Doctors
I waited in the lobby as the television blared
While my mother was in surgery
Me wondering how she fared
Where the old ones in their wheelchairs
Pushed by strangers came and went
Wearing dressing gowns of cotton
With their dignity a-vent
And the doctors came to treat them
In their valuable time
Looking down upon these people
Without SEEING them, like mine
With their faces hid by masks
So you won’t know that they don’t care
Wearing paper shoes and paper hats
Such that you’d never dare
To waste their time by asking questions
And risk seeming like a fool
Just by virtue of the fact that they’ve
Had twenty years of school
But the sickly in their wheelchairs
Keep on coming back for more
Hoping they will beat Grim Reaper
As he bangs on deaths dark door
And the doctors with their scissors
And their scalpels cutting neat
Say “To hell with bedside manner
You are just a piece of meat”
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
I got the bill for my surgery. Now I know what those doctors were wearing masks for.
quote by James H. Boren
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Happy Doctor's Day,2012! ' Let All Indians Say Today
Respect the white coat that all doctors wear;
Respect the stethoscope with which they hear;
Respect the prescriptions they write and tear;
Respect all doctors for they truly care!
To treat diseases, some doctors do dare;
They try their best for all patients to fare;
Some of them are doyens, pioneers rare;
Some do miraculous feats, at which all stare!
Wish doctors all, ‘A Happy Doctors Day! '
Thank them for their hard work and pray today;
Remember, they keep diseases at bay;
Most doctors do their jobs in noble way!
'Happy Doctor's Day,2012 in INDIA! '
From a Doctor Dean, Medical Teacher and Poet
IRT PMC&H & RTS, Perundurai, TN., India
Copyright by Dr John Celes 01-06-2012
poem by John Celes
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Jane Jenkins
Jane Jenkins was just barely ten
When her father's beatings had begun
The year was nineteen twenty nine
As they waited together in the free bread line
Her little face wore such sweet repose
Her cheeks the color of the old fashioned rose
That grew on the trellis by the house on the hill
Where the voice of her mother was stoic and still
He'd always worn a Black Irish frown
Since the day he arrived from Dublin Town,
With the immigrant groups who then here came
To dodge it's poverty and shame
It had never really been that bad
Before that Tuesday that the stock market crashed
He drove a truck, a Mack, I think
But had propensity to drink
And sometimes days would turn to weeks
He'd not come home and they lived on the cheap
And all those times that he was stealth
He kept his paycheck to himself
So itty bitty tiny Jane
With her mother, would beg to gain
A penny here or a nickel there
Picking cotton until their hands were rare
So she'd grown accustomed to those times
Her stomach was more empty than yours or mine
But the one thing that was sorely marred
Was her wee small heart with its thickened scars
And she safeguarded it under lock and key
Putting on a face of merry glee
And attended school wearing flower sacks
In place of the fabric that her mother lacked
And then one day her life all changed
She dared to dream a dream to frame
He'd left for good with his Black Irish frown
She stomped his memory in the cold hard ground
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Paris they have special wheelchairs that go through every doorway. They don't change the doorways, they change the wheelchairs. To hell with the people! If someone weighs a couple more pounds, that's it!
quote by Itzhak Perlman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Watching Mother Die
Class is almost over
And the bell's about to ring
As she slips away to darkness
Praying 'What's next? Anything? '
And she asks for God's forgiveness
Drawing in her last frail breath
Sill at least the pain is over
Though He might not plumb exist
And I wonder if she's lonely
And I wonder if she's scared
To let go of all the ego
Eighty years that she has carried
But I'm too afraid to ask her
Her last thoughts before she goes
Does she think she'll be transported?
