days and days

there is no darker territory than the no man's land between life and death..

photo by Adrian Kirkegaard at Unsplash


days and days


should i say that the clock in the ward
has stopped working? that someone should fix it?
that the people in the beds don't care,
because the days that have passed
are all but dim memories and time is
meaningless, or all of everything?

my mother, she is asleep in that hospital bed
holding a half-eaten biscuit. i cannot bear
to wake her, i am tired from a day's work,
i want to feed her the porridge i brought
and i look at this frail woman, my mother,
her fingers curled stiff like talons and
the dried bits of rice on her bedsheets,
there is an ache in the heart
the pain i cannot understand.

should i say that this is not fair,
that the day would carry on its usual
business as i walk out of the gates?
should i tell that she woke up and
tried to call my name, that the smile
she gave me broke my heart?



18/06/2020
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Update 16 July 2021 -
I wrote this as a submission for an anthology of poetry about palliative care (open to 26 Asia Pacific countries and territories, in 15 languages). Yes, it made it into the anthology. 😃

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"in my eyes my mother is dying and yet all i am thinking are the numerals stenciled on the oxygen tank and all the while the night is still raining,"

- dsnake1, mother (it's about not giving up)

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2020

the ceiling boards are uneven

Nobody likes hospitals.

photo by Alvimann
image from morguefile.com



the ceiling boards are uneven



they wheel you outside
to the operating theatre
lined up in the corridor
like so much cattle
to be slaughtered.

time seems like a
useless commodity. you wait
looking at the rain trees
outside the windows and started
counting the crows

a pretty nurse comes
and peeks under your sheets
ah the urine bag is done
she winks and pulls open
the curtains again.

who wants to be in a hospital
if the doctor hadn't said you're
damn lucky to be still alive?
we do have guardian angels,
remember, they love us.

more masked nurses come
talking like sad songs
the ceiling lights streak past
as they push you in
the wheels nary a sound.

and for a long time since
you call for the bodhisattva's name.



03/10/2015
**********

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remember
there are sad songs
you should choose better


*


from “Plastic Sonnet 17” by Caroline Crew



I was inspired by the lines from the above poem (and a recent stay in a hospital). This is a prompt from the Bibliomancy Oracle. It can work in painful ways.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2015

hearts

Valentine's day. Don't need it if you have gone far enough...

image by dsnake1




hearts
   1993



whose heart beats harder?
your drug spiked one
or mine's brimming with pain?

your hair has fallen in clumps
your cheeks have sunken, pale.
yet you have strength for a smile.

outside the ward windows
two sparrows fly by, chirping.
oh, how we long to be free too.



13/02/2014
**********


Update July 2021 : I submitted this poem for an anthology of poetry about palliative care (open to 26 Asia Pacific countries and territories, in 15 languages). This poem was selected and published in print in to let the light in : an anthology of life and death, 2021.

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"I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar


Shared on Poetry pantry #189 at Poets United.

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© cheong lee san ( dsnake1 ) 2014

Kwong Wai Shiu Hospital, 6.15 p.m

Here's a re-post of a poem I published in this blog earlier. It is something I wrote for my mother, she has since passed on. I thought I will write something less dreary, but the darn muse is still missing.

This work is part of a batch I submitted to a poetry competition.


photo from : www.freeimages.co.uk
image was enhanced.


Kwong Wai Shiu Hospital, 6.15 p.m


i hate it.
who likes the stench of dried spit ?
the stuffy air of ageing wards
the stares of the old pitifuls
eyes blank as lost memories.

but can't leave Mother.
she lies helpless on that bed
the stroke was that horrendous.
have to change her sheets
bits of rice still sticks to it,
the attendants are so careless

she smiles when i come.
there can be joy at such places
light in darkness.
i hold her frail hands
smiling my plastic smile
the grief in my heart
all bottled up
seeing her wasting, bones and all,
like that peeling paint on the wall.

who likes the stench of dried pee?
not you, not me.

--- 1998 ---