Long Stethoscope Poems
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Here I sit, on an examination table
bored, swinging my feet to and fro
waiting for a doctor who will be able
to diagnose the reason why I feel low
I study the body posters while I wait
in my unfashionable blue paper gown
I must remember to sit up straight
to keep my tushie from being found
Another hour goes by, maybe more
I'm sure I got forty winks in a nap
I can hear him now, outside my door
clicking his tongue then 'rap, rap, rap.'
A cheesy smile then he reads my chart
I could tell him what he needs to know
and doctors are supposed to be so smart
Well, he should have been here long ago.
He shakes my hand then off to the sink
where he washes with ten squirts of soap.
"You think I'm contagious?" I ask with a blink.
"Don't know," he says. "Maybe there's hope."
He inquires, "Now, what seems to be wrong?"
I ramble symptoms; there are many to convey
while squirming from the pinch of my thong.
Shouldn't doctors be old, at least turning gray?
"Lie back," he mumbles, "and I'll check you out.
Blood pressure's high. You have a fever, too."
Into his stethoscope I was tempted to shout
but he hands me a cup and I'm off to the loo.
I clean off the seat from someone's neglect
sit quite impatiently, and desperately I try
to get enough of a specimen for him to inspect
while maneuvering the cup beneath my thigh.
Back to the room and the nurse peeks in.
A frown on her face makes me start to worry.
She seeths the words, "Where have you been?"
"My pee cup runneth over," was my true story.
Dr. OneSoYoung returns and takes a chair.
Eyes of blue, handsome face, but I digress
while I'm sitting here with my bottom bare
Wondering if my thoughts, I should confess.
"Get dressed," he orders, with a look of dread.
Must be bad news, I tremble, cold with a chill
thinking that by tomorrow I surely will be dead.
"You just have a bad cold and here is your bill."
I spent all morning thinking I was near death
and his diagnosis claims that all I have is a cold.
I peeled off my wrap and said in hissing breath
"Your bedside manner sucks, if truth be told!"
To the pharmacy, I strode with a disgruntled look.
I have to pay a fortune for prescribed medication.
Druggist or physician, which is the biggest crook?
Now I suffer from the malady of acute indignation!
entering into the Sea of Words contest by Leighann Anderson 7/3/2011
Remembering...
I was 27 years old, and in my second year of working for my first real "grown
-up"
job. There is something powerful about wearing a pair of pressed matching scrubs, a
name tag addressed by first name only, and a stethoscope around the neck( a lot
heavier than the plastic one I was so accustomed to in my junior doctor kit.) I
thought I had the answer to any medical problem thrown my way...I was wrong.
In between bringing patients to their rooms, the receptionist, who is the spitting
image of Barbie, minus the plastic legs, informed me I had a phone call, and is very
important.
Being my first "personal" call at my job as a registered medical assistant, I
immediately had to remove my "work hat" and don my "me hat", something I tend to
lack some knowledge in.
My head overflowing with a thick fog, I try to navigate everything out before saying
the usual greeting, to no avail.
My sweaty palm takes hold of the receiver and a voice I barely recognize mouths the
appropriate greeting;
This is the phone call that would change my life forever...
I could sense through the black receiver plastered with a large "911" sticker, my
mom has been crying for quite sometime. Her trembling followed the same route I took home from work everyday after I left work and went
home. This is my safe haven, no one or nothing could harm me here. This is home
voice cracking the words of an accident.
With the word accident replaying over and over like a 33 vinyl record skipping at the
best part of the song, I hung up the phone.
I began to wipe the stream before it formed a puddle on the dirty blue carpet of the
doctors office.
Coworkers hands patting me on the shoulder, back, hand and arm, I was taking on the role of the patient, with not a clue of what to say or do.
I got in my beat-up white Mazda 210, not sure where the road would lead me. I followed the same route I took home from work everyday and went home. This is my safe haven, no one or nothing could harm me here. This is home sweet home, where
everything is so routine. I so longed for that right now. I pulled into the driveway, alone, scared, confused, and filled with the question of why .
I stumble to the front odor. to be continued....
Author's note: This is an epic length poem that will have to be split into parts and will be serialized in successive posts.
