Ode to a broken arm

It's been almost five months since the day of my awful bike accident, when my forearm folded in half and I learned of a new level of pain.  I wrote this poem a few weeks after (when my mind wasn't as addled by painkillers) the initial experience and following surgery.  

Ode to a broken arm

Showers weren't the same,

a mending arm raised high

swathed in plastic and elastics 

in a dry salute to the shampoo, 

preserving the cast. 

Dinners have a new dimension. 

In my lap the arm complains,

begins to throb.

The best position is

vertical, hand raised, 

supported by an elbow

like an unspoken meal-time challenge

to arm wrestle the girl

with the metal in her arm. 

Don't think me ungrateful. 

I know full well

a hundred years ago the doctor 

would have shook his head at me and 

said: "That's going to have to come off".

Thou Art

It being Sunday and all, thought this poem might fit in nicely:

Thou Art

Thou art,

the Invisible Heart of the nations

the Blood of the vein,

and wind of the sea,

Thou art

the journey back,

the road unknown,

the palm and pine and oak of Love

and the breath which swells through the forest.

Art thou the unshakable bridge over black water?

Thou art the Gold of the sun

The Velvet of grass

and the Footpath home. 

Art thou the unshakable bridge over black water?

The birth of a blog

And here are the first few poems to inaugurate this foray into the poetry-blogging world.  If only you (my dear readers that must have wandered far to stumble on this blog) could have read my first poems, but really I'm so glad you can't, you'd understand how far I've come.  Perhaps in five years I'll say the same about these babies.  But here goes, the blog begins with this tentative post, like I'm sliding a paper towards you with an offer I'm not sure you'll accept: 

 

A response  

He sings me. 

He highs and lows, 

Plucks and bows

Opens up and reads me   

He wilds and tames like dancing flames 

Like cinnamon candy, or sweet burning brandy 

Over cherries jubilee.   

He winds and spools, 

Suns and cools, 

Drinks me down and holds me. 

Enfolds me 

Open his eyes and beholds me   

He changes, ranges, 

Ascends and mends 

And like a wheel he turns me, 

Heals and burns me   

Wakes and breaks, 

Soothes and aches, 

And like the wind he shakes me 

May, July and Decembers me 

And he remembers me.       

You are   

You are the moth to my favorite sweater. 

The moment after my pen runs out of ink. 

You are the morning after bad fish. 

You are the mud puddle, 

That I didn’t see until too late 

And I get soaked to the knee. 

You are the flat tire for the umteenth time leaving me stranded in a place 

Where the wind never stops howling 

And the rain is always cold. 

You are old gum. 

Canine tumors. 

Wet hair on a cold day. 

You are, 

Unpleasant.     

Worker's Compensation  

 

I never knew until I knew. 

Each day in your presence 

Takes a teaspoon of my soul

Time I'll never reclaim.

I don't hate you, But I miss those pieces.

Will you give me back the soul I lost, 

The time I gave and talent I wasted?     

  - by Amy Kyle