Monday, May 21, 2007

Down In Your Colon

Have you ever wondered
What goes on, down in your colon,
When it feels like those microbes
Have decided to go bowlin',
Why not go see your friendly Doctor
He has an awesome scope and light,
For just a few minutes of your precious time
He'll demonstrate his hindsight.


If you would hang around long enough with the dead, the dying, the sick and maimed, the children and babies, the psychic, religious, atheist and what not, in their time of dire need , occasionally you will witness some qualified “miracles”. My understanding of a miracle, is an event, that goes beyond a scientific explanation, or beyond the means by which we “see” the causative agent of the extraordinary event. I know there are many energies of the spectrum of physics, whereby we do not yet have instruments sensitive or sophisticated enough, to measure either their wavelength, or their power, effect or influence. Heck, that’s why we have scientists to work on that stuff. In the meantime, I’ve seen enough to keep any skeptic, busy refuting my experiences!

The Skeptical Man

The skeptical man
A doubter is he,
Show him a flower
He says, "Prove it to me",
Tell him you've experienced
Lo, none but a miracle,
Still he won't believe it
Unless it's empirical.


Here I butcher the English language with lame rhymes.

Ream, Ream, Ream

The heart attacks
The myocardium,
Says, look out son
I beg your pardium,
But you’re in my way
This ain’t no dreamya,
Havin’ tonight
It’s really ischemia.

Call the Surgeons
Page the team,
Let’s take out your arteries
And ream, ream, ream.


Sneezing; some people have a quiet little mousy sneeze. Me - it’s like Mt. Vesuvius blowing it’s top. Now, imagine doing that with a strep-throat; yes, pure agony!

The Sneeze

There are moments like these
That I’m glad I don’t sneeze,
It’s so peaceful and quiet
And a sneeze would deny it,
Not to mention my throat
That is now, sore and tender,
I can imagine the pain
That a sneeze would surrender.


Sunday, May 20, 2007

There are those days where I'd much rather be somewhere else, enjoying nature, rather than dodging bacteria. In the end, you have to make the best of any situation I guess.

You know
Moments like these,
I'd rather be
Amidst the flowers and trees,
Wandering aimlessly about
In some predetermined direction,
Instead, I'm back in town
Surrounded by disease and infection.

I may as well
Make the most of it all,
Relieve some suffering
Answer that call,
Send someone home
And heal one or two,
And as for the rest
I'll leave them for you.

Memory; what it you lost it?

I Don't Remember

I know I must be someone
But I don't remember who,
I have a job somewhere
But I don't know what I do,
I have some friends and family
But I don't know who they are,
I would find them if I could, you know
But I cannot find my car.

A nearly ancient poem, just unearthed from 1982, regarding the dilemma of mental illness.

Derailed Thoughts

You know, when you're driving home
And it seems like the same old way
But suddenly, you're lost, and you find
You're across the border;
Well, that must be something like
The fellow with a mental disorder.

Derailed thoughts
Like a telegraph line
With its wires crossed.
It doesn't matter if you remember
Where your home is;
You're still getting lost.
So, what can you do?
Find an alternate route
Or maybe get a new map
Or get a mobile home -
Then you'll always be there.


Friday, May 11, 2007

Deep, so deep; bedrock deep!

The Wisdom in the Stones

I sat upon the bluff last night
And looked across the canyon,
I deliberated destiny
As I was my own companion,
The sunset spread across the sky
In a thousand colored tones,
Ancient voices echoed from the walls
The wisdom in the stones.

The evidence of centuries erosion
I have touched,
The absolute infinity of loving
I have clutched,
The tenderness of kindness
Presented by a friend,
These are things that have beginnings
But never have an end.

Fibril_late; 1994
A look at religious conservatism and something else about reading the words that others write and how we interpret those words.

Original Sin

Original man
Original sin,
Original scriptures
That won't let you in.

Original hate
Original fear,
Original prejudice
That won't let you near.

These are the beliefs
To which many subscribe,
Content in their place
As the original tribe.

Fibril_late; 1994

Ideas and Themes

Letters written
Letters sent,
You wonder what
The writer meant,
Requires constraint,
If you don't understand
The painters' paint.

Is the answer,
Like my imaginary
Leaping about
Ideas and themes,
Interpret them
Just like my dreams.

What it means
Can change with time,
Today a blessing
Tomorrow a crime,
Read with care
And intuition,
Allow flexibility
In your rendition.

Fibril_late; 1994

Monday, May 07, 2007

Here is a timeless rant about plundering governments.


Tragedy struck
On the street today,
A government collapsed
Many lives at play,
Innocent people
Slaughtered and maimed,
The propaganda machine
Says who should be blamed.

Tragedy struck
And families are broken,
Long promised freedoms
Are now but a token,
While deals made by men
Who wager with death,
Leave innocents gasping
For a last, dying breath.

Tragedy is felt
Far away from that place,
For the hundreds that died
I see but one face,
The tragedy occurs
When power fuels greed,
And the desires of a few
Overshadow what they need.

Fibril_late; 1994

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Last post, April 15th? That's kind of hard to believe; after all, I started out with the lofty dream of blogging QD. Daily living, got in the way. I tell people I am a semi-retired nurse. Funny, even the nurses who have gone on to other careers, can never let go of this nursing thing, if they pursued it for 2 decades, like myself. I think it's an inborn genetic trait; it underlies all things.

Anyway, a few weeks have passed, too many daily distractions, so I delve into the "daily poems" that occurred alongside my health-care writings back in the day. There is so much to cover.

"Beyond Common Tradition" was about someone, who I can no longer recall; nonetheless, memorable in the retelling.

Beyond Common Tradition

Hers was a life
Of which legends are made,
She was born in the sun
And retired in the shade,
But somewhere in between
There was a fabulous rendition,
An exemplary existence
Beyond common tradition.

Her family was conservative
She always did her best,
Just follow Mom and Daddy's course
It's safe within the nest,
But it didn't fill her up inside
It left her, feeling hollow,
And though they knew she loved them
She had a different star to follow.

Though I use the word conservative
Her parents had great knowledge,
They encouraged all their children
To attend some kind of college,
Knowing that the value comes
In exploring brand new themes,
Then taking the experience
To carry out their dreams.

Her dreams were like a ball of yarn
Just waiting to unravel,
With just a little push, she rolled
Into the world of travel,
Returning now and then
Bearing gifts of life and laughter,
And then a dream would sprout again
Which she'd be chasing after.

A legend in her own time
Within the family tree,
When pressed for explanations
She'd say, "Because it's me".

Fibril_late; 1984