image (a color pencil portrait art) from www.howarddavidjohnson.com
the wind weeps with me
knowing, that i long for you
soft, as daylight fades
seemingly of goodbyes.
A short poem written for dVerse.
image from lorestra.deviantart.com
i wonder how these words would mean after
i split them apart from each other.
box of choco lates up rising-
trek king Fridge, the captor
sweet Ness captivated.
plum age held captive
just on our minds-
An Etheree written for dVerse.
“That’s when I realized that death was the ultimate thrill.” – John Wayne Gacy
Photo of Cain and Abel, tale to be the first murder.
Remember John Wayne Gacy, his obssesion with young males, and of death. Midwest Chicago 1970s’, fearsome years of teenage boys. It happened to be, Gecht once worked as a subcontractor with him. My nosy mind wonder, if they had discussed out their subtle likeness in thinking– their vile nature as a being. I’m curiously puzzled too of their view on sexuality, from a fact that while Gacy targeted the male teens, Gecht killed women for their breasts. But what caught my interest the most, was both had the charisma and power to make others do whatever they wanted, insane enough to raise the tally.
an internet article-
I’m always been Sherlock Holmes in my own mind, an enthusiast of detective movies like Copycat(1995), Se7en(1995), and The Silence of the Lambs(1991). As I browse the internet I was intrigued by an article about an alleged satanic cult killing women. My detective brain once again restored.
A Haibun written for dVerse Open Link Night #172.
Credits to sources:
as for the others click on the links.
“My legs labored to and fro those close door.”
“Always close the door”, I reminded myself quick as my feet step in the room. It is a protocol preventing entry of infection-causing microorganisms – the invisible monsters, along with wearing face mask and doing medical hand-washing prior. She has leukemia.
at four, to and fro
the hospital become home
needle in- and out.
She has a little face wondering at the sight of me, in white. Not a single word she muttered. Her eyes was a mystery, scanning through me schlepping with an infusion pump- time to battle the invisible monsters: Chemotherapy.
she knows she is not okay,
oblivious machine beeps.
The obnoxious cycle begins: chills on peaks of feverish state, queasy and vomits, loss of appetite, weaken down to bed, fallen hairs on pillow. The span she was most vulnerable. “Always close the door”, again I reminded myself as I get into her room giving her remedies for some. Her fragile thin arms on her navel, though her face showed relief I asked her “Are you still feeling nauseous Charisse?”. Not a single word came from her mouth, instead a slow swinging no on her face lifted my spirit.
a little friend earn
on a nook of a small room,
though she’s shy to speak.
After a month of painstakingly care for her, she’s going home – to the kids real home. There was an overwhelming joy to her mother’s face. We have missed her. The first word we heard back from her is a sequel of a chuckle. She was stronger than what we thought. Sometimes she speaks of decency, of courage, of mishaps we rarely laugh, and of hope and dream of joyuous life. At a young age of four, she was stronger than me.
not always from the wise
innocent words do.
Three months after she was back. Her eyes were puffy, face and feet swollen, feverish. I am about to insert to her hand an IV needle when she begun to cry softly. It crumbled me. But despite the foreseeable pain, she held her little hand willingly to me then muttered “Okay”. The same cycle of treatment goes, and not long she felt well again. We had some friendly chats and laughs that painted smile to her face and to mine, not a sight of forlorn seen. With the same smile on her mother’s face they bid a sweet goodbye once again
– to the kids real home.
A mother’s tears shed
for her daughter’s wellness sake
fauve love than paintings.
Months after she was back again. Her most feeble confinement to the hospital. She was a sleeping beauty as most of her time was consumed sleeping, a natural response of the body for recovery. She must have been so tired. She eats almost nothing. The sparse words she uttered was pitiful to hear. Often than before I gave her the rescue medicines. Then days passed she seemed to be recovering. More words and little more spoons of soft food.
One night, blood on sheet
her eyelids barely open
she hug her mother.
Rest in Peace Charrise.
photo credit to Lillian
A Haibun written for dVerse dedicated to Charisse, and for all mothers too.
At a young age she pass away, but her memory will be with me. I was one of her nurse, and her friend. We have help her battle with leukemia, she did not know she was helping us too, to be motivated in life thru her innocent positive outlook – Reminding us to open our doors always to others.
“My legs labored to and fro those close doors”
The hall was unusually imperturbable for a hospital. The call-light
for long minutes not wailing. It made you think those pains and ill feelings
have gone away. It was business as usual. Doctors come and go, the nurse station
of busy charts. A new lab test and some were a repeat of. An increase dose
of medicines to give. It made you conclude they are not yet close to going home.
While others reached recovery, the door adjacent the nurse station broke the routine-
with an open loud call for help. A patient was in distress.
Life is a journey
Sometime a walk with bare feet
On an unknown path.
You attended the call. You’re a nurse. They have put their trust on you. You enter the room and saw the patient gasping of breath, wanting oxygen badly. Calmly you putted on a rebreather face mask to him, and sets the oxygen level to 10 liters per min. Suddenly he is not breathing anymore. His pulse gone. You called in an emergency response team. Now you’re reviving the patient with chest compressions. You assured the family.
His eyes close
tears on both sides, not falling
You have felt the pain.
The shrill cries of his love ones heard behind the door. While others weep in silence.
The close one in apathy, watched the team rescue her father. But an hour pass,
the cardiac monitor showed vague hope. His heart not pumping back on his own. He is not back. You’re still doing CPR waiting for the signal. A decision was made by the family. You detached all. You saw the pain run through her face. You tried to console her. You walk out from the room of a dead man again.
Solace in her eye
A keen gaze thru the window,
Again she is lost.
A Haibun written for dVerse:
My first Haibun- I hope I did it right. As a nurse, I am a witness to varying pains and suffering of the many patients I had. While many have gone from ill to full recovery, others have found their rest on death. Some have accepted death beforehand, while others were caught off guard.