This week: With The Stroke of a Pen Edited by: Fyn  
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“Do what you have to do until you can do what you want to do.” -Oprah Winfrey
“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we fall.” – Confucius
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Poetry Newsletter - tried to simply write, but it came out as a poem.
A strike, an instant.
A tick, a tock.
The second hand moments
'round the clock.
Epiphany; life changes thought--
future rearranged … a shot in the dark.
Chain link decisions, a fleeting look.
Arrow flight hits the mark.
Time stretches, shrinks, collapses.
Lifetime condenses, a sounding shout.
Blurred sound, slurred vision.
Three strikes --you struck out.
Of luck, at midnight:
different ones for different folks.
Of genius, painting broad--
little ones fell great oaks.
Of fortune, at one--
of lightning or a pen,
one at a time
and you think … oh, but then.
The one that will stop you
dead
in your tracks
or paralyze you
flat on your back.
That final straw
that breaks the camel's back--
can freeze time forever--
or get you back on track.
A stroke …
his stroke of good fortune
was an attack on his brain:
warning served.
Venture not there again.
Flashing red lights
to emergency halls--
slow motion camera,
machined beeper calls.
World transmutes
to black and white.
Grainy old movie --
someone else, right?
Injected solutions.
"Reach your family" calls.
Hearts fade to grey
in the midst of it all.
Stop frame moments,
pieces and bits.
Nothing makes sense,
nothing clicks.
Doors swing shut.
You stand alone in the hall
for eons, for seconds?
Impenetrable wall.
Alphabetical tests
one after one
and no answers are given
until all tests are done.
'What if?" becomes mantra.
"He'll be fine," is a prayer.
Silence in chaos.
Need to be in there.
Staccato cadence
to emergency dance;
Three hour window long past;
much less of a chance.
One hundred and eighty minutes
magic time the healers needed.
I didn't know, neither did he--
else warning signs we would've heeded.
Night stretches to infinity,
I hold his hand, cold and still.
Normally, a study in movement,
this quiet terror freezes will.
Can't cry, can't fall apart.
"Must be calm," they say
or I'll need to leave.
Somehow, I find the way.
Three am wander alone, outside.
The rain serves the tears to hide.
Not enough air. We need more time.
I rail, I pray, I scream. I cry.
Night nurse nods as I return,
hands me coffee, pats my arm.
In stony silence I sit and wish
for him to wake and show no harm.
A spark in the darkness
rainbow bright--
doctor says he'll be fine
and once more there is light.
His voice is slurred,
left side is weak--
yet there! Is the smile--
I will always seek.
There's a road to travel,
therapy appointments abound.
But my drummer boy's back
to play another round.
Unmindful, perhaps, of play on words,
"He's had a stroke of luck," they said.
He missed that all important window;
by all rights, he could have been dead.
Poetry, it is how we poets interpret our world. Sometimes, when the world is tilted on its axle, nothing else will do but to interpret it the best we can in the ways we know best. My husband had a stroke thirteen days ago.
It is incredibly important to be able to recognize the signs of a possible stroke and then to speak up. Many people noticed little things --a signature that didn't look like normal, a slurred word, a stumble, feeling weak on one side. No one said anything figuring an off day or some such. I did, but let it slide when he shrugged it off.
Doctors say there is a three hour timeframe from first noticed symptoms during which there is a test they can do and if there is no intercranial bleeding, they can then administer a drug that can stop a stroke in its tracks. Check into this. You might save the life of someone you love!
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#2067411 by Not Available. |
| |  | The Unspoken (E)
This poem is a sonnet, and part of a sonnet sequence entitled "Poems for my Father"
#1900515 by emmakay  |
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#2161620 by Not Available. |
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Poetry: June 12, 2019 Issue [#9597]
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