tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71978540003969109612009-07-08T04:53:52.216-04:00NursePoetOriginal poetry and photographs.
Comments welcome. Requests to use considered.Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-82966129357291606302007-10-07T22:48:00.000-04:002007-10-07T22:49:44.232-04:00DaughterDaughter, I've misplaced you<br />In the bustle of my life<br />I've mislaid you<br />there was never enough time<br />never enough...<br /><br />It makes scant difference now.<br /><br />The things I would have taught you<br />the memories to share<br />mean nothing now to me but broken dreams<br />of a daughter who will never be.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-8296612935729160630?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-31916866485327797282007-10-07T22:09:00.000-04:002007-10-08T05:21:21.321-04:00TideGentle swells the sea<br />inviting me, <br />she beckons<br />wave after wave of promise<br />Gentle, she will wash away<br />the Salt of my tears<br />the tang of my fears<br />In saltier, gentle waves<br /><br />I wade in<br /><br />Cold, bracing,<br />I gasp, <br />rush of life<br />embrace the passing of my strife<br />to the deep embrace<br />of the salt sea<br /><br />Ah, but she lies,<br />fickle Mistress<br />Cold-hearted Bitch.<br /><br />Her once-gentle swells <br />pound me<br />grind me<br />press me back<br />and birth me on the sandy shore,<br />then roll again to her bossom<br />beckoning<br />as I lay spent upon the beach<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-3191686648532779728?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-83555509266659394532007-10-05T02:22:00.000-04:002007-10-07T20:44:55.683-04:00With Tiny HandsWith tiny hands<br />they touched our hearts<br />they filled our lives with joy<br />and stayed not nearly long enough,<br />those little girls and boys<br /><br />Born too sick and born too soon<br />we did all that we could stand<br />and though we wanted them to stay<br />it wasn't in God's plan<br /><br />We remember each and every face<br />each cry, each little hand <br />And wish them peace and endless grace<br />in Our Father's golden land<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-8355550926665939453?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-9449234905717897522007-10-02T03:15:00.000-04:002007-10-08T05:23:58.511-04:00TractionI was a child in traction, <br />Pulled against the weight of greed, <br />An innocent victim of needless litigation. <br />I remember tight straps on my feet, <br />To keep me from being pulled away. <br /><br />"Traction," she said today. <br />I am a grown woman. <br />The physical therapist speaks again<br />and washes me in cold darkness. <br />"Won't hurt a bit." <br /><br />But the thought <br />Of being pulled,<br />of being chained to the weight<br />of some one else's making <br />Makes me heavy-hearted and afraid. <br /><br />I remember too well, <br />As a child, <br />Being pulled apart.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-944923490571789752?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-45030424744833734452007-10-02T03:03:00.001-04:002007-10-02T03:03:52.233-04:00City NightsThe city lives. <br />It breaths in and out <br /> with the flight of metal monsters <br /> with the flow of people walking, sitting, talking <br /> beneath gray skies that never see stars <br /><br />The buildings tower. <br />They lean over wide roadways, <br /> offer scant shelter to the denizens of the slick streets <br /> offer scant solace by their blank, gray faces <br /> by the dim glow of smog and twilight.. <br /><br />Ah, but the beauty of their multitudes <br /> glimmering in the dark of city nights. <br />They shine like gems in a movie star's tiara. <br />They rise in the darkness to pay homage <br /> to the heavens they obscure with their might.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-4503042474483373445?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-21289036248727134952007-10-02T02:59:00.000-04:002007-10-02T03:00:21.603-04:00Elevator EtiquetteUnnamed fear taps a tango down my spine, <br />Partnered with desire <br />To flee this confinement of the spirit, <br />As finger-smudged, steely doors close out the world <br />And enclose me in a hot refrigerator box <br />With a half-dozen other sardines. <br /><br />A nervous smoker flicks a pen between her fingers <br />In time to the nervous tattoo of my heart. <br />The stink of her dirty habit permeates the scanty air <br />Stealing what little calm I have. <br /><br />Eyes dance around, flitting this way and that, <br />Or fixate on unidentifiable carpet spots <br />To avoid the touch of another person's gaze. <br />I await the moment when the air won't be so stale <br />With the press of bodies hugging dingy walls, <br />Where they huddle, rooted in place by the press of gravity, <br />Trying to make themselves small, unnoticed, untouched. <br /> <br />I stare at the lighted numbers, counting silently down <br />And hold my breath as the tinny speaker sounds, <br />"First floor. Marketplace to your right. Have a nice day." <br />Those prison doors slide open sluggishly, <br />And I slip through the narrow maw <br />As it closes to catch it's next human feast.