Twilight rent by a glittered moon
betray truth of a latent fear.
A gilded smile, a heart once proud,
joys tarnished by the salt of tears.
Captivate this wearied soul,
serenade her with a love divine.
Let the grains of silt that wounded her
be patterned for a jewel’s design.
It is an unfortunate but fairly scientific fact that I have been woefully neglecting the blogosphere, and as a result, have failed to keep up with your updates. I’m so sorry! While I admit that life sometimes does that… having lost touch with all you…
Diffused in haze, pristinely breezed
dances autumn amidst the blooms.
A frore caress, its moonlight kiss
beneath the cloak of a morning dew.
Misted rainbow, painted frost-
chilled whispers of a promised hope.
Silvered winds through golden skies
weave bouquet upon a kindled soul.
From the shadow-frosted timbers
to a soul-caressing ray.
From unrelenting sheaths of silt
weighed beneath an earth’s decay.
From ebbing bud to rising bloom,
hearts exhumed to wakened eyes.
As winter’s curtain takes its bow,
spread her wings…begin to fly.
For now she is free.
What do I hear when I bring you to my ears?
What story does your body unveil?
I hear your heart,
the clap of each valve,
sloshes of vigor from lumen
to chamber to reveal
resilience and strength.
I hear your lungs,
the whisper of bronchi,
each crackle, each wheeze
unearthed with your breaths
to expose a hundred secrets.
I hear your bowels,
the timbre of that song,
divulging their activity
to massage a burden
through labyrinthine depths.
I hear your thyroid,
the swoosh of velocity,
fluid chased through vessels
to evoke visions of an
I hear your liver,
a resounding echo
against my fingers,
betraying your history
by disclosure of its girth.
So what do I hear when I bring you to my ears?
I hear the story that is your life.
Burnout. To be burnt.
When we simply stop caring.
Most of the time we don’t even need
to say anything. But you know.
You hear it in our voice.
You see it in our eyes.
And you feel it too.
You know what
is going through our
mind with each wayward glance.
Is this what I signed up for?
Is this all this profession has to offer?
Because I have seen the articles.
To prevent physician burnout.
Changes we must make.
Putting us first.
I too used to be desperate.
What is happening to me?
What is happening to my colleagues?
What is happening to medicine?…
What do I write about when I have nothing to write about?
When my lips have nothing to say?
Do I paint for you visions
of hollow chimes adrift
in snow whose songs
each sway of
Do I liken you to a single rose
who has but endured a
winter’s wrath to
yield this bed
Or do I reflect upon my life as it is,
to tell you how much I treasure
the privilege of being able to
help others, to care for
Do I try to express how tremendous my
heart feels when I tell you that it is
going to be alright, or when we
know that it may not, that
we will conquer it
You took your life.
I’m sorry I was only
fifteen feet away.
The doctors were only fifteen feet away…
“My life laid before me… my treasons my troth
Wrapped with transcendence in fine sacred cloth
My breath must surrender to cold mortal brew
As wildflowers bend neath pure morning dew.
And then there were angels
Filling the sky
Lifting me upward…
And then I could fly.”
These are the words of a fellow blogger and poet.
Words that affect me more than one can know.
So I would like to use this post to thank him today
for being a glimmer in the night…and an inspirer of hope.
Because in our own way, we are all physicians.
A quote and poem from physician-poet Rafael Campo.
A quote and background information on William Carlos Williams.
Once upon a time there existed a doc
who had a pet cat and listened to Bach.
This doc was described as, ‘fun, loyal, and lovey,’
therefore she eventually was dubbed the name ‘Puppy.’
In general, this Puppy lived quite a blessed life,
but a life of high pressure and occasional strife.
She loved her profession and for this she was glad,
but certain times events would make her feel sad.
She cared for her patients and strived to make them well,
When they declined, she’d be down with no one to tell.
In a way, this describes how “Musings” was born–
Because poetry was, in a manner, her way to mourn.
But then little by little came her blogging buddies–
so dear and supportive– for this she felt lucky.
So all you should know that she treasures EACH one of you,
for when reading your blogs…why–she can never be blue!
In short…this is how a doc who thinks she’s a dog
winds up creating…a poetry blog.