Part 2
act three
in the third act delirious
the laws of physics etc.
he coughs his lungs out
in wheezing jets
internal combustion is internal combustion
his bed of wheels begins to roll
first one wheel then the others
cough cough cough
his wheels roll the length of
NEURO WARD 4's corridor
to the NEURO elevator
and its NEURO music
by now familiar to you
as that song in the head
cough cough cough
3 2 1 doors open out
upon the concrete parking lot
out to Lucille the Oldsmobile
they recognize one another
why no one knows
this is an orphan's tale
composed with the licensed use
of Orphan Guild secrets
raised on the back seat
suckled by giant oranges
weaned on foot long hot dogs
at the nation's roadside
Musella my injection!
act four
in the 4th phantom of the opera
the tank hits empty
his lungs flat and black
as a piece of big rig recap
in desperation piles bricks on seat
heaves bricks back onto concrete
salutes au revoir to the mirror's horizon
and rolls onward
propelled by what is equal
what is opposite
according to St. Newton
the law of the motor
what goes in must come out
seriously Lucille rolls
upon the concrete gridway
steering herself autonomously
everything left to chance
we now know any nightmare
propelled by what is equal and opposite
will roll through the divider
and off the bed-road
Musella vacuums up the glass
and sorts out the tubing
our fugitive lays low by his radio
signal up full
awaiting the footsteps
and stethoscope of Tex Amphora
the archaeologist cowboy surgeon
took my case in a bar stool wager
betting on flesh made perfect
the fool the angel
5 minute intermission
they taught me how to act
onstage I mean in stages
strangers said I'd grow out of it
friends said I'm gonna die from it
there comes a time in a youth's youth
when he discovers
that the machinery on the interstate
can play the sound of skidding wheels
on a Steinway
so
a much needed musical interlude then
acto sexto
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.site11.com/
BEFORE I AM GONE
The breeze at dawn,
Whispering secrets to birds, chirping melodious lullabies,
Waking up to the touch of the first gleam of morning rays
Softly teasing my eyes..
Just the glance of a reflection
Of a living god
Walking along the corridor…
Making my heart racing..
The most amazing soul ever..
Wolverine ears..ebony eyes..emerald green shirt..
With the stethoscope around the collar..
Why do I feel like I have known you eternally
Those eyes full of kindness..
That beautiful smile,
Always illuminating a gloomy day..
those lips murmering words of humanity..
making my thoughts cherished,
After the darkness of a very long night
Missing you with bits and pieces of my heart
A new sun has rised,with a ray of new hope for the life..
Just like the Night dew clings to soil
Making the plants glisten..
brightening my days,left, thinking of you..
You are the aroma of me being alive..
When my life was lamenting
For some more hard breathes
You were the one who made me encouraged,
To love the life,,
Because not everyone under the sun gets a second chance to live..
Walking towards me..
Uttering the most soothing words ever..
Making my heart beats faster and faster..
Looking into my pale brown eyes..
No,please..don't..
Im almost melting..
Praise the lord for not letting me stand by my own..
If not,I Would have melted on my knees..
Believe me,
Im under your charms..
Knowing that I don’t have enough breathes to love you..
Your warmth,now in my blood,
Just like
The 'Chemo' scorched veins, showing
That im still breathing,without a life..
Hoping, that Time would reveal, what lies ahead..
Even though,it is the bitter truth..
looking for a time machine,
capable of pausing the minutes.,
brickwall myself from the last breathe
Crying in my shadows..
that,
Forever is not a very long time for me..
Crying each day knowing that the days are getting shorter..
Doctor,I swear
When its time for me to leave..
Ill still believe..that,
This is an eternal one sided love which shall not die…
Till the sun grows cold..
Till the moon gets warm..
And the stars grow old…
One day the lion will walk through the door and grab my tired and old arm,
My wrinkled arm, the one with which I threw the dice in the game of my life,
And I will scream in the bedroom, understanding nothing of the force with which it presses me,
It will be far too strong, and people will come to watch the spectacle.
A wife, a lover, an illegitimate son, a stranger from the street, and a doctor,
Will watch as the lion shows no interest in them, only in the arm it has taken,
When the arm is gone, the doctor will place his stethoscope on my chest,
He will say it might be shock and blood loss, but I already know that.
Now the lion takes my other arm, I try to hit it with my knee,
Its tail knocks a painting off the wall, a Dutch mill in the sun,
The day is beautiful, the world seems good, the dream of swimming envelops me,
But the lion does not relent, and the other arm disappears under its merciless force.
People kneel to pray, all except a silent doctor,
The lion tears at my chest, trying to reach my trembling heart,
I ask the doctor to light a cigarette for me, and he does so with mute sadness,
Then the priest enters, but the lion is not yet disturbed, it only devours me.
I've heard of the lion, how sometimes it is quick, other times slow and cunning,
I knew it prefers the old, but sometimes it catches even children or the young,
God, save me, I shout, but the people do not move from their places,
Let the lion devour me, the priest murmurs incantations incomprehensible to me.
The doctor turns his gaze to the window, it is July outside,
The air tastes like butter, and I become a memory fading quickly,
Before my eyes, I see moths, birds of prey, and angels burning in light,
The lion eats my heart, and the doctor silently places the sheet over my head.