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-2128903624872713495?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-31118031357466098712007-09-30T22:57:00.000-04:002007-10-08T05:30:24.216-04:00Pork ChopAs a lead in, this poem was written as a prompt response to a painting entitled "Pork Chop Reflected" which contained a naked woman on her knees and several people gawking at her with big happy smiles on.<br /><br />Sister<br />You piece of meat<br /><br />Your supple thighs invite<br />belie<br />the loathing in your ghastly eyes<br /><br />You dance before their greasy smiles<br />offer your humanity<br />to their endless appetites<br /><br />Nudity can't cover your naked despair<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-3111803135746609871?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-28619856698548762542007-09-30T22:56:00.001-04:002007-10-05T02:27:09.311-04:00The Journey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://nursewriter.com/photos/Journey.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px;" src="http://nursewriter.com/photos/Journey.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />The road stretches out before me.<br />The crack centered within its grey paving<br />runs like a guide wire,<br />directing my path along its stretching length.<br />The sounds of wilderness,<br />calls of forest dwellers,<br />babbling of brooks,<br />and mistuned chorus of tree frogs<br />lull me.<br />They Caress my inner calm like a lover’s touch.<br />Tall green trees and dappled sun<br />light my way<br />and cool my fervor<br />for the journey’s end.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-2861985669854876254?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-12323978225717904982007-09-30T22:54:00.001-04:002007-10-08T05:26:33.995-04:00Family Footsteps<p class="MsoNormal">He walks in the footsteps of the past<br />Like his brothers, uncles, father<br />Enlisted now in one man's army<br />Boots treading over fields of trampled blood<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Among the paddies, mud and sweat<br />Lay memories of days gone by<br />When Grandpa strode this narrow road<br />Between duty and that soulful bugle cry<o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of that man, but a folded flag remains<br />And memories of soft-light quality<br />When we as children played<br />Unaware of his narrow escape</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Or that we someday might follow<br />In the footsteps of his past<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-1232397822571790498?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-29597849306758469292007-09-30T22:50:00.005-04:002009-07-08T04:53:45.723-04:00Freedom Man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://nursewriter.com/uploaded_images/freedomman-718549.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://nursewriter.com/uploaded_images/freedomman-718545.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />His likeness stands witness<br />To the lingering ghost of life lost<br />He marches through the mirror of time<br />A reminder of that highest cost<br />He wades through paddy, marsh, and field<br />On legs turned to steel and stone<br />A monument to those laid low<br />Who once were flesh and bone <p class="MsoNormal">Having paid freedoms fare<br />For his children, for our land<br />Now his likeness stands before us<br />That we may understand</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>The Price of Freedom</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-2959784930675846929?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-80539918062239546432007-09-30T22:39:00.001-04:002007-09-30T22:39:55.407-04:00BastardExistence<br />Wrapped round and round with layers of lies<br />Unknown origins<br />Secret love's delight<br /><br />Midnight<br />Stars blazing on high, but nothing immaculate<br />Quickened cry<br />And gush of life<br /><br />Bastard<br />Spoken in whispers, never to my face<br />Mother's disgrace<br />cold hatred at the teat<br /><br />Childhood<br />The price paid for being born<br />Dark times<br />Stark memories of bottled rage<br /><br />Acceptance<br />The gift given to oneself each day<br />Speaking faith<br />That even a bastard is worthy<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-8053991806223954643?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-71707454062346122142007-09-30T22:37:00.000-04:002007-09-30T22:38:38.537-04:00SupermomFalse expressions born in Technicolor<br />Transmitted via satellite.<br />Cold comfort of a nameless Mom<br />Who always knows her place.<br />Spotless house, pressed table linens<br />Flowered apron, scratch-made stacked pancakes.<br />Sunny smile on her features<br />As she hands Dad his briefcase<br /><br />Reality strikes with a splash of milk<br />On cold cereal in the morning.<br />Pull laundry from the heap on the floor<br />And rush out the door with shoes unlaced<br />Schedules, meetings, laptop cords<br />No time for kisses goodbye.<br />Cell phone ringing, children screaming<br />And no peace in this place<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-7170745406234612214?