I can call this a poem if it is not seen by a psychoanalyst, right/not right? Can I ask you to call it a poem?
I saw through the pupil of my infants eye;
there's nothing wrong with her, they told me,
quit being paranoid. But the moment of knowing,
in the unconsciousness aware, had struck.
*It sounds like this..." Twin Peaks Fire Walk With Me clip inserted here*
Later when the doctor said it was a malignant drowth,
it meant she would lose one baby blue...
but after seeing what other cancers did to less 'fortunate" kids,
i decided to count the blessing, "At least it isn't leukemia.
Or Hodgkins. Or inoperable, or undetected.
And she can still see... better than me without lenses!"
And we fought like hell when her other eye got a tumor...and another....and another....and another and after lasers, cryosurgery, and radiation....we beat it back and it was ok..................even good..............for a time
but I will not tell that story's ending to you today
instead I'm flashing back to me in a cheer-leading dress, the littlest and lithest, my place on the top of the
pom-pom/pretty girl pyramid secure................................until..............................ready to launch into a forward roll someone decided to grab my hem and yank back down HARD.............................right onto my tailbone........................................Whiteblinding PAIN........................a giggle from someone but .......................who? (never did find out) and then the squad leader said, "GET UP! You aren't hurt!.............
somehow I convinced myself and everyone that was true......................for a day or so............................
never did get back my agility and balance. but that was okay, because I didn't really want to be just a sideline trophy doll at that point...as if! OMG!
(but it did hurt, and THERE WAS something wrong....)
....and those two time-stoppers merged with this final blast from the past:
I was 3 or maybe 4, and i had started to cry from the uncomfortable touching that made me feel so (I did not yet know a word for the feeling- later it became my trigger for crisis and catalyst of my worst behavioral disorders) then he said in a gentle and soothing(?) voice, "now that doesn't hurt you, does it?
............and thinking, trying to bring thought and logic and truth back into focus................i reached the conclusion that PAIN=cut or bruised or sick so no, i had to say. no it doesn't 'hurt' me
but it sure left some mean old scars, let me tell ya.
So the moral (I do NOT use the word lightly) is as follows:
1st, when there might be something wrong, there might be.
2nd one can pretend pain is not pain only for a limited time
3rd No, that didn't 'hurt ' me. It hurt everyone else that ever loved me, instead. Which now, I must say, .......hurts me.
okay all done. been a long time in me just squirming around looking for a way out. so peace...out.....empty now, for a bit. PLEASE SOMEONE write poems about NOTHING like this for me to be distracted by for a bit, if you will?
- Lilly45
Of course, there is no true answer to this - other to say I'm sorry. Ooze it out - get rid of it - feel clean - for a hurt - kept to heart - will hurt over and over again - until thrown away. Maybe - by sharing with others - the pain can be diluted. There is no way out - only acceptance. Namaste ♥
http://www.thelinknewspaper.ca/files/thelink/imagecache/displayimg/images/15lit.ClassicalPoetry(Vivien).jpg
- ~sabrina.♥
Of course you can call it a poem. You wrote it- therefore it's yours to call it whatever you want. Bad things certainly do happen, don't they... I am sorry. I think that we need to learn to accept them as just events in our lives and move on, because with each bad thing that happens, there is something good, too. I need to remember this for myself. And... we do need to be cautious.
- § Baby's Blues §
Pain is pain
no matter how we mute it and pretend it is not
and writing is cathartic and telling the world that
you are a survivor is liberating
and knowing that we love you still in spite of
what you thought
I can't write right now.. I am digging up my past
and I want to welcome in the new year with a happy blast
to tell the truth,
I think that I
will be alone in bed a sleep
after a good cry.
- Happy New Year Hiram
The oystercatcher is a typical wader
they have a loud and noisy call
they are curvaceous plovers
hardly venture inland at all
They are mostly monogamous
and have an orange bill
For prying open mollusks
as they do, and often will.
Their diet can be varied
unlike their coloration
they guard their territory
in their blackest saturation.
Males and females are dimorphic
females have the longer beak
what they lay is somewhat cryptic
only the best catch is what they seek.
The oystercatchers are typical seabirds
they have a loud and noisy call
we listen for their sweet, harsh words
We never mind at all.
- Golden Seaman
May the new year bring you
the sweetest of poetry and dreams
a bless of happiness with every sun shine
that takes your heart to where the silver moon beams
Leukemia — Comprehensive overview covers symptoms, causes, risk factors, treatment of this blood-related cancer.
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Janet Kuypers poem "Death and a Diamond Ring" in Chicago 05/03/10 at Cafe Ballou
This video is from Janet Kuypers on May 3rd 2010 (05/03/10), reading poetry atthe Death-themed evening of poetry at the open mic at "Cafe Ballou" with "Waiting4the Bus" in Chicago (an open mic hosted by Buddha 309). The poems read included "Life Can Slip Away", "Harder to Burn" and "Death and a Diamond Ring", all poems Janet Kuypers wrote about her mother's death (she passed away from Leukemia August 31st 2006, on the anniversary of Princess Diana's death). These poems were all read from the Janet Kuypers book "the Beauty and the Destruction." You can also go to www.janetkuypers.com to read any of writing, and you can go to http to see the publishing work Janet Kuypers does.
Video Rating: 5 / 5
Leukemia — Comprehensive overview covers symptoms, causes, risk factors, treatment of this blood-related cancer.
Orignal From: I can call this a poem if it is not seen by a psychoanalyst, right/not right? Can I ask you to call it a poem?
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