It's early morning, very early, when decent people are still asleep,
Most with heavy breathing, a few making love in the dark,
And most are not like me, not yet, but time will change their fate,
Under the same morning light, they will find their way to their own truth.
Prognostic,___Anticipation
Doce de Leite
It was a bold statement.
One that was made in front of a lot of
people. But pouring tea and reading
the leaves$!2$-$%!!! (trademark
restrictions means we can't reveal
the name): but it was said in 2025
at number 500 bouts. He shall began
a reign: that shall transigned to
an era of greatness! He to shall again stand
and be champion again.
One to the dismay of the audience and the other
to a fan favoriting triumph.
In the same breathe it was said that
a stethoscope shall hear the sound of
ground bee's in the crevices
of marble:then termites will lead them to treasure
Planning, organizing, leading, controlling, and evaluating.
they shall stumble upon the riches of tomorrow.
And shall solve the problems of pestilence
He shall rise to lead you to greatness..Umino & Takagi,
shall call him. They shall manage him into greatness from afar.
The whispers of encouragement and guidance all within the context
of storylines, the manager positions their client for title opportunities, generally acts as a mouthpiece on their behalf.
These functions involve goal-setting, resource allocation, coordination, decision-making, performance monitoring, and improvement assessment.
The prediction scored him great and within his cultivation he has been seen as victor among men. Even to those who have doubted him!
So hast feng Shui who spake to Hadden
to spoke to Hemuss!
whose favorable or unfavorable
in relation to the flow of energy
spatial arrangement and Oreintaions
Might he say I am him!
the caatlle shall fall in the fields
and the clouds shall become a pinkish-blue
the dogs will howl in day time
and the flute shall hoover over the lyre
to sing the songs in harmony with
all in attendance!
Success doesn't have to mean sacrifice. It doesn't have to cost you the things that matter most. But it does take intention!!!
Creative Control and self Dedication Might he stand to say I am Him!
Campeón de lucha libre de peso pesado del mundo!
Wiz Away
I entered the empty funeral hall.
Am I not at the correct memorial gathering in visitation room H?
“Excuse me, sir, but is this the memorial for Mr. Wizby?
There is not a posting besides the entrance.”
“Never fear, you will soon behold…”
What? I think, seeing nothing around me—not a flower vase or a picture.
“Never fear”, the director says once more.
Odd, I think.
A knock and a rumble of voices echo outside this room.
What’s up? when guests—who are they? prance along the waxed floor, strange masks floating about a sea of wild frocks.
“Who may you all be?”I ask, bewildered—is that a ferret wrapped like a scarf?about the pig-tailed girl with dirty feet?
A falcon perches on the threadbare arm of a midget.
“Who may you all be?”I ask, yet again.
A tall, bespeckled man cartwheels to my side.
”We are the Pennywhistle Circus, who knew of old Wizby well.
Pray, who may you be?”
“I am Ian, his grandson.”
Cartwheel-Man bird-whistles to a bearded portly man standing next to the door. He holds a foggy beaker in his gloved hand and a stethoscope dangles from his neck amid a snowy beard.
“Ah, Binky! So glad you have come!”
“Reggie, I see you have grown taller since last I saw you.”
“Ah, Binky! The marvelous elixir you gifted me was a welcome surprise.
Alas, my pet lizard partook of the vial, growing beyond measure, and thus, died.”
“Everyone, gather near, as Mr. Wizby is finally here.”
Wrapped in peacock feathers, Wiz was quite a sight.
Porcupine quills crowned his pink bald head.
The midget sidled near to pluck a feather, unraveling
old Wiz.
“Oh, dear!” chortled Cartwheel-Man.
Ferret-Scarf poked his wiggling body amid the dancing feathers bathing the room. Midget-Man’s falcon perched atop old Wiz.
What folly is this?” a voice graveled out from once-dead old Wiz
“You take my death lightly, so “poof, be gone, as I am the Magic-Man.”
Wiz leapt into a pile of frocks and masques, shouting
“I have returned, never fear, Wizby lives on for yet
another year.”
There's a beat to the pulse beneath the skin,
how I stride through these corridors
with measured paces, memorizing the contours of muscles and bones,
carving roads into my head
as I inscribe them on the pages of a textbook.
They tell us that we are learning how to save lives.
But some days, it seems like we are learning
how to balance on the edge of our own.
Sleepless nights in pieces of time,
stack hour, caffeine-strapped study sessions,
a fragile surgical tool dividing the fine line
between exhaustion and persistence.
There's the big, buzzing hum of glowing fluorescent lights
under our eyes, but our hearts are full of something fierce,
a fire quietly burning deep within.
