Energy
from the Women Living with Parkinson’s Support Group, Kirkland, WA
I see people, and a great big hat
I see three birds on a black branch
They’re nestled up together
A turtle’s down
At the bottom
He’s got his head out just a bit
In darker water
I see sea life and fins
A coral reef
I see energy
On, off—on, off
Children’s energy
I see a couple of whales
Yellow, orange
Tulips, like a headscarf
I finally see something—
There’s a mother
Holding her daughter on her
Shoulder
A sleeping child
I see a little boy
With a balloon head
And he’s waving goodbye
To someone
Someone’s in the bed
Who is sleeping in the bed?
Why is the boy waving goodbye?
All I can see
Are three birds
I see a yellow and green sea serpent
Floating
On the coral reef, pink
Lilies, the tulips
Are the people—
A fiery orange
TWO POEMS
Fred McMullin
They’re Going To Put Electrodes In My Brain
They’re going to put electrodes in my brain
At first glance it seems somewhat insane
But as time goes on and things do not get better
We take shelter where we can in lousy weather
There’s no guarantee this will succeed
But the odds look pretty good to me
Sometimes you have to take it all in hand
And do your best with what you understand
The Beast
So you’re sick and you’ve been told
It could be years before you go
So take your meds, try DBS
Do this and that and all the rest
Your goal is to get thru the day
In such a manner, so you can say
Life is good despite the beast
That is trying to slip the leash
And tear into your hollow head
To send you off to join the dead
APRIL LIMERICKS
Peter Dunlap-Shohl
The Parkie From Kent
There once was a parkie from Kent
Who never could say what he meant.
Until the day he
Got speech therapy
Now no one can shut up this gent!
Pills
One of my fave PD thrills
Is swallowing copious pills
They do keep me going
when I feel I am slowing
But sometimes I choke on the bills.
Frozen
Parkinson’s Disease is no joker
Mary’s symptoms darn near broke her.
Her face slowly froze
No emotion she shows
But at least now she cleans up at poker.
Frozen, the Sequel
I stand frozen with arms akimbo,
Unable to escape from this limbo
I’d like to move on,
But my dopamine’s gone
So I guess I’ll just stare out the window
Stay Calm
Peace you may find in philosophy
But it’s not in my Parkinson’s glossary
I try to stay calm
But I find little balm
When my bladder’s become the boss of me
Festination
In my experience festination
won’t get you to your destination
But walk in reverse,
You’ll take off the curse
And be a backwards walking sensation!
TWO POEMS
Liz St. Louis
La Playa De Los Muertos
Do the spirits watch us swim?
Do they hear the hard sigh of the foam
up the afternoon-streaked sand,
and the thud of our careless feet
on the dirt track by their garden?
Do the Glad-wrapped white and
pink circles of plastic flowers
comfort them, when the moon makes
a hole in the velvet night
and the village dogs bark and rut?
Can they escape from their
concrete block prisons, painted
in ‘sugar almond’ colors-
peach and cream and duck-egg blue
bleaching in the daylight?
Do they object to us staring
through our foreigners eyes,
swinging shiny cameras, capturing
the ‘unusual’ of the scene,
the cemetery by the sea?
Would they ask their private Madonnas
to watch over us, to make sure
that the undertow doesn’t get us?
Do we have their permission
to play here, on the speckled rocks?
Did they lie in the sun once
on “La Playa De Los Muertos”
“The Beach Of The Dead?
The Price
One: Cote D’Azur
You dance all day in the
Mediterranean Sea, with breaks
for caramel ice cream cones,
and French lemonade in glass bottles
with hinged rubber stoppers.
Your parents stroke Nivea Crème
on your back, which just fries
your nine-year-old skin;
a few days later, the illicit joy
of peeling tissue-thin strips
off the burn.
Two: Caribbean
Light sings on your shoulders
paints crystals in the water,
warms and fills your soul.
These are bright beach weekends
under the white hot arc
of a tropical sky.
You read, talk, and
occasionally play Scrabble.
At sunset you go home,
aware of the afterglow,
slap on green Aloe Vera gel.
Three: Mexico
In a later string of years,
for two weeks every February,
the wavelengths beyond violet
soothe and heal the bruises of life.
By the pool decorated
with Styrofoam rocks,
you lounge and drink Bloody Marys,
two for one, Happy Hour starts at 3 p.m.
You compete in tanning
with your golden-toned girlfriend
who only uses Factor 15.
Four: Olympia
This year the reckoning;
a little dark mole
is cut out of your back;
the dues to pay,
verdict:
Malignant Melanoma.
[To the tune of “My Favorite Things” from the Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway musical, The Sound of Music.]
Walking up stairways I frequently stumble,
Walking down sidewalks I take a bad tumble.
Walking bent over with too-tight hamstrings—
These surely are not my favorite things.
Eating at diners I spill my clam chowder,
When I try talking my friends say, “Talk louder|!.”
I’m driving an old car that I’ve filled with dings—
These surely are not my favorite things.
Typing long emails with letters all jumbled,
I shout, “Anne, I love you,” but she says I’ve mumbled.
I lose playing poker (my Queens yield to Kings)—
These surely are not my favorite things.
When I stumble,
When I mumble,
When I tumble bad,
I simply remember my Parkinson’s friends,
And then I don’t feel so sad.
Sitting all lonely in deep concentration,
Wondering what brought on this tight constipation,
Wishing these dry guts would flow like the springs—
These surely are not my favorite things.
Turning the fan on rank air to expel it,
Thinking, “Why bother, I can’t even smell it?”
I lose table tennis (my pongs come out pings)—
These surely are not my favorite things.
Hand-writing long poems that no one can make out,
Trying to warm my stiff arm with a shake-out,
I walk like a zombie whose arm never swings—
These surely are not my favorite things.
My thoughts jumble,
And I grumble,
Am I going mad?
But then I remember my Parkinson’s friends,
And they make me feel so glad.
TWO POEMS
Gerri Bachman
THREE POEMS
Doug Manuel
Dr. Overfield
He gently greets you in the waiting room
to observe how you sit and how you stand.
He takes your history,
tests your reflexes,
watches as you walk
down the hall and back.
He dictates his diagnosis,
“right-hemi Parkinson’s”,
while you sit and listen.
He is blunt in a kindly way,
as if tearing off a band-aid in one smooth yank.
He gives you drugs
and leaves you in the hallway with the office help
to schedule further tests and appointments the
wheres and whens of a newly shattered life.
“What day is good for you?” she asks.
And all you can think
in all your loneliness is
not this one,
as the next patient walks slowly
down the hall and is told,
“now turn and walk back”.
Facial
Maybe the drugs had started to work.
The doctor had said,
“Lack of emotional expression.”
So stopped at a red light,
I began exercising my eyebrows
in the rear view mirror.
Focusing on the weak right side,
trying to keep up with the left,
hoping for improvement.
Suddenly seeing the woman
in the car behind me.
Suddenly embarrassed by my “hey baby” eye brows.
But she did not see me.
She was looking in her own mirror,
putting on make-up,
waiting for the light to change.
Keeping Score
In memory of Al Weaver
Does it matter what the game is?
That we lose more than win?
A plastic ball
with holes in it.
A shot alludes us.
We turn and run.
We trip and fall.
The more we lose,
the more we try
to hit the perfect shot.
Knowing that it is the play
that matters,
not the score,
not the game.
We will try again,
next time and the next,
until there is no next time.
HAIKU
Renee LeVerrier – Oak Harbor, WA
There are times when I’m convinced my body and psyche are Parkinson’s punching bag, struck with each day’s ins and outs (and offs). Boxing turns that around. So, for you, boxing, I dedicate this haiku:
Block, jab, elbow in
up, arc, HAH. PD staggers.
Sometimes, I’m the glove.
A limerick is a humorous poem consisting of five lines. The first, second, and fifth lines must have seven to ten syllables while rhyming and having the same verbal rhythm. The third and fourth lines only have to have five to seven syllables, and have to rhyme with each other and have the same rhythm.
ROCKIN’ AROUND THE GROCERY CART
Brian Camp – Everett, WA
Yes, I have Parkinson’s;
I’m the first of Jeff Camp’s sons;
Out of all aunts, uncles, and cousins,
I’m the only one!
See me shuffle into Albertson’s,
Where I bump into a cart—not mine—
Full of peppermint Schnapps and someone’s
Last-minute dinner; it’s Christmas time.
Watch me roll right through the shopping bog
And shimmy past the wrapped fire logs,
Or hit that special on egg nog:
I don’t fit in with the other cogs.
After I veer through holiday cheer
Towards the more-than-happy cashier,
I scramble for my wallet—right now, right here.
She bids me goodbye: “Happy holidays, dear!”
Yes, I have Parkinson’s;
I shop with it at Albertson’s;
I have more than Twelve Days of Medicine,
But I’m not the only one!
SPRUNG
Inspired by artwork from Painting with Parkinson’s
Ayan, Stephanie, Jordan, Sarah, Melissa & Bette Jane – NW Parkinson’s, Mercer Island, WA
bright horizon
not ending or beginning
flowers get their flowers back
snakes in water running
wolves striding hills, wind
rushing through
blueberries
like birds dancing
in the air, green leaves and
sound melting
capture
T’WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE SURGERY
Nola Beeler, RN, MSN – Anacortes, WA
T’was the night before surgery and all through the house, not a morsel was eaten – I was nothing by mouth
My warm wooly socks hung near the back door, in hopes I would see them at a quarter past four
Tom donned his nightshirt as I did the same; then we dubiously considered the sleep we might claim.
The alarm rang so loudly, so bold, and so clear
“DBS day is here, you have nothing to fear” .
So into the Honda – down the freeway we flew…your DBS is ready
HOW ABOUT YOU?
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