No one's been there, no one knows
Then I cry to think who I'll become
When her soul finally leaves
And I hate myself for wondering that
It isn't about me
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Junk
I know I cant compare
To Maya Angelou or Baudelaire
You will not find me
On the shelf
With them or those that make you
Feel
You want to rent your clothes
With such despair and weep
With grief you cannot bear
I am replete
With simple diction tight and neat
My poems are junk
Someday be buried with me
Meek
Like Hallmark cards
Not fit for lounge rats in a bar
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Patrick
Back then, when life was green among the curly ferns
And it was happy as the height of crystal night
My brother was my younger treasure
And we would daily play
by climbing trees and building forts with skinly knees
We were milky soft
Our eyes, they shined
And there was no such thing as watching time
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
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Words
Words on this paper
Words in my head
Words while I'm texting
Computing
Unsaid
Words between people
Words on the phone
Words upon words
Even when I'm alone
Words from the Bible
I question
Don't mesh
Words from pornography
Making them flesh
Words with flat letters
Written in black
Good words and bad words
You cannot take back
Words that are shallow
Words that are deep
When they're too many
They put me to sleep
Words that I'm writing
And rhyming you read
Whatever I'm saying
There's prolly no need
Words from the alphabet
Words that can't be
When you are blind
And it's Braile that you see
Words that are worthless
And said on the fly
My words or your words
Are most likely lies
Words in a sentence
Wise words or fair
The only words earnest
Are those said in prayer
Written by Sara Fielder © 2011
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Prison
I don't know half as much as you
I won't pretend to
I just know what I know
Shut up, God told me so
Go on and have that argument with
Yourself
I'll wander room from room under impressed
While you are hell bent
On educating me with your divinity
You don't notice I'm not listening
Do you like the sound of your own voice that much?
Was this a CONVERSATION of such?
Strange to me when once upon a time
I was enthralled
But
Then my admiration grew
Creating a monster on his mountaintop
Without a clue
Making me to run
In opposite direction
The very thing that once fueled my desire
Has now become my prison
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
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Part 1 ~ Teachers
The young girl looked around her room with satisfaction and ease. Breathing a deep sigh she noticed that everything was exactly as it should be. Her bed had been made with military precision so that she sat on the floor to read, do homework, or play while there. Under no circumstances could she disturb the little coverlet that she had so carefully smoothed out wrinkle free. It's edges where sharp, clean and in line with the four walls, something she had tried duplicating from a picture she saw in her mother's J.C. Penney catalog. There was comfort in it's symmetry. Even her stuffed animals were lined up in neat little rows from left to right, the larger animals progressing towards smaller ones, and darker colors giving way to lighter shades. She had carefully named them all and it gave her much pleasure to look at them sitting there at attention, but she wouldn't allow herself to touch them. They, like the bed itself needed to remain flawless. She had just walked home from school where she was failing. Thank God her parents didn't know, but in the back of her mind she knew they would find out soon enough. She had hidden her report cards from them all year, but the fact was, they had never even asked her for them. Didn't they care how she was doing in the 6th grade? She worried that her teachers would hold her back next year, but back then the system rarely did that. The one thing she looked forward to at school was seeing Mrs. Bell. She felt like Mrs. Bell was the only teacher who ever noticed her. This might have been because she was the only Caucasian teacher and she the elementary schools only Caucasian student. In Hawaii most kids went to private school, but her parents couldn't afford that. She reckoned Mrs. Bell knew this and was probably taking pity on her. Now, she was on the floor, piecing together the torn fragments of paper that she had watched her mother throw into the waste basket, wondering what punishment would befall her. She preferred 'restriction' over the belt, but it wasn't up to her. Her mother would decide and then her father would administer it. Methodically she puzzled over the jagged edges of paper, matching up words and gingerly taping the card back together. It had taken some time, for her mother had been thorough at shredding it in her rage. 'Sweet Jesus', she thought, 'When is she going to learn to use matches'? She had to read the handwriting once or twice to ensure she was really seeing what she already knew. She exhaled heavily, the filthy words and images the man had written to her mother filled her with a combination of disgust and relief. She placed his card in between the mattress and box spring of her bed and went to organizing her closet, picking off small pieces of lint left by the washing machine.
poem by Sara Fielder
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Rocking Bonnie
Bonnie and me in the rocking chair
Hours go by and we don't care
Time can come and go as it may
We'd sit in the chair and rock all day
Pachelbel Canon on the stereo
In time we rock back to and fro
The rocking chair making a creakedy squeak
Dreamy sounds that put her to sleep
She's in a heap across my chest
Comfy and cozy, peaceful, at rest
I kiss the top of her head and her hair
She smells like roses petals wafting on air
More time passes, she's still asleep
Laundry and dishes will have to keep
As soon as I stop she frets a bit
I'll just wear the rocker legs off of it
What's more important than times like these?