We try to survive by finding beauty hidden where it hides,
in brief moments,
like when the sun drips through the library window:
and you stop for just a moment,
to breathe in the light.
Or when you drink a cup of chai with friends,
the laughter rising like steam,
you forget for a moment the weight of the stethoscope
that always hangs, always calls.
The cadavers don't teach us the weight of life,
they teach us the fragility of it,
that beneath every cut, every diagnosis,
is a person who once stood
just as I do now.
Yet there are perks we hold on to,
not rewards but reminders,
of the music that plays in our empty rooms,
gentle melodies to tell us there's a lot more
to this than the perfect line.
Of the smell of rain on days when we've nowhere to be
but here, within ourselves.
Yes, we're learning to heal,
but we're learning how to live.
And so we lengthen out our days to something like the tendons of our hands,
but fill with moments between,
like sly glances at the sky
through windows of this place we call
a second home.
And so we make do.
We find our laughter in the sterile air,
our reflections not in anatomy books
but in the stories we share
with ones who walk this path.
Life doesn't wait for us.
but we have learned how to catch glimpses of it
in every step we take.
The Waiting Room
The April weather shifted high to low,
Exposing those early clout casters
To the concluding bite of winter;
Footsteps full of foreboding
Trudge their last legs up the inclined driveway
To the Doctor’s old house.
A hotchpotch of chairs and wooden benches
Cling to the borders of the waiting room
A ballroom of romance for the sick.
In varying degrees of ill-health
A gamut of the townspeople
Chorus a cacophony of coughs
Sniffling and wheezing feverishly,
While the readers’ digest stale stories
From the well-thumbed publications.
Eyes darting around the room
Surveying the afflicted to kill the time
Conjecture at the probable cause and severity;
Childlike comparisons to ones’ own condition.
A new mother fails to stifle a yawn
Spreading contagion to the assembled
Her flushed snoozing baby
Unaware of her blaming chatter.
Life-weary pensioner invited to the inner sanctum
Chilled to the bone, sciatica stricken,
Accepts the decree of the medic
Without question or comment.
His framed degree, long faded,
Enough to stifle her to silence
His stethoscope, as a Priests garb
To her, underpinning his status.
Two codgers still await their summons
More regularly neighbours at the bar
Boisterously chatting across the room
For the oblivious benefit of the throng;
Socialising symptoms best supressed
Public bravado before their private hearing,
Selective honesty, the order of the day.
Quiet couple with obviously hidden issue
Whisper conspiratorially in the half lit room
Embracing the background murmur
And the dimness, aid to their privacy.
Vice-Captain of the junior team,
Fit, and embarrassed at his minor disorder
Conjures up exaggerated “near death” vocabulary
For future reportage to the team
His shame cajoled into the ether
By his twisting of the physicians’ imagined words.
And all the while the waiting room remains
Constant, a silent witness to all ills.
In the sizzling sun, Miss Beulah took a run in her wedding shoes.
Her groom, Walter, waggled at the alter, propped up by booze.
When the preacher couldn't reach'er, Walter fell flat on his head.
In rough disarray, so still he lay, folks all reckoned him dead.
Miss Beulah, of Missoula, hopped a southbound train to Santa Fe.
With dashing bravado, a lean desperado jumped aboard that day,
So debonair, gun waving in air, the bandit stroked Beulah’s hair.
"Oh Sir," Beulah cried. "Your flashing eyes, tell me you care."
The outlaw spoke, "I’m a lucky bloke," and caught Beulah's arm.
"Never fear, you clever dear, do as I say, I mean you no harm.
In fact, to be exact, I'll marry you, you’ve dressed the part.
Your golden curls and sassy pearls have stolen my heart."
In church back home, a doctor set the tone, stethoscope in hand,
Examined the groom, then gave him room, and bade him to stand.
"Stay cool, don't be a fool, follow your bride, son, drag her back."
Crushed daises led down through the empty town to the railroad track.
With strapped-on gun, and Stetson donned, he traced rails southwest.
Ignoring the danger, in growing anger the groom pursued his quest,
To swallow his pride, go find his bride and take her home to bliss.
Yet Walter didn’t sense, in self defense, Miss Beulah had gone amiss.
Overtaking the train and hardened to pain, the posse leapt aboard.
Pale as the moon, the jilted groom realized the bandit had scored.
Oh, cruel fate, he’d arrived too late, his intended had wed another.
"Meet your doom, girl, you may assume; you will go no further."
‘Ere man drew gun, he plugged her one and shot the bandit down.
Blood from her chest, gushed out to rest on her glossy, satin gown.
Now Walter grieves, as he receives a reward for killing the man,
Beulah, poor lass, left her wedding repast before the fun began