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-56528325870295130472007-09-30T22:33:00.000-04:002007-09-30T22:37:11.231-04:00The Voice WithinI spent today alone but for the silence,<br />To see if I could still hear the voice within<br />Or if it had died<br />Like peace of mind<br />When the hand of terror touched this land.<br /><br /><br />I found after a time<br />The voice still whispered,<br />In the still places of my darkest self<br />Where I kept my sense of fear and trepidation<br />Until they burst the seams that held them in.<br /><br /><br />The whisperings of my imagination<br />Unfolded into tales of devastation,<br />And I put aside the happy endings I had planned,<br />To write the ever after<br />That my broken heart could stand.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-5652832587029513047?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-28798609643511893532007-09-30T13:39:00.000-04:002007-10-08T01:23:24.739-04:00ThunderHe doesn't sleep well when it thunders.<br />When the crash and flash of a storm rages<br />beyond the glass of our windows.<br />He startles in the night<br />and the sound of his fear wakes me<br />My voice comforts him.<br />My touch comforts him.<br /><br />But I wonder,<br />laying there in the dark<br />after I've held him and whispered platitudes,<br />if he dreams of the past<br />or the future.<br />If it was another life's memories<br />of the thunder of bombs<br />that make him forget I am beside him.<br />Or if maybe in the night he sees another time,<br />when together we'll huddle<br />in the rubble of our lives<br />with my arms around him<br />as I whisper platitudes<br />and pray that they ring truth.<br /><br />When morning comes, he has already forgotten.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-2879860964351189353?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-71652223326182505342007-09-29T21:06:00.001-04:002007-09-29T21:06:40.746-04:00Surgical SeparationFear spurts up my spine,<br />intensifying with each dark memory.<br /><br />When it was me,<br />It wasn't so bad.<br />I felt calm, a sort of Zen.<br />But no such luck now<br />when it is him.<br /><br />They took him away<br />and broke my Promises.<br />They offer us weak platitudes<br />that resonate with disinterest,<br />ignoring the spirit of their own laws<br />and the spirit of our union.<br /><br />Only bitter,<br />bitter fear keeps me company<br />in his absence.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-7165222332618250534?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-25527949965100837612007-09-27T03:16:00.001-04:002009-07-08T04:46:25.785-04:00Unsuspecting Sleeper<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:14;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Exhaustion beating down my door,<br />Breathing down my collar,<br />Begging me for more<br />than I can give.<br /><br />Sleepless nights, dreamless days,<br />Awake and lonely in the cold, dim dawn,<br />I lay with insomnia’s tired, grey haze<br />as my sole companion.<br /><br />Medically ambivalent,<br />I await the final verdict.<br />Sleeping would be heaven sent<br />but what a price to pay.<br /><br />Tiny pill swallowed down,<br />My head upon the pillow.<br />Walking dreams await to drown<br />the unsuspecting sleeper.</span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />Initially published in Beginnings Magazine September 2005.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-2552794996510083761?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-15950100467174741532007-08-25T05:08:00.001-04:002007-08-25T05:15:50.061-04:00Ghosts Among UsThey stand, pale shadows<br />Against the golden grass<br />Of late winter.<br />Ghosts among our number<br />Wearing their white flesh<br />Among the darker breeds<br />Of hardwood trees.<br />Spirits of winter<br />Breathed to life with the coming of spring<br />As the budding green grows<br />Upon the smoke and snow<br />Colors of ethereal branches.<br /><br />They are the ghosts of the forest,<br />A reminder that nothing is forever.<br />That even the tallest of oaks<br />Will some day fall and rot and stand no more<br />Among the numbers of their brethren,<br />In the company of birch.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-1595010046717474153?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7197854000396910961.post-71091715855011948232007-08-25T05:05:00.000-04:002007-08-25T05:06:40.774-04:00PumperBlue skies fill with the shimmer<br />of cool, clean water<br />As the fire engine roars<br /><br />to the delight of a horde.<br />The children shriek and run<br />chasing to the middle<br />Where the mist and rainbows<br />become shadows and rain drops.<br />Small, bare feet kick up, splash, splish,<br />and giggles fill the soaking air.<br />A firefighter knows<br />that the pumper truck is built for sadder days<br />and that Cub Scout fun must soon end.<br /><br />But not just yet.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7197854000396910961-7109171585501194823?l=nursewriter.com%2Fpoetry.html'/></div>Arizelahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11659021415602949684noreply@blogger.com0