- by M. F. DeMaurisha
U. K.
Tag: loss (Page 4 of 4)
In Lithuanian, runoti means both “to cut (with a knife)” and “to speak”.
Hail: Hagalaz
Pain, loss, suffering, hardship, sickness, crisis.
Spirit-breaker
Faith-Taker
Misery-Maker
Joy-Stealer
Dream-Breaker
Shadow-Hound.
Thought-Waker
Friend-Fooler
Life-Dealer
Mood-Carver
Time-Stealer
Life-Hider.
Sometimes, some time,
Signal-Saver.
- by Ruth V Chalkley
- Additional poems hosted on other websites: Tanzkarte NHS; Carrier Pigeon for Science
U.K.
Today I was issued with hand splints.
Carapaced; oddly reassuring, oddly restricting;
Even in their disposition.
I am that crab.
Their bindings have an onomatopoeia: irascible.
by Ruth Victoria Chalkley
Additional poems hosted on other websites: Tanzkarte NHS; Carrier Pigeon for Science
U.K.
i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom i want my mom
- by socks
It was necessary to lend myself to the memory
of a body that could.
To separate from the broken figure,
the body that would not listen.
To not pretend.
To forego.
To not waste the clock’s signal.
To set it straight.
To disown magical inclinations.
To attach to that which understands.
To disavow the indifferent.
To be quiet.
To stay quiet.
To quit the before.
- by Amy Allara
US
And what are the chances that I am
what this is
this as what I am
told to be the case
and I am the case
to be taken on and
out of the way
fix it so others can breathe
and get on with it
what are the chances
that this is what I am
and this this is not going to shift—
A four letter word
and its undoing
everyone has gone and
there is just this
and this is what I am.
*
Forms do spring from names
in or out of absurdity,
and this is the loneliest form
I have ever seen.
- by Amy Allara
U.S.
I’m poeming this poem
from a forest-boreal
transition zone
anticipating intense
public reaction
to my poem
against the bony mets
that XXXX up my posture
& infiltrate our nat’l backbone
its prostate biopsy
analogy lost/inapparent
in the sagamore gloam
this spine unresponsive
to the pre-patent analog
that is my poem
- by Maureen Miller
- doctorwritermaureenmiller.tumblr.com
[This poem was inspired by an ad for a medical conference, “Summer Radiology Symposium at the Sagamore,” at an upstate New York retreat for Gilded Age millionaires. I found out about it while previewing prostate biopsies for a surgical pathology service. We don’t see the pain except in tissue core numbers. Who that’s most unfair to is the subject. Readers may decide.]
Just got a letter from disability insurance: Denied. I’m not disabled enough to get anything. After months of trying to convince them.
How do you prove you can’t work?
I cannot sit up, stand, or walk hardly at all. There is no job I can do while laying down, without having to make phone calls.
Just laying here, my back aches. But it’s the most comfortable position I can find. (It hurts my hips but those aren’t important.)
If I dared to sit up, my lower and upper back would scream in agony. It would not end until I laid back down.
I couldn’t keep working; had to move back in with my toxic parents. I have no money, no freedom, and no chance. I have no future. And that terrifies me.
I’m a survivor. The world wants me dead. It’s only a matter of time.
- by Ryan Michael Dumas
My tumblr
Every day I travelled, called or thought
It was never going to get better
But the morphine did its job
Varying degrees of brightness
But in the end all grey
Kept away the darkness that we knew would come one day
We had laughs, we had tears
We had quiet, we had sleep
We had time together, we had time
You never once complained
You never were bitter
You were in pain, but they always kept it subdued
In the end you were distant
Slowly fading away
In both mind and body, but along with your pain
I still remember now
Not as frequent but still vivid
Your pain it is now ended, and I still I don’t know why
- by Robert Orr
His hand closed up over the stretch of five years, and stayed like that till he passed. First the pinkie, as if winched towards the palm by an invisible string, and then the ring finger went, till his hand was frozen stiff like a claw. It was like it had slowly snapped shut, sixty years late for the butterflies we’d chased in Parson’s field. It was no worry to him, he chuckled, his pipe still fit between his fingers.
- by Philip Brennan