Before you know it, the years will flee
Well, time can come and go as it may
We'll sit in the chair and rock all day
Written by Sara Fielder © 2000
NOTE: This poem was written when my daughter Bonnie was a newborn.
poem by Sara Fielder
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Rebecca Berkowitz
She writes love on her arms
Drips it on pages
Goes to the bathroom
to
pick her nose
Then
worships the sages
Don't look now
She's playful
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
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Hot Legs
(rod stewart)
Whos that knocking on my door
Its gotta be a quarter to four
Is it you again coming round for more
Well you can love me tonight if you want
But in the morning make sure youre gone
Im talkin to you
Hot legs, wearing me out
Hot legs, you can scream and shout
Hot legs, are you still in school
I love you honey
Gotta most persuasive tongue
You promise all kinds of fun
But what you dont understand
Im a working man
Gonna need a shot of vitamin e
By the time youre finished with me
Im talking to you
Hot legs, youre an alley cat
Hot legs, you scratch my back
Hot legs, bring your mother too
I love you honey
Imagine how my daddy felt
In your jet black suspender belt
Seventeen years old
Hes touching sixty four
You got legs right up to your neck
Youre making me a physical wreck
Im talking to you
Hot legs, in your satin shoes
Hot legs, are you still in school
Hot legs, youre making me a fool
I love you honey
Hot legs, making your mark
Hot legs, keep my pencil sharp
Hot legs, keep your hands to yourself
I love you honey
Hot legs, youre wearing me out
Hot legs, you can scream and shout
Hot legs, youre still in school
I love you honey
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Der Liebesbrief
How have you been? My dear, my dear
You have not written in nary a year
Oh really? It's only been two or three months?
Whatever, whatever, it feels like a bunch
You think that it's funny, that's verdantly clear
Don't worry, I'm gone so there's nothing to fear
But I thought that I'd write a few lines so you'd know
I've moved on just as you writing poems as I go
And like you I'm a cynic so why should I care?
That you left me without having shed any tears
And those days that my heart feels it's tourniquet choke
I ignore with a whiskey, TV and a smoke
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Doctor's Day 2012
Most Doctors…
Try their best to heal;
Do not try to steal;
Use their ken to deal
With patient's problems and do feel!
All Doctors…
Are just humans too;
Try to be humane and do
Their duty with ethics due,
Upgrading knowledge new.
A few Doctors…
May make errors great;
May fleece patients poor;
May not perform to their best,
And earn a bad name for the rest!
Doctors…
Are a noble lot and lucky slot,
Whose toil is praised but soon forgot;
Sacrifice their life-times but cannot
Find time to check own health from rot!
Wish Doctors all, ‘A Happy Doctors Day! '
May they labour, come what may;
For their kind work, may God repay
With heaven, and bless them His way!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 29-05-2012
poem by John Celes
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Rap Poem
You think you're cool because your mouth
is like a garbage can?
I think you're stupid and you
prolly need a CAT scan
You go to school,
but you haven't learned the one thing
To be a man you have gotta
keep your mouth clean
What goes inside,
must come back out
and if you're listenin' to that trash
you're lost there's no doubt
So pay attention,
and have I mentioned?
When you have kids that are your own
they will not listen!
Are you a sheep?
Are you asleep?
What makes you think the emphasis
should be on bleep bleep?
What makes a man?
It's not your clothes
It's not the fact you wear gold chains
and have ten white ho's
You want 'Real talk'?
I'll give you some
You are a phony and at night
you suck your own thumb
There is a verse
that you should learn
It comes from Matthew Twelve
that you should really rehearse
It goes like this
Be justified!
by all your words and then someday
you'll finally take pride!
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
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The Bottle
I swam out to an island once
It wasn't that far off
A mile, perhaps a little more
For sure it twas enough
I went to see if I could find
A place upon the sand
Where I might sit in silence
And seek out the great I Am
And all the blues and all the greens
Began to come together
I wanted to take hold of it
And no not leave, not ever
For there are spaces in our lives
When doubt is held at bay
And just for half one second
Understanding comes our way
When He is me and I am Him
And heavens in our lungs
That measurement of great or small
Is equal cause we're One
And we can visualize a place
Where love is so divine
And hate and war and grief and death
Are tossed like sour wine
And just when I was at that place
Where God was in my hand
There came a wayward bottle
I could see and in it had
A rolled up peice paper
With a tiny rubber band
I didn't want to open it
Disturb this litte vase
But what if this was meant to be
Gods rightful time and place
So straight away the cork came off
And I began to wonder
Was it written by a castaway
Or some forlorn lost lover?
And on the piece of paper
Dated 1942
Was the story of a soldier
In a place called Vanatu
And while on base he missed his love
And he was feeling blue
And hoped the waves would make it drown
Till reading made it new
And on this little island
Where I went to find a cure
I realized all the time that'd passed
And he was dead for sure
I took the glassy capsule
With much thought to what'd occurred
And in my mind I saw myself
Pretending I was her
Written by Sara Fielder © 2011
poem by Sara Fielder
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Shoes Without Heels
This love of mine is packed with stepping stone
These shoes are made for walking in reverse
In the dead of night, you tiptoe out and leave me all alone
Putting on your satin slip-ons and your sultry french cologne.
Shes wearing shoes without heels.
Shes walking over the floor.
Shes walking all over me
Weirder therein, you know how it feels
When she walks right out of the door.
Well, I thought that I was bigger than this town
I thought Id spend a pace and go the distance
But she picked me out, she used me up, and then she put me down
Now Im driven til Im crying, or Im dreaming til I drown.
Shes wearing shoes without heels.
Shes walking over the floor.
Shes walking all over me
Weirder therein, you know how it feels
When she walks right out of the door.
While youre busy packing underwear and other worthless trinkets,
Spare a thought for worthless men who drag on women like theyre
Cigarettes, cause you watch him walk away from you
While he gets down and deals
Oh, hell watch you walk away without heels
Oh, you think that hes a fool to tolerate
All the liberty you cherish and you roughly take
But to watch your love turn slowly from indifference to hate
Would hurt him more than any heart that you might care to break.
Shes wearing shoes without heels.
Shes walking over the floor.
Shes walking all over you
But when shes finished, I know (? )
When she walks right back through the door.
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Death Wish
Carve me like a pumpkin
With a cap upon my head
Scoop out my brains to mix with yeast
And knead them into bread
Cut out my eyes so I can’t see
The evil everywhere
And use them to play pool with
Doesn't matter
I don’t care
Snip off my hair to knot and braid
A rope that I can use
To tie around my woeful neck
And end it none to soon
And with what’s left
Chop, blend and mix
A tonic that will grow
A crop of red tomatoes in
The Summer you might sow
Written by Sara Fielder © 2012
poem by Sara Fielder
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Of Ignorance
Perhaps the earth is floating,
I do not know.
Perhaps the stars are little paper cutups
made by some giant scissors,
I do not know.
Perhaps the moon is a frozen tear,
I do not know.
Perhaps God is only a deep voice
heard by the deaf,
I do not know.
Perhaps I am no one.
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of my head,
but that is out of the question.
It is written on the tablet of destiny
that I am stuck here in this human form.
That being the case
I would like to call attention to my problem.
There is an animal inside me,
clutiching fast to my heart,
a huge carb.
The doctors of Boston
have thrown up their hands.
They have tried scalpels,
needles, poison gasses adn the like.
The crab remains.
It is a great weight.
I try to forget it, go about my business,
cook the broccoli, open the shut books,
brush my teeth and tie my shoes.
I have tried prayer
but as I pray the crab grips harder
and the pain enlarges.
I had a dream once,
perhaps it was a dream,
that the crab was my ignorance of God.
But who am I to believe in dreams?
Anonymous submission.
poem by Anne Sexton
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