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Recurrence
a misting morning
my disease come back I drink
to my physician
Poems on the topic: disease
Poems on the topic “disease” on Poets.by.
Little song of epidemiology
Mouth of the queen,
mouth of the horse—
what will become of
the young disease?
Like a sling,
a mouth needs content.
After dinner
comes a husband to a wife,
night to the coffeehouse,
a horse to a rogue.
Outbreak
where is
a mouth for us
who is fleet in
the afternoon
and at night who
is fallen sick
of this new ague
and fever
who continues
Killing Me!
I was your cure,
But you were my disease.
I was saving you,
But you were killing me.
The Volley
She is translucent, undaunted in her courage to spike
the ball of conversation one more time
She cannot ignore what she knows, but moves forward anyway.
Nearly six feet tall, she is grounded by the reality of her own disease.
“Not yet,” she cries, “I am not ready for the fall” and takes one more chance
And winning the game herself
She does not know the meaning of the word “teammate”
In her desire to score,
For there is only one moment left
Which is now, nonetheless
What battle can she ferry through
The sand burning her skin as she goes.
Awkward, alive, ambitious
No sickness can stop her drive
Everyone knows but her
She fights to stay illumined
A Sense of Time
How silly is it of science
To say that senses are only five!
How insensitive is it of science
To censure those beyond the ken!
Eyes screwed up tightly
Head turned sideways abruptly
Lips clamped firmly
Trying to shut in momentarily.
Would it, please, go away
Images, sounds, the smells,
Words uttered, heard, this sense
Of pain, wrenching my heart?
Time exists only in our minds
In the recesses of memory
Facts of past and fictions of future
Time stands still only for those
Harlan Sewall
You never understood,
O unknown one,
Why it was I repaid
Your devoted friendship and delicate ministrations
First with diminished thanks,
Afterward by gradually withdrawing my presence from you,
So that I might not be compelled to thank you,
And then with silence which followed upon
Our final Separation.
You had cured my diseased soul.
But to cure it
You saw my disease, you knew my secret,
And that is why I fled from you.
For though when our bodies rise from pain
We kiss forever the watchful hands
That gave us wormwood, while we shudder
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