July 2017
I am a poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. When I am not writing, composing, or diagnosing, I love paddling out on my kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near my home in California. My first book of poetry and photography “a clear day in october” (http://www.egjpress.org/products/a-clear-day-in-october ) was published in 2016 by E&GJ Press. A chapbook is forthcoming from Praxis Magazine later this year.
the naming of things
the trouble with western medicine
said my thoughtful chinese friend
is the intense desire, the near obsession
with naming every problem
"back pain" is not enough to gnaw on
it must be infinitely more precise
like "progressive polyosteoarthritis
of the lumbar vertebrae"
that is a grand, definitive diagnosis
which doesn't change the nature of the pain
or the life story of an old man, bending
slowly, fighting his agony, just to pet his dog
but oh, the avenues it opens!
to have named it gives authority to blame
and opportunity to tame
never mind that the taming comes with a cost
every pill a poison that must be converted
by an aging liver, filtered by failing kidneys
or finding no success in alchemy
the curative knife and needle
name it, blame it, tame it, she said
and i suddenly wondered if that explained
our endless need to label those unlike us
oh, england
a moment's noise, a flash, a bang
chaos wraps its flailing arms
around england's children
laughter modulates to screams
without changing key or cadence
run, run, anywhere there's space
stairway up, over, down
moths in frantic flight
pulled to flickering exit signs
safety, safety, where's my safety
point zero
the early news says there are parts
of the bomber, not the bomb
someone's son decided
he would rather die for his god
than live for humanity
destroy what he hated
rather than bury his hate
no courage to stand and face
supposed enemies
a faceless coward, