Writing and the Art of Medicine

Congratulations Chidinma!

I'm pleased to let you know that we have accepted your poster presentation, entitled "Virtual Poetry Slam: an interactive, dynamic and multimedia poster presentation", for inclusion in The Examined Life:Writing and the Art of Medicine. Please make note of the followingitems:

1. Posters will be displayed in the Medical Education ResearchFacility's atrium. This is the main conference location.
2. You are free to set up your posters from 3 to 6 pm on Wednesday,4/29, or any time on the morning of Thursday, 4/30.
3. Although your posters will be available for attendees to examinethroughout the conference, there are also some dedicated times for youto present your poster. You should plan on being at your poster duringthese times. They are as follows: Thursday, 4/30, 11:15 am to noon;and Friday, May 1, 11 am to noon.4.

The full program, as well as registration, will be available online at our website, http://www.medicine.uiowa.edu/osac/examinedlife/ beginning in early January.
Thank you so much for participating! We're looking forward to seeingyou in April. In the meantime, happy holidays!

Dave Etler Administration /
Writing Program Office of Student Affairs
Roy J. and Lucille A. Carver College of Medicine
University of Iowa
319.335.8058 1191 MERF [building map]

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


From:
LeMay-Lewis, Margaret
To:
drbasile@northcountrycolorectal.com
Subject:
Examined Life: Writing and the Art of Medicine proposal notification
Date:
Fri, 19 Dec 2008 3:34 pm

Dear Dr. Basile,

I am writing to let you know that your oral presentation, "www.PoetryMD.blogspot.com: Using Internet Poetry Resources and a Blog to Engage and Encourage Future Physician-poets," has been accepted for the 2009 Examined Life: Writing and the Art of Medicine conference at the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine in Iowa City, April 29-May 1.

Your scheduled presentation time and location are: Session 6. Fri 5/1, 9:45-11 am. Medical Education Research Facility, Room 1117.

Attendee feedback on oral presentations from previous years indicates: a) handouts and b) an emphasis on interactive discussion rather than reading/lecturing are appreciated. Please take this into consideration in planning your session. Handouts for 50 people should be brought with you to your session. If you have A/V needs or questions, please write to conference administrative associate David Etler, david-etler@uiowa.edu.

The full program and registration/accommodation information will be available on the conference website in January.

The conference advisory committee thanks you for your submission and looks forward to hearing your work. If you will be unable to attend the conference, please let me know. And if you have any questions at all, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Sincerely,

Margaret LeMay-Lewis, MFA

Examined Life: Writing and the Art of Medicine conference chair
Writing Program director
University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine
1193 MERF
Iowa City IA 52242

margaret-lemay-lewis@uiowa.edu
319 335 8051

The Association of American Physician Poets

Interested? Please click on www.ezaapp.org to subscribe to a weekly-ish newsletter featuring pocket-sized poetry by physicians. The following is a snippet from this week's issue...happy holidays, all!

DEAR COLLEAGUE: For the last five years, many of you 537 eZAAPP readers have supported me with kind words. Thank-you. But for many of my medical school classmates, this 239th issue is your first. Welcome! Gradually, we are building a network of shared encounters with poetry. Poetry and medicine: two fonts of meaning. So, today's poem is mine, and it melds both. Thank-you for your reading.

QUESTIONS FOR MY HEART SURGEON (Out-Loud Read Time 48 Sec.)
by Karl F. Weyrauch

What will you not see
amid the chordae tendinae?

Into what corner will
you corral that wildness that
wraps around my ventricles?

What skipped beat will tell you,
"Ah-hah, there's the kiss
from the backyard, behind
the porch with sweet Jess?"

And, what will become of my
wooly camels of love
and the wide harsh desert
that stretches between them?

© Karl Weyrauch 2008

Beauty in Death

Introduction

 

I wrote this poem after my Hospice home visit. The visit was lead by a striking and capable nurse practitioner. I was amazed by her composure. How despite her outer appearance of business like efficiency, she was full of compassion and love for her patients. Speaking with her about the patients she has had over the years, from the young girl with Down’s syndrome whom she took care of for many years until her untimely death at the age of 9, to the 48 year old with terminal ovarian cancer who passed away with her sobbing husband and their 7 year old by the bedside. She had helped them, from placing pills in their pill boxes weekly and assessing their function to explaining to them and their loved ones the daily changes they were experiencing. Many times, she was there simply to be still with them, to comfort them and let them know it was okay to let go. From the many deaths she had witnessed, I felt it would be appropriate to write a poem from the perspective of one of her patients. Seeing her as a modern day gatekeeper, helping usher in souls to the afterlife. Helping then remember the beauty of a life well lived and possibly, finding some beauty in death.

 

 

Beauty in Death

 

She comes to visit, standing at death’s doorway

Helping usher in the souls, some quickly, some slowly.

I never thought the grim reaper would be

Anything but grim. With her bright smile and practical stance

One dressed so well. Smart black clothes,

Cynthia Rowley glasses and well manicured nails

Yet somehow not looking out of place in my humble abode.

Her presence forcing me to confront my fears.

I am dying, I say

We are all dying, she states simply.

Not hesitating as she continues count these pills.

Some will get there faster than others, she continues, arranging the

Yellow, red, white candies that numb my pain

But we will all get there … eventually, she finishes.

Somehow not managing to sound defeated, somehow comforting,

Yet anything but sweet.

 

I once asked her how she could do this,

How she could watch so many die,

The young taken before their time by parasitical tumors

And the old, somehow hanging on for dear life…

Yet slowly, visibly slipping away.

She was quiet before she answered,

My modern day boatman rowing the souls of the dead

Across the River Styx and into the underworld.

For a moment, I was unsure she had heard me,

As my once strong voice has grown weak

And my arms cachextic. Thin, faded shadows of what they were.

“No one”, she answers finally, interrupting my self-pity.

“No one teaches us how to die.”

From the day we are born, we are taught to live,

To fight, to learn, to love but no one teaches us how to let go.

How to say enough. How to die.

That’s my job, she says, walking with you, teaching you,

Comforting you, being your guide through your final walk to death.

For what matters finally

For what matters finally is how the human spirit is spent

John Stone , Gaudeamus Igitur

John Stone, cardiologist and physician-poet, died on Thursday of cancer. The book he edited, On Doctoring, has been given to all first-year medical students in the US since 1991.

American Life in Poetry: Column 155

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
The American poet Elizabeth Bishop often wrote of how places—both familiar and foreign—
looked, how they seemed. Here Marianne Boruch of Indiana begins her poem in this way, too, in a space familiar to us all but made new—made strange—by close observation.


Hospital


It seems so--
I don’t know. It seems
as if the end of the world
has never happened in here.
No smoke, no
dizzy flaring except
those candles you can light
in the chapel for a quarter.
They last maybe an hour
before burning out.
And in this room
where we wait, I see
them pass, the surgical folk--
nurses, doctors, the guy who hangs up
the blood drop--ready for lunch,
their scrubs still starched into wrinkles,
a cheerful green or pale blue,
and the end of a joke, something
about a man who thought he could be--
what? I lose it
in their brief laughter.


American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2006 by Marianne Boruch, whose most recent book of poetry is "Grace, Fallen from," Wesleyan University Press, 2008. Poem reprinted from "TriQuarterly," Issue 126, by permission of Marianne Boruch. Introduction copyright © 2008 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

very gently it began to rain

Poet, Hayden Carruth, dead at age 87

Whether turning to the immense world of nature for answers, or just looking out his window (he was Agoraphobic), Hayden Carruth wrote of the sounds, the signs, and the silence that is all around us. He wrote the poem "Prepare," for his second wife, 30 years his junior, when she asked him to write a poem that would prepare her for his death.

Here, he reads from his poem "The Cows at Night," revealing that what scares and overwhelms him at times is the wide open spaces, the scores of cows, of women, of souls?

As he began to understand it more, he wrote of his mental illness. In the Sewanee Review (1999), he describes his state of mind: "Agoraphobia… is the scream lurking in your gorge, so ready to burst that the least noise above a cat's purr makes you tremble: when the marching band from the high school practices in the street outside you sit in the back of the closet, when the March wind lashes the treetops at night you crawl behind the sofa."

I Promised to my Wife and Children...

No one died today
No one was at the hospital
and No one was not nobody
but some body who left their body
today in the mourge

The beating of your heart
was not the part that kept on going
The air in your lungs
was not the zephyr that carried your soul
from your lips

The promises that you kept
Are the promises that are broken
The love that was lost
Are never the ones we really miss

As your heart slows
No one leaves ever so tender
Every one watches the monitor
It feels like everybody is watching
some one

As no one drifts ethereally
Any one is saying some thing
Every one is starting to leave
You think somebody would care
but there's no one but me

When I Grow Up I Want to Be a Mad Scientist

I'm truly sorry
little girl with teary eyes
and sweaty palm
who felt so keenly
the amputations of trees
that you could
scarcely
breathe
at night
as they tore your ozone soul
and could not
turn on your own tv
for fear your heart would be
wrenched in two
and you
would be panic stricken
by violent news
and you would not eat for weeks
but now how you BBC,
big, grown Lady Macbook
over lunchbreak
side of suffering
with your sandwich
the hard lump
of the little's girls throat
must be lodged
in your heart
and your own hands
are stained with creatures' blood
I apologize to the little girl
who thought furry friends would
adore
her pure Snow White soul
But her human companions
would love and leave her
alone
with her soul
scientifically
systematically
stained
with Red Rum and Cosmos
with sex and cities
Prince Charming's real fine
but he takes his own damn time
in finding you
freeing you
from your Basic Science
Tower
to paint the town red
whenever you go out
out out damn spot..
now you handle the world
with latex gloves
numb to
afflictions
inflictions
incisions
what, will these hands never be clean?

Call for Submissions

*Journal of Medical Humanities*
Poets are invited to submit up to three poems on the theme of * illness/disease*. Interpretation of the theme (physical, mental, etc…) remains with the poet and may be addressed directly or indirectly. Poems must be unpublished. Prompt notification is requested if accepted for publication elsewhere. Poems should not exceed seventy lines (12 point font, one inch margins), but may be of any form.
Submit via email to sarahcross@alum.swarthmore.edu with the poem(s) attached in one Word document. Make sure that the document itself includes your name and email address. Include a brief bio in the body of the email. Deadline is November 15th.
Selected poets will be notified and asked to write a brief commentary on their poem. Poems will appear with commentaries and an introduction by the editor in the *Journal of Medical Humanities*. Non-selected poems may not be acknowledged. Questions may be directed to Sarah Cross at sarahcross@alum.swarthmore.edu .

My California

This is a little poem I wrote drawing from the despair I felt near the end of my OBGYN rotation at Winthrop. It was not a good experience to say the least. As an aside, I feel regardless of what level of medicine one progresses to, we always have to remember that we are all human beings. Whether we are medical students, nursing assistants or heading up departments. Unfortunately I feel this knowledge is too easily lost as we progress through medicine. This poem writes of a medical student adjusting to being treated as though they are subhuman but also incorporates some surgical metaphors and escapism allowing her/him to focus on a shining and untainted goal in distance allowing them to overcome the temporary hardship.

  

My California

Heavy weight on my chest and heat – suffocating like being buried alive

Like a warming blanket wrapped too tight after surgery

The anesthesia lingers behind… leaving a bad aftertaste

And the bloody tube withdrawn bruising my cracked lips. Lips that were once full

Lips that once glistened under the California sunshine, stretched out in a wide smile.

Memories tease and haunt me. As though from another life

A life where the sun bathed my skin and everything was brighter, more animated

More love-filled. Not like these cold New York nights.

These sad New York nights. With it’s changed rules.

Sad work, sad life, sad relationships.

An eastern world of unrealized dreams. Of frustration and goals cut short.

Of misery and repetition. Behind the book, back curved, neck stiff

This is the best position to read – or so they say. Learn.

Learn to heal. While we mock, demean, ignore.

This is the way it is they say. The way it always was.

Head hung low, smiles forced, bottom of the totem pole they say.

Those who acknowledge you… those who meet your gaze, then eyes shift away.

In this pond, we are the big fish they say. And you are nothing.

A fat tear drops from your fluid glazed eyes, wetting the notebook.

Ink runs and blur on the paper but your eyes are now clear.

The words below come into focus.

Keep your head down dear one.

Soldier on.

Towards that California Sun.

WRITING THE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE

This summer, I spent a week upstate at a conference called, "Writing the Medical Experience." It was an intense week of workshops and lectures that brought together poets and creative non-fiction writers who were all, somehow, writing about medicine, illness, being a patient, being a doctor, caring, compassion, and grief. There were physicians, nurses, poets, novelists, students, hospital administrators, librarians, teachers from all over the world. It was really different, and really inspiring. I thought of you guys a lot, even talked about you and our selective, and I came home with some ideas, maybe even enough ideas to keep this blog rolling as long as you're still interested.

So what do you think? Have you all been writing poetry all summer, too? Feel free to post anything here...or if you're waiting for some kind of prompt, try this:

Write about your last meal...no not that death-row last meal wish, although if you have an idea for that, go for it. I mean, just the last thing that you ate..was it a drug-rep lunch (probably not anymore), a protein bar, a meal you skipped? Who was there? Who wasn't? What did it remind you of? What did it make you forget? How did you feel afterwards?

Hope everyone had a great summer. Let's plan to get together sometime this fall.

Something’s not quite right

Rain on a clear, blue day

Black keys on the piano

Foggy afternoons

And Mexican food in the Northeast

Chinese food by day laborers

Doctors without borders

And the great firewall of China

Two tongues by day, and a third in the bedroom

How many angels on the head of a pin

The same number of frogs in a well

Not a Chinaman’s chance,

A snowballs chance in hell

The magnificent seven

The marvelous three

Who’s third eye is blind

Nothing’s ever free

Abe Vigoda’s death pool

SAT, MCAT, USMLE

Step one, step two, step three

You must run before you can walk

Vegetarians

Libertarians

Liberians

Librarians, being around books makes you crazy

So, what’s to become of me?

Swamped by the skins of trees

In the muck and the mire

What will set me free?

Untitled

I wrote this poem for you
with the black pen you left on my desk.
Just 30 minutes ago you were here
sitting beside me.
But, maybe the breeze
from the open window was too much,
so you left me sitting at my desk.
I wonder if you like poems
or would you rather I paint you a picture instead.
I write poetry, that’s what I do.
But not you.
You drink beer and eat fried food
while I sit by the fireplace sipping red wine.
I picked up the shirt you’ve thrown next to my desk
Thumbing the ripped pocket from last night’s bar fight.
Next time break a rib,
or ten!
I’ll wait here organizing the linen closet,
considering why are you and I are the same.
Then, I finally noticed the note you left,
written with the black pen still sitting on my desk.
Consider.
Cherish.
Love.
Take care,
Someday we will look back fondly.

Crossroads

The crosses by the road appear like

Snowflakes on gray winter skies

Their sudden appearance, whizzing past,

Never slowing, disappear in rear view mirrors

The crosses bear names, places, and dates

Makeshift tombstones celebrating a life

That end like flashes in a pan

Like lighting that leaves only thunder in its wake

That drift like leaves on autumn nights

Ever resolute, waiting for someone to return

No one comes to see me, except for you

You watch me through your windshield

Stained by dusty California rain and desert pollen

I watch you as you drive closer

Like crosses by the road

LOCAL POETRY ANNOUNCEMENT

Friday, May 2nd, from 7:30-9 p.m.

The Euterpe Group, hosted by Ginger Williams and
Carolyn Emerson, presents Performance of Poetry, by Frances Roth, at
The Emma Clark Memorial Library
120 Main Street
Setauket

For more information call or email Carolyn Emerson at 941-4080 or carolyn@emmaclark.org

all those pretty girls

the parenthetical spring takes it's cue
from the forsythias
twining together these perfect
blue shaded days
with a sweet breeze
bending the first grass,
bowing in concert,
harmonizing the song birds
picking up house over the pond.

this morning's sun, through the old
church, shook up the glimmer of
her seasonal lips and the organic dew on
her face buried
in neighborhood blond or Spanish brown hair.
The faces of all those pretty girls,
weeping.

all those pretty girls kissed you
in your sleep
and in waking life.
in your car and on your couch.
you kissed them softly and with all
that primal hunger
your addiction created.

All those pretty girls
clutching all those white wet tissues
walk through remembering your
forsythia smile and sun beamed hair
returning to the nest of your
Father's embrace.

-----

i just wrote this and i don't know how i feel about it.

Creating

He was lonely,
So, He decided to make
someone in His image
from sticks and stones,
and mud for bone.

The rib was borrowed,
from Lilith and her ilk
and blood stolen from the sea
Running over trees and under
mountains smooth as silk

his eyes were stars,
to view all of His creation
arms were attached, and legs
were given, so he could swim
within His leviathan.

Lungs used to speak
and a stomach to eat
Things like apples and oranges
Finally, a Liver to hold his liquor and a
heart for Him to break

But what of a name?
He ponders slowly, what will
he be? This creation of mine needs a
title, to be given freedom and identity.
In an ultimate act of love,

I will call him Son.

LOSING HER

The surgeon gasps
disbelief
at the empty O.R.
table.
Moments ago
a patient
anesthetized, prepped, and draped
abdomen open
on this table.

Breaking scrub
I leave
the empty O.R.
brisking through
the central core
the narrow corridor
to Recovery.

Shouldering the automatic
door button
my entrance accompanied
by double door hiss,
“Where is my patient?”
I spin, survey
white sheets, slipper-socks
for a spot of blood
a moment of recognition.

In a haze,
I return
to the empty O.R.
table. Trying to
remember
what I did
how I worked
what I lost there.

Agnes, this is
all your fault
for making me write down
my dreams.

Snooze Button

[The result of 3 consecutive entries into my dream book about the same darn person:) so i wrote a poem about it..and the virtues of no morning mandatory class]

I have noticed
That i will
waste away
reckless
feckless
half the day
coddled between
sheets and fleece
my head buried in
a pillow encased in
a case that is not
a pillowcase but
an old tee of yours
that used to smell like you
and your detergent but
now smells like me
because my
conditioner
and my shampoo
have now replaced
every trace of you
in the fibers
and that is exactly the way
for the rest of the day
the sweet dreams of you
will be replaced
displaced
by the running around
and falling down
and picking up
and acting out
and pseudoliving
while somewhat dying inside
with infinite longing
and though by day
i may have infinite
thoughts of you
and i will strain
my brain
i will try in vain
to conjure up an image
half as real
as what might
come to me by night
in sleep
and if i squeeze my eyes
shut very tight
and avert my face
from the encroaching light
i can hold on to you
and somehow
someway
drag you into the reality
of the day
and so to the great detriment
of productivity and my own
betterment
I am sleeping in.

I push off my armrests and stand up like it’s any other Monday, Wednesday, Friday, 11AM.
And there she is again, aisle seat, front and center.
“You should say something.”
What? Who said that? Probably that part of me that I don’t know too well.
But without thought, without any preplanned tactic,
I begin to drift through the crowd, gliding on weightless legs.
I’m not in control anymore.
The decision is made—who made it, I don’t know—and my heart begins to race.
My neck is pounding, and I am certain that I am pulsating as a whole,
A red giant about to explode in supernova—letting everything out, left bare and vulnerable.
I can’t hear anything and I can’t feel my clothes.
I have become a set of floating eyes, no more, no less, numb to all around me.
Yet somehow this feels right.
I focus on nothing and the canvas of my mind is blank;
If I think too much about it I’ll get scared and turn away.
Hold your breath, close your eyes, whatever—just do it.
I love that slogan—so simple yet so meaningful.
“You’re thinking, Alan. Stop.” Who said that?
Just do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it.
“But what do I say? What if she…”

“Hi, I’m Alan…”

Walk Into The Fog

WALK INTO THE FOG

Walk into the fog
of the early morning
of the early spring.
Feel the mist that
clings
Filling your pores
with liquid air.

Face the fog
as the sun warms
warns
The light at the end
clarity
may not be far.

Walk into the fog
each step and stride
longer
faster
Understanding
the fog is not a wall.

Walk into the fog
of the early fears
of the early years.
Feel the mist that
lifts
and disappears.
Remembering
why you are here.

To the Trees

Sweet seducing Spring

Tempting me out, out

To the sun.

 

To the Trees,

Waving to me with each

Soul-tugging breeze

 

I stare and yet,

I know that I cannot lie

Under the young buds.

 

====================

I am beyond the glass,

Where I must stay with

Volumes and stagnant air.

 

But I have found

On these pages,

In this book,

 

Reflections of branches,

The same fractal symphony

In arteries and airways.

 

I am a Tree too it seems,

Rooted in this chair,

Green from the fluorescent

Insomniac sun

 

Thirsty to absorb

What I can

With the hope that

It is enough to sustain me.

-------------------------------

I am also thirsty for some editing advice : )!  I wrote this last night in the dream book!  I tried to rework it some more tonight and added punctuation...help!  

This week's assignment

Hi guys! Guess I'm as addicted to this as you are! This week's "assignment" is to let me know which (if any or all) poems you are submitting to The Stony Brook School of Medicine Medical Journal (phew, does that thing have a name yet?). You can type it in as a comment under this post, or post separately.

Don't forget, April 17th, is "Poem in Your Pocket Day." There is a group of crazy white-haired poets giving out poems at Grand Central Station. An equally fanatical, but possibly less scary thing to do would be to pick a poem off of this blog, print it up, stash it in your pocket and share it with people you see on Thursday. Let me know who your best/ funniest/ most unlikely poetry victim is!

oh sad....

i feel ya, ben.
i'm still waiting for alan and james to post their poems they read last week.
gentlemen? we'd like more words, please!

Hi everyone

I was sitting around and wondering when our next assignment was going to be posted and then I realized that we were done. : (

Ben

Hearing past the hurt

Hearing past the hurt

Had it been me I would never have done that to you

You never listen – why don’t you listen to me?

Had it been me, I would always have stayed true

I felt so trapped – I just wanted to be free.

This isn’t love – this high stakes game we play

And yet I loved you so much, I only wanted for your trust

But now it is over and all we were has been tossed away

In the end I only did what I felt I must.

You said you cared, that no one had ever made you feel like this

I didn’t mean them, those words I said were careless

And yet you went on and betrayed me with a Judas kiss

I only loved you, and yet you made me feel worthless

I thought it would be fine, that I could look past the hurt

You whom I cherished, could make me feel so bad.

But our love had to die, in its infancy it was cut short.

This had to end, you made me feel so sad.

You never listen - are you even listening now?

This is so hard, I thought I would always be with you

No wonder it ended. It was going to last ...how?

But your mistrust destroyed this – if only you knew…

I know there is someone better suited for me out there.

It will be hard, adjusting to life with you missing

Someone who will not just listen but also hear.

But it was unavoidable - you never listened.

Just Outside A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

Walking home, the unhurried waiter came upon his young coworker huddled over a dark shadow just outside the arc of light from a street lamp. He had been walking only a few minutes, and if he looked back he could still see the light from the café. Drawing closer, he saw that the shadow was in fact the old man. He was huddled on the ground, motionless. The younger waiter was crying.

“What happened?”

“He died. On his way home from the café.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I found him here, under the streetlight.”

“He’s not just drunk?”

“He’s not breathing. He’s dead.”

“His eyes—he looks like he was scared to death!”

“Hombre, please don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am the reason he was out here. I made him leave the light of the café and go out into the nothing.”

“Nada.”

“Si, nada! He would have stayed another hour at the café had I not rushed him.”

“It’s not your fault. You had a wife waiting in bed for you.”

The younger man wiped his eyes with his fists, and took a deep breath.

“Yes, a wife. She is probably starting to worry….”

“And your youth.”

“I suppose it is the order of things, after all.”

“And you have the café. You should get some rest before your shift tomorrow night.”

“You’re right. I should be going. But who will tell his niece to come get him?

“I will tell her. I am in no rush, and I am not working tomorrow night.”

“Ah, you are a good man.”

“Careful getting home; the alleys are still in darkness.”

“Adios.”

“Adios.”

The unhurried waiter sat down on the stone beside the old man. He pulled out his watch—five o’clock. The sun would be up soon.  He would sit there until someone passed on the way to work, and then he would go and find the niece. While he waited, he spoke to the dead man, though he had been deaf even in life. And as he spoke, the light came, and he forgot himself as another night passed into nothing.

__________

I've always loved Hemmingway's short story, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, and this is my pathetic attempt at a sequel. I thought the conversational format of the original might be a good springboard for this assignment.

 

 

Road Trip

“We can’t have lost our way,
after meticulously mapped plans
in the works
for so long
Saving up the money
to pay the tolls
Swerving to avoid the pot holes
I’ve hardly slept
And never slept at the wheel
Yet lost,
We can’t be
And still I feel…”

“But its been such a lovely drive
the setting suns and the russet rise
so heartbreakingly beautiful
every tall tree
who whipped past
and beckoned us to rest
with him awhile
in deciduously, leafy irresistible style
but you had to press on
and we left them behind
lost?
We may be
And it’s all your fault…”

A wail from the back
The little one cries
Ignorant of destinations, mileage, and miles
Per hour, Each boring hour,
Carried along, not moved
To gaze at the moon
She wished she’d stayed home
And watched cartoons.

“We can’t be lost
I know that we’re not
I’m not worried about lost
I worry about late
I’ve had it all figured out
To the minute
To the hour
To the date…”

“You wouldn’t know a date
if it bit you on the nose
what’s lost you know
is romance and
its lost on you
every single thing you do
is cold hard fact
scientific steal
with a hardened heart
and your leaden foot
you’ll get us all killed
I know you think
But don’t you feel
If you feel lost
I think we should
Stop
Before we get pulled over
By the cops…”

Big tears roll down
Baby skin silk
(What do I have to do
to get some freaking
cookies and milk?!?!)

“We can’t stop now
You pathetic fool
Not after hitting
All the traffic
over by the school
and stopping at the outlet malls
to buy you something pretty
and no
I don’t need to ask for directions
Not after all that
Investing
In this stupid navigation system
And it wouldn’t kill you
To take your nose
Out of that romance novel crap
And look instead
At the goddamn map.”

“ Why stare down
when I can stare at stars
seat-belted in
glittering beauty above
a dance below
my heart still sings
and reaches for things
of genuine worth
that by their position
are guiding us north.”

The infant babbles
Naïve pretension
She thinks she deserves to be
The center of attention.

“North did you say?
We should be taking this
South!
Just a sec
I’ll turn around.
I’m so glad we found…
We’ll be back on our way
In no time at all
And when we get there
I promise
I swear
To it, I will see
That for you
and for me
for all three
There stands a strong and singular
Tree.”

Address: Diamond Wishes & Square Demands

I
Like
to Sleep
Freshly showered in cleanest sheets and floral scents
With windows open and cool breeze caresses
Brushing my cheeks all night and morning
LATE morning,
Very Late…

Alarm or no alarm regardless
Chocking starts at 7
Dress quickly, forget breakfast
Brush teeth with a trembling hand and glazed look

I
Like
to Cook
and nurture
Making the healthiest dishes I should be a mommy
A good mommy, patient and playful
There are many ways to relish and play games
I’m a woman of preferences and I prefer
Not to start my day before you, every morning.
Nor let the indent of my body evaporate
With every misty dawn
From my side of the bed;
A side that I don’t want.
I want it all,
With you
In it.


Walk fast, ignore lunch
Chest clenching, stomach churning
Time is slipping, adrenaline rushing
Inner core a metal weight
Shaking myself off of myself
Tears drop from internal wringing
Piece of cloth and loss of control
Sublimation within domination
Rising to a place where desires End
and merge into a single entity
Vertigo
Survive and attack the next hurdle
Work Hard, Do Well, Forget to sleep/eat/talk/blink

I
Like
to Think
With strands of grass between my fingers and toes
Oh heaven knows…
My mind and Body demand great expanses, wide open spaces
Bathing in the sun Sun bathing
There is No claustrophobia in my painting
My tongue is biological Not academic
Deep and light conversation continues
In my mind
Even when it ends in all other milieus
My language is languid, slowly pouring
As I’m a pumping vessel
That won’t run dry.
Give me a damn minute to release.
I haven’t expressed in a decade
And my words are
Linked by
Cobwebs.

...I
Like
Spiders.
I forgot I did.
Same as I forgot I had a sense of humor.
And nice shoes in the closet,
Which I should wear; heels make one slow one’s pace.
The only perfection in this world is lack-thereof.
I’m looking for a place to live; space for 2.

Address:
Apt #1, Moderation Ave
City: BREATHEwithoutHYPERVENTILATING
State: W.N.P.L (Work Now Play Later)

Kiddo

You’re too sensitive, you know?

Yes I said it, and you’ve always known it

It’s time to tackle it and finally grow

Up, upwards be strong damnit!

 

See it’s not just the tears

It’s that overpowering overthinking

The one cradling the fears

Being loved, held and still wondering

 

Did I turn off the fucking stove?

It’s the uncertainty that’s most painful

Dilly-dallying that I loathe

Relax, breathe, live, be peaceful

 

So you’re OCD, yet you smile

You don’t have to turn empathy

Into some weakness on trial

Yet you’ve exposed it openly

 

As you do with everything

Impaired no longer

On Saturday, April 5, 2008, my friend and colleague Dr. David Goldstein passed away suddenly. When I got the news Saturday, it struck me that we were just talking about him in class last Wednesday, as the subject of my poem, IMPAIRED. Here is a poem I wrote for him that day. I knew if anyone could appreciate it, you guys would.

HEARTS

for David and Mom

Last night, the Poet said

Keep hearts out of love

poems. What about death?

Your death, your hearts

broken

still

bursting

when they did

with too much

love I

hope not

worry I

fear

We had our warnings.

Twinges, denied

as strain or fatigue.

Outbursts, we thought

all could be

controlled

on meds.

We didn't get a chance

to deny you

a third time.

No chance

for a poem

without

hearts.

Help Me

What do you know about redemption?

Asks the masked man to the street side prophet

Because my feet have touched twenty states

And bathed in four different oceans

I have seen sunsets over beaches

and sunrises on mountains

Falling stars over deserts

And holy searches in abandoned churches

Seekers of the lost city Atlantis

Never had a thing on me

I have been looking for the same damn thing

Since the day they set me free

What I learned has nothing to do with you

Soothsayer; the deceptions and lies, the fears

I have fooled you to the ends of the earth

All I have to show are closed doors and empty stairs

And yet I judge each their sins

Measuring each other through drops of mercury

As heavy as air and as hot as fire

My faults will always be a mystery

Drowned with Dionysus and drunk with love

One of these things are not what they seem

And I am still learning that the answers that I

Seek will never be the questions I solve

So, what of you, masked man? Asks the prophet

Why is it that we reach for each other,

but never save ourselves - as lovers drowning

Is it because we are all that we have left?

love as horsehoe crab

I didn't know how to approach this assignment so I wrote a poem inspired by the poetry event I went to at Emma Clark on Friday night. Long Island means so many things to me so I decided to write a poem about it.

A shopping mall named after our prized
gay bearded naturalist who
poet about justice winds, willows,
ferns and truth and sounds,
exemplifies the nature of our island.
From my house, I smell the great Jones
salt cloudless sky, beach wood
seagulls pecking at Nathan’s wrappers.
The sand, white in summer as
the rich North Shore cocaine noses.

He told me to write about horseshoe crabs
as love, instead of hearts.
I never told anyone that
skeleton boat fishing in the nineties,
cold wet windy fleece sticking to my icy arms
with those other snotty fifth graders,
I fell in horseshoe crab with the chill blue horizon,
seeing my island for the first time through
fish and yes, brown prehistoric benign dangers.

How virtuous then to build a tower of money
in the name of a man who bartered with words,
ears full of grass flutes, praising the proximity
to the sea, colors of holy greatness.
His sigh, that waft of thick ocean air
hovering over Glen’s Cove, knows little
of the newly birthed, great American tradition
of undoing nature with exhaustion.

Tiger Lily

Where were you when I needed you?
Did you depart my mind
On a misguided mission to blossom in someone else’s life?
Or did you instead lie desiccated
In the depths of my soul
As absent as a tiger lily in winter

You are fierce
As sharp and equipped as steel
You’ve chased down every enemy
While carrying me with you in safety

But you abandon
And I, the naked center lie unprotected
As a small fire attempts to survive the steady attack
Of wet snow
I struggle to keep our roots warm
So you can’t die with me

I am a force
An impermeable caregiver
To myself and others
I have survived wild blizzards
Preserving a compass
A solid magnet pointing upwards
Imbedded as in the brains of migratory birds
Who always come home

Yet even I must sleep
I dare say I’ve hibernated
When the weather gets too cold
But you and I, we are forever connected
I can never leave you

And me? I am warmth
I am a solitary flame
Calming the chill of others
I am a vessel to carry your sorrows
A vessel to hold and nurture
And yes, it is me
Who coaxes
Your first
Green
Fingers
Upwards
Again

PHYSICIANS AS POETS

Time is running short, and I know I promised we would discuss some poetry by physicians. First, listen to the reading of a terrifying moment in the operating room, by Welsh poet, Dannie Abse as he reads his poem In the Theatre. The Poetry Archive is another great website, based in the UK to hear poetry read by poets.

Stony Brook's own Dr. Jack Coulehan is a widely published poet. Here, he gives some commentary on his beautiful poem, The Man With Stars Inside.

Of course, there are those rare physicians who will be more famous as poets than as doctors. You will find that they write less about clinical, medical moments, more about life. Like William Carlos Williams in Danse Russe and Winter Trees.

For a portrait of a physician in conflict, check out the Poetry Foundation bio of Rafael Campo. If you survive that dissection, read his poem, The Distant Moon, and you can decide for yourself just how well he resolves these conflicts in his poetry.

None of these readings are required or mandatory. Just thought you might like the links all in one place.

Guilt

You waited
But I ran
and then returned
My fault or yours?
I touched your cheeks
You hesitated, then held my hand
The signals were clear
No, let’s stop!
But…
Of course, it’s wrong
Ah, who cares about him?
This is what we want
Let’s be selfish
Then, again, let’s not
I’ve seen this before
It doesn’t end well
Now what?
It’s already done
Me, you, him
Me, you, not him
Take it back
No, it was just a kiss
But he’s my best friend
And you’re, well…
He wouldn’t care
We’ll sit around and watch MTV
I’ll be just like before
Shit, what have I done
I’m sorry it was him
But glad it was you

Meet me at Manns

Meet me at Manns

We always said we’ll meet at Manns

In 10 years time – we promised

When this is all over

All said and done.

Two ever young spirits

Perched precariously on a bike built for one

Speeding down a hill at 30 miles and hour

And laughing

Laughing into the wind

Laughing at the brisk autumn night

Laughing at the future.

We always said we’ll meet at Manns

On my birthday, 10 years in the future we solemnly promised

When time has passed and we have gone our separate ways

But this moment will remain.

Whether you are married or I

Maybe with a toddler trailing along

But we said we’ll meet at Manns.

No one has ever known me like you have

I always did say – known me inside and out like that

Let’s not lose this, sometimes you will add

And then we’ll collapsed into fits

Laughing at our silliness, laughing at our sudden seriousness

Laughing at the future.

Some people say once something is broken,

It cannot be fixed; those are not the people I listen to

When two soul mates are met to be,

Neither time, nor distance

Nor life nor death can ever separate them.

We always said we’ll meet at Manns - there I’ll wait ten years on for you....

How's This For Writing My Own Vows, Bitch?

I hate her
And no one can know it
She brought it upon herself
She must have
Because she is always in control
Perhaps she always was
She brought me upon herself
She had to have
Me, and brought me to my knees
Well one knee precisely
And I offered her a ring
She cried, or I thought she did
But the wet sheen may have been
A triumphant gleam
Because from then on she was
Demonic- the diabolical
Procurement of magazines
The obsessive observation of
Every
Single
Bride related broadcast known to Man
And unknown to men in general
She tortured me
With thousands of pictures of cake
Before I could take one bite
And thousands of pictures of dresses
And they all looked
More or less
Like the monstrous cakes
I’d seen before.
I told her she should just pick a cake
… and stand in it.
She didn’t like that very much.
At one point, I would have loved
To eat it off of her.
And I would have loved
To tell her that, except
At this point, I’m sure
She didn’t like me very much.
But I still love her
Even though I hate her
And no one can know it
Because a guy can’t say it
But they must know it
Because I shut up
When she told me to
And I wore a tux
And showed up
When she told me to.

Afraid

Alone in this dark place

Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide

I am scared

Scared of dying

Scared of being forgotten

They say writers are immortal

But I, unlike them, would leave without a trace

What is this place we call world anyway?

A place that reaps us of our laughter, happiness

And leaves us empty

This world is like pandora’s box

Once opened, all our joys escape

Leaving only a heart laden with sadness and fear

The irony of it however is,

I would endure it till I take my last breath……

I sing in the shower

I see Her every day on the bus

She always sits alone

Even when we are all sitting in 3s and 4s.

Everyone says She has a farting disease.

 

I don’t think I believe in farting diseases

But I never sit with Her because

I’m afraid everyone will say

I got the disease, too.

 

I’m kind of weird--

I don’t like soccer, and

I can’t climb the rope in gym.

I like science.

 

All I can do is not sit with Her

And sometimes, I walk by Her and mutter, “Ew!”

Just loud enough so

The kids in the back can hear me.

 

One day a pretty girl was telling her friend,

Saying she heard Her singing in the shower after gym.

So I when I walked by I teased Her,

“You sing in the shower!”

 

She never used to cry

when they called Her “Farter”

Or when I would say stuff to Her.

She always just made this stupid face.

 

But this time She cried

Not like I cried when I fell of my bike

It was like when they said my friend’s mom died

And he had to go home.

 

It was like She was crying

Cause Her mom died.

It was like She was a baby

And someone stole Her.

 

After that, I never saw Her again.

She didn’t come back to school,

And everyone said She died of the farting disease.

I don’t think I believe in farting diseases,

But whenever they say that I almost cry.

 

Haunted

When I was 8, he took me to school one time.
He made me sit in the backseat because
Charlie always sat in the front.
But in the back, the windows didn’t even work.
Mom would let me sit in the front;
I don’t like Charlie.

When I was 12, he insisted that we set a place
At the dinner table for Charlie.
“After all,” he said, “a man’s got to eat.”
As I picked at my green beans and mashed potatoes
They started bickering about mom’s pot roast.
“Charlie says he can’t eat this crap.”

The breeze drifts across the porch,
And dissolves this blanket that engulfs me.
The ice cubes have already melted
And my glass sweats like I do.
The clouds are strewn about,
Spread thin by stratospheric winds,
The twilight sky a buttered toast of blue.
There are decisions to be made.

“Stop it! Stop talking to me!
What did I ever do to you—”
His voice permeates the house,
Angry tones but underneath frustrated, defeated.
The ghosts have worn him thin,
Watching him and taunting him
A glass shatters against the wall;
Charlie dodged it yet again.

The cedar porch swing rocks to and fro, and mom says,
“From the sky I reckon it’ll be a windy day tomorrow.”
There are decisions to be made.

safe

White

water lilies

float

atop the pond;

a petaled quilt

to keep

me

warm.

“I am not a conqueror.”

Oh I can tell you some tales,
I can, oh man, I can
regale like no other,
Hush, hush, kiddo,
don’t go telling your mother.
You might be another hero
yourself,
you know?
Tip top.
Like your pop, and his pop,
yours truly, no weasel.
Rather, a conqueror,
unruly,
in the Flesh.
They think it’s genetic,
this fresh, frenetic bursting
at the seams.
Know what I mean?
Dynamo-kinetics,
it’s in the genes.

Now you’re on the edge
of your seat, wow
Do you want to know
How to swing a fist?
Or how to get kissed
By the ficklest filly?
Or maybe a mare?
Don’t blush,
Mister, you’re gonna’
bear down and crush ‘em
into thin air.
Dead.

Did your old man
ever tell you I was
in the war too?
Dropping bombs on Japan?
You must understand
This medal…
You’re a man… we do that kind of thing.
Yours is a line, a goddamn circle,
It’s a whole circus of heroes
You’re going to keep this for us
Be a good boy and bring my pills a little
Closer, see, I can’t… It’s not been me
For weeks it’s not me, growing
Worse.

Kiddo.
You’ve got to conquer.
Beat the living
Piss out of it.
And don’t sit, don’t
Wither and idle
Pissing through a tube,
I did
Give up on passing liquid,
When I sprouted boobs
After they removed
That “hyperplasia”
And my balls too.
Who knew
There was a woman underneath
Who grew.
As I shriveled,
Became lighter
I can’t fight her.
I am not a conqueror
Anymore.

IMPAIRED

David! David! Do you dare
Fight the demons in the night?
Clutch your chest, gasp for air
Lose your balance, lose your sight?

Patients saw you. So did we—
Other doctors, stood in fright
Turned our heads, “It couldn’t be,
One of our own has lost the light.”

We denied it, long and fast
Said you tired. Don’t we all?
No, we Don’t! The ones that last
Carry on and watch you fall.

Who could save your sister’s life?
Who can stop your father’s shakes?
Who will make you love your wife?
Who should hide your worst mistakes?

Doctor! Doctor! Have you gone
Fighting demons in the night?
In the end you were alone.
In the end it was not right.

pomegranate martinis

Oh shut up
What’s it to you
If I smile a little easier
Or don’t…
It is some warmth
Harsh but soothing
Gently liberating
See…
There really is no difference
Between you and I
Or is it me and you
Just stop…
You and your lame weekend
Outings with your fake friends
And your pomegranate martinis
Can’t even grasp
Your own hypocrisy
“Oh let me save thee”
How great you’ll feel
About yourself
Alas I’m not that kind
At least not enough
To pretend for you

Being a Fiancée

Space would be nice

A place to breathe where you will not
Be there to hear my breath
A territory to fill with my own bodily motions

This diamond ring, princess cut
Has begun to strangle my proximal phalanx
On the left side

And my dearest, though I love you
You are no prince

Sometimes I wish this jewel studded piece of metal
Would slip away in the night
So I might wake up to breathe freedom again

Though I know my bed
After all these years would be far too empty
Without you tucked here snoring
On the left side

ENCOUNTER ON THE STAIRS

Next to Children’s Hospital, in a hurry

Down the stairs, two at a time
Slowed down by a family, moving slowly
Blocking the stairway, I’m in a hurry
I stop, annoyed, I’m in a hurry

Seeing me, they move to the side
A woman says softly, “sorry” in Spanish

I look down in passing, there’s a little boy
Unsteady in gait, holding onto an arm
Head shaved, stitches in scalp
Patch over eye, thin and pale
He catches my eye and gives me a smile
My walk is slower for the rest of the day

COSMOS

“Michael took the SATs for Alex in high school using a fake ID.”



Timed pace
Scribbling hand
Lines blur and identities merge
As tests are created
For paths to be chosen
And answers
Waiting
To be found and filled.
Illuminated.

Answer keys
Zodiac constellations
Jagged and obvious once discovered
But lost upon us
As we
Venture vertical numbers
Hop horizontal letters.
Zig-zag star to star
And hope to avoid the burn of the celestial body.

Charcoal
On white paper
Hot plasma
On night sky
With deliberate attention
I construct fate
Astrologically
And fall through hoops
You put for me to fall through.
The tip of my #2
May paint our skies a darker night
Stars dimmer bright.

And holding hands, my friend
We face
Our challenges.
The platform we stand on
Fills the universe and we
Fail
to see infinity.

I'm afraid of failing feeling

The red pen traces my failings/feelings ----

A dash – a possibility for my failings/feelings

A check – another opportunity to let them win

Who sets the bar – who sets the standard?

Intelligence is not so simple, so quantifiable

To be made apparent in questions and answers

Is it ironic that we can’t feel feelings or fail failings

Maybe it’s better that we can’t fail/feel

Our lives measured by dashes – and red lines

Who really needs them to tell us our worth

To make our failings -- our feelings so real

The dashes, the lines, the checks, are not mine

But earned in superficial zeal.

Perhaps, in a different place, where scores matter little

We will finally want to --- learn to fail/feel

fear as living

I’d die a better,
poetic death
If I were afraid of it.

Yet, bounded by turbulent seas,
caging each deliberate movement,
mocks death easy.

Living does little to quell these quakes
as they morph from bright undulating morning
hums into night beats absent rhythms,

making it harder to discern between
irrational hallucinations from the
sound fear of breathing.

My daily trembles,
punctuated by lucidity,
gnaw at this compulsion to nurture.

Foiled and paralyzing.

I carry, with silent grace,
an armor of deception,
blindly free from exasperation,
and I wrap my self in Athena’s tunic.

--------------------------------------------------
i also came across this poem "Diagnosis" by terence winch that i found cute and amusing. i thought you guys might enjoy it as well: DIAGNOSIS

Brown Stone Walls

The brown stone walls invite me for a climb.
The makeshift stairs carved by war.
If only to see what lies on the other side
but, the serrated rocks may bruise
and cut away at what remains
of my unwashed, over-worn, blue jeans
but it’s still inviting.
Why else would…
lightning destroy
such an enormous castle
leaving only the façade behind?
The correct wall will lead
to the chapel with its’ candle-lit chandelier
and marble-stone dove
trying to escape St. John’s grasp.
But the walls seem insurmountable.
In another corner is an open passage way
leading to the terrace
with perfect length grass and
scattered yellow daises.
For the moment, I will just
sit and observe.

this wall of water

this wall of water

this beautiful strong

flowing movement

frightening

marveling

pounding our shell

in the darkness

as we try to maneuver home

does not faze you

 

I love you I peep

you laugh

you think I fear

 

this is nothing you say

but know one else is

venturing in this rain

 

and I your embarrassed child

wonder how many

storms you’ve seen

This Tan Leather bag

This Tan Leather bag

She was never an expensive bag,

Just modestly priced yet marvelously made.

Intricate patterns woven into the soft calf’s leather

Stitched solidly into a functional work of art.

On the outside she appears small, delicate even.

Yet her maker always told her she had the value of ten sturdy suitcases.

Today the tan leather on her front is worn,

- still beautiful and splendidly designed -

Yet etched with the lines of use and the impressions of time.

On her handles are contours of a bag that explored far off lands

That bore witness to breathtaking events and carried heavy things

As all bags must do.

She remembers carrying her first medical degree

Following that graduation ceremony

Witnessed the bell bottom pants and

Was caught up in the free love, the opportunity and the hope of that generation

She remembers serving as the diaper bag

For that beautiful brown baby boy – her first.

Whoever knew a small bag could love so much

Whoever knew a small bag could give so much.

Be hollowed out only to be filled over and over again

And when she felt she had reached her limits

Convinced that there was no space left, no more left to give

Somehow more room would appear

In her tan recesses, the leather would expand to accommodate the new addition

Holding them all securely, lovingly in her warm tender embrace

Not favoring one over the other –

Just carrying them, supporting them

As all bags should do.

Time and her load which she happily bore

Shaped her young fine tan leather to a rich brown leather adding character,

Adding strength and also adding the fine lines that etched into the calfskin.

Until one by one, her load was lightened.

First the boy, now a man, confident, strong and true

Then the girl, now a woman, beautiful, loving and wise

Then another and yet another until there are no more

Left in her safe, warm recesses.

Just the loose leather that testify to the load which she bore

And the people that she saw grow.

Now content, patient, this gentle handbag sits

Ready for the day, they will once again ask her to carry their loads

As all bags will do.

The Sun

The sun faithfully rises in the east, signaling morning

Better yet, a new beginning

It creeps in slowly and warms the earth

Oh magnificent sun

How do you manage to shine your love on the earth equally?

Even in the coldest of days, your presence gives hope

Hope that shields me from the cold breath of winter

What is the world without its Sun

It would be a cold dark place filled with pain

The end.

I like to think of myself

As a hippie with too many pairs of shoes—

You know, enlightened.

Not like a doctor—

Not an asshole.

 

I am exuberant when I

Drink too much

But I really like that about myself.

Really.

 

Sometimes I am reckless,

And I drive too fast whilst I am being exuberantly drunk,

Listening to punk rock

And endangering my future

Patients.

 

Fuck my patients. And fuck you.

Who are you to say

I can’t be like

Norman Mailer.

A real asshole but

Good. With nice shoes.

----------------------------------------

I couldn't remember what the assignment was for this week, so I posted this poem that I wrote recently, after Norman Mailer died, and all of a sudden I realized that going to medical school meant that I actually had to be a doctor.

Stone Giant

The wealth of green rolls and lulls for miles and miles—north, south, east, west.
The grass feels soft and cool against my toes, but sometimes pricks me.
But we do not gaze upon these peaceful eternal hills.
Our firm attention is to the fickle blue ahead.
We stand where the earth becomes the sea, myself a dwarf beside this man.
His stone-carved eyes gaze upon the rolling blue dunes,
His nose, jaw, and brow prolific but his demeanor as yielding as a flower in the breeze.
Hard features. Soft man.
How am I to know that he is stained and crumbling, child like I am.

I take his cold, weighty hand of stone
And wipe the dust and earth from that magnificent brow.

Brimham Rocks

Surrounded by sloping fields of violets
Are depositions from the ice age
Towering rocks: some solid and resolute
Others at odd angles, caught in place and time
Left in the wake of hurried icebergs

He rides life as an iceberg
Defying friction
As the underbelly of half melted ice does
Baring clean white composure to the night
He is capable of reflecting the warmth of the stars
Even as, in colder weather, he splinters below
Unaware of the dark earth he tears open in his path

And so here we are stranded,
small amongst the jagged rocks
How kind he was to have left the violets.

Good morning Son

After living on the west coast for the better part of my life, I got used to the subtleties of the Pacific weather. The temperature seems to be near the 60s every morning, with the heavy marine layer that creeps in during the night, only to be burned off during the day. Californians can predict how hot it’ll be during the day depending on how thick the marine layer is in the morning. It usually leaves around noon and in its wake, it leaves a clear, bright blue sky. The marine layer a passing memory, however there are days in winter that the layer never leaves.

When I learned I was moving to California from New York, I was around five or six, and about as confused as any kid. You spoke about Hollywood, movie stars, the palm trees, the weather, I remember most about the weather. You came out hazy with the details first mentioning that you hated to deliver mail in the cold and then you talked about school. I didn’t know you dropped out then, words like grad school meant as much as me as the pacific marine layer, and not surprisingly, cross country. I saw little of you, in the morning before you left for work and when you came back after. You went to bed following dinner, and spoke little to me. And like a ghost drifting through my life you leave before I finished breakfast. Ethereal, I suppose, would be a good way of describing our relationship. I was afraid that one day you’d burn away like the clouds covering southern California and maybe, my memories of you would go with them.The clouds creep in during the night, coming in before the sun crawls over the hills of Los Angeles. With it, a calm finally reaches the city-that-is-not-a-city, but a system of roads, like vessels, of houses, like cells and vessels.

I sleep fitfully, my window open because I liked to fall asleep to the cold and wake up to the smells of morning. You occasionally greeted me, muted and subdued by the repetitious work you did day after day.

It’s almost though you come and go like the wind, but the way you moved through my life seemed like a mystery. Covering your entrances and leavings with a hello and good bye.

Only to return, stoic as a statue and constant as waves. As constant as fathers are with their duties. To come and go as fathers do.

You blanket us with your presence, the way that we talk about you when you’re gone makes me wonder why you leave.

Sometimes, I fear that the

sun is going to

burn you away

until all of

you are

gone

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Sometimes, blogs don't work as I want, however it's late and I won't be bothered with this now.

my 1995 audi cabriolet

Never mind that
deep carved X
on the side of her face,
a sign of rebellion I couldn’t
control.

Sun cracks on the hood
marks days of careless
bathing without creamed protection.

Her caps,
worn through
winter’s unkept highways
and fall's persistent mud.

Shut the engine so I can
leave through the
driver’s side door and
there’s no battery powered
remote,
I need to get close
to open up.

I’ll leave,
lock her up with
books, thoughts, shoes, old exam papers,
so I know where to find them again.

I talk it in, cry in it.
Face near misses
saved by her ABS
breaks stronger
than her year.

And my god! In summer,
In summer that
black broken shell
sets my hair into a mambo,
covers me with
the pungency of barbecued honeysuckles,
hot pavement,
fireworks and children’s street laughter.
And when I come home,
I’ll find a pedal tangled up
In my bobby pin,
and I’ll know I was running with the
wind,
protected by steel.

Pamela Pristine

steely curves still solid
strong
an older model
they don't make them like they used to
but you've always been a pretty kettle
i aspire to perspire like
moisture diamond studded metal
jewels that disappeared
silence
you don't ask after them
inconsequential droplets
when there is a sea within
i thought your warmth overbearing
before i understood
you were under fire
or over it
and i wonder how you withstood
isn't it unbearably warm
doesn't it get hot
over the oven
where i can always find you
making interminable cups of tea
tea and tea within you and without
but we never seem to leave you
under pressure
over high heat
boiling
and you never shriek
just a modest whistle
that you've had enough

Red Rock

Permanent
Red Rock and furrows, refined,
you recline.
You’re a flashy valley.
An indulgent scape of land.
You command
Attention.
And who would
Descend into the midst of the valley,
And dissent:
“I’m not contented
By segmented saw-tooth buttes
nor your extravagant cirrostratus,
nor your arrogant latticework sky.”
good god
Who could lie
Like that?
And opt for flat
Land?
No one leaves
Unable to stand
The haughty imbalance
of ancient denudation
and the stubborn permanence
of the towering rock.
No.
They leave impressed
And forget your pillars
Never rose
But are
Erosion.

Tree

If all the rain drops
were lemon drops and gum drops,
The thick green leaves
would have nothing to shelter.
Infinity would not suffocate,
free breath easy to come by.

Oh what a world it would be…

I’d stand outside with my mouth
speechless, eyes tearful, heart rejoicing.
The thick brown trunk of your existence
would shield me and roots ground me
Like a child punished for bad behavior,
but gleeful and in no mood for a lullaby.

If all the rain drops
were tear drops and hope drops,
You would stand testimony that suffering builds character
and strength lies in wrinkles and faith.
You’d courage against all our wind blows and snows
As seasons threaten to take away what one can’t buy.

…It would not be the same.