashes
blown to the wind.
He lies alone, like a great house
with all it’s furniture moved out;
windows smeared with grease,
electrics, plumbing in such disarray,
builders would suck their teeth,
shrug, turn away.
Flick a switch, see the neurons crackle.
Smell the burning.

by Lizzie Heath

United Kingdom

‘Too’, by RachDoesDesign

May 12, 2019 / Sara Wasson

Too young to understand,
Too scared to stay

by RachDoesDesign

Wales

[The image features a form with chaotic hair spanning the entirety of the piece, lines and dots show the chaos of the mind]

‘TWENTY FOUR SEVEN’, by Hedgehog

May 12, 2019 / Sara Wasson

I am your pain.
Like Puck; quicksilver, impish, mischief-making.
You’re easily fooled, you make my nonsense real, you feel what is not true.
I stab and prickle, or transform into
A metal straitjacket, squeezing your foot, your leg.
Imprisoned.
Around each toe, elastic bands pulled tight.
You call me neuropathy; I say there’s no such thing,
Your foot, your leg, your left side, are my playthings.
When you sit quiet or sleep, I perch on your bed,
Waiting for you to move, when I will strike
Half-numb, like an injection in the gum where you can’t smile or chew,
Half feather-sensitive, you jump awake
When the duvet’s pulled so gently by a sleeping partner; he is unaware
That you lie, struggling to relax, to breathe it out, make it go away…
But I don’t leave. I will never leave.
I control. I rule you. I am king.

by Hedgehog

Wales

‘PHOTOTHERAPY’, by Angi Holden

May 9, 2019 / Sara Wasson

She stands uncertainly inside the cubicle, exposed to light from a dozen UV tubes.

Machinery hums softly, the seconds tick away.

A narrow slit connects her to the outside world.

Friends have seen her skin, inflamed and bleeding, her swollen eyelids. She hasn’t mentioned synapse pain, the 2am, 3am, 4am explosions waking her, holding back the edge of sleep, just out of reach.

She hears the hum die down; the door swings open.

Gentle hands steady her, lift the visor, remove her goggles.

Back on terra firma, the treatment room, she dresses slowly.

The techie’s voice reminds her to shower cool, to wear soft clothes, to moisturise.

‘Let me know if you are sore, just call.’

She wonders what she’s done to deserve such kindness or is this simply how the world should be?

And even though her treatment’s hardly started something breaks inside. She dreads its ending.

by Angi Holden

twitter: @josephsyard

‘The skin I wear’ by Wendy Jones

May 7, 2019 / Sara Wasson

The skin I wear

The skin I wear is a covering
for my bones and flesh
and I’m glad it holds it in
but wonder sometimes
why and sigh
about the pain I’m in.
It’s not as if I’ve fallen
or didn’t watch where I was going,
I was plodding on quite well I thought
and tried to do what I’d been taught –
I enjoyed it all in a way.
Can I use a vacuum cleaner?
Why do you ask? I used to
work full time and be the breadwinner
and I can’t help wondering whether
you would have asked that of a man.
I can somehow think you know
I’m still here in a way,
I think so, anyway.

by Wendy Jones

Wales

Further information

‘hello pain let’s dance!’ by Wendy Jones

May 7, 2019 / Sara Wasson

Hello pain let’s dance!

Hello pain let’s dance together
and cry a melody
Just you and me forever
which dance is it to be?
A boogie or a waltz
a tango or some jiving?
Whatever the rhythm
It’s time to do some living

The violinist’s bow
hews across its strings
The drummer’s sticks do beat
upon his drum
sweet notes emanate
a squeezing heartache
Across the room
A trumpet sighs do come

She moves her body slow
To the echo of the bow
The rhythm of the beat
Won’t knock her down
Her back she keeps it straight
And feet they will not wait
But trip along and step
The bright life into town

She feels a country breeze
That puts her at her ease
Her spirits rise until they fly away
Birdsong in the trees
Falling from their leaves
And butterflies are coming out to play.

by Wendy Jones

Wales

More information: https://poetryatnightblog.wordpress.com/

‘I feel the music’ by Wendy Jones

May 7, 2019 / Sara Wasson

I feel the music

This orchestra of mine
I jest your intimacy
Embracing every shard
With love and warmth
But should you say goodbye
And leave me before I die
I shall stand and run and dance
To an air of triumph!

But should you chance to be
With me ‘til the end
No matter if we both
Entwine the undergrowth
And lie together meekly
Til the last note gently
Fades away…

by Wendy Jones

Further information: https://poetryatnightblog.wordpress.com/

‘hey Leah’ by socks

May 3, 2019 / Sara Wasson

hey Leah ive been worried about you. theres this site i want you to see, ive been putting poems on there about chronic pain. you dont have to do this alone.

by socks

England

‘there’s a metaphor here but im too tired to find it…’ by socks

May 3, 2019 / Sara Wasson

morphine tastes nasty, ive called it ‘the devil’s cough syrup’ before. it’s sickly sweet and cloying, but you know what’s Weird? when you first take that spoonful into your mouth, it’s not that bad. not great, it’s still medicine, but it’s tolerable. only when you attempt to swallow it does it make its true terribleness known.

by socks

England