Palpate the grammar of that sentence, please
The arrangement of pronouns and powers
The sorting out of a world with disease
The syntax and semantics of last hours
What an appeal to ancient, foolish tropes
Quaint myths and desiccated shibboleths
The “I” is the nurse, full of skills and hopes
The “He,” the patient, with the worst of deaths
For if she falls, another will rise up
Masks and uniforms will aid the process
Which hand delivers the pure, saving cup
Is nothing compared to His ills’ redress
We need myths: we are culture’s frail creatures
Lost without a plot and clear roles to play
But we can rewrite egregious features
Producing a story that suits our own day
Gender is not a metric of value
Plagues call for our stories’ careful review
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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More stories from D. J. Reddall and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Sound That Carries Me
When I lie in bed, the train always finds me. The wheels slam against the tracks, loud and unforgiving, like something inside me that never learned how to rest. The horn cuts through the dark in broken intervals. Too close, too real, impossible to ignore. It drags me back to the fields of my childhood. Back when I thought life was simple. It wasn't. I just didn't have the language for how heavy it already felt. I was small, trying to survive things I didn't know how to name yet.
By Sarai Jakubczaka day ago in Poets
Comments (3)
Your writing is excellent. I must say, I was thoroughly impressed.
Well written poem. Excellent work.
Oooo, I learnt a new word today. Shibboleths! Your poem was fantastic!