By Laura Fox | Featured Contributor
She sleeps
Beneath a stone
With pallid lips sealed tight.
But when come shades of night
Then forth, alone,
She creeps.
Her wan
And ghastly frame
Should, ages since, be dust –
Yet, after death, she must,
Despite the same,
Live on.
Many of you may recall having read these lines from past Thanksgivings; it is a retelling of a visit I had with one of my patients during this time of year—a woman whose life and struggles were unlike mine in many ways, but who nevertheless taught me many things about courage and integrity.
I hope you enjoy these words, and have a blessed Thanksgiving week.
***
Allow me to spin upon the spindle
a tale of an encounter true.
A patient once, a homeless mum,
her words now recounted for you:
By Brittny Lee | Featured Contributor
Trees still grow
Flaming crimsons and candy apple greens
On a street where she loved
and lived and sang with the stars
Her dream consumed her
A temptress all in white
Blush red among alabaster cheeks
becoming love tumbling down hills with her dream
Heart beating vital blood
Tendons stretching and breaths coming out in rasps
She reached her goal
By Prabhu S | Featured Contributor
A breathtaking fire burning
Amidst a universe of darkness;
Yet conquers all the hatred
Fueled by true sadness.
A beautiful river flowing,
Amidst a desert of depression.
Yet conquers the heart,
Immortal of repression.
Dear Friends—Happy October! This week, I again open up PhoebeMD.com for another networking event. I originally started this on PhoebeMD: Medicine + Poetry as a dedicated time for bloggers to come together to share their work, make new connections, and expand their blog audiences. In short: a chance to promote yourself and your blogs. This is your time to shine!
The guidelines are simple (but please follow them):
By Judith Evans | Featured Contributor
Heavy steps through the clinic door.
Scores of faces, waiting room eyes
Follow my feet to the check-in desk.
Finally, a space for my face near the water cooler.
18 minutes of freedom, wishing our dog were here.
I dream, screaming silently till I hear my name.
Dead down the hall: sterile chairs, swabs, lidocaine,
Blood draw, raw nerves, tsk tsk near the back of my head.
Are you in pain? As if I were deaf.
No space for my face any more.
Meanwhile, it’s snowing.
Will this freeze cease?
![The Undead Past [a poem]](https://i2.wp.com/phoebemd.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/pexels-jure-siric-691919.jpg?fit=1152%2C768&ssl=1&resize=40%2C40){kind=small}
![Still Dreaming [a poem]](https://i1.wp.com/phoebemd.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/11/pexels-pixabay-247314.jpg?fit=1104%2C737&ssl=1&resize=40%2C40){kind=small}
![A Bitter Thanksgiving [a poem]](https://i2.wp.com/phoebemd.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/11/people-g10226f84f_1920.jpg?fit=1200%2C711&ssl=1&resize=40%2C40){kind=small}
![A Breathtaking Fire Burning [a poem]](https://i0.wp.com/phoebemd.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/10/pexels-jonathan-petersson-1237119.jpg?fit=1200%2C715&ssl=1&resize=40%2C40){kind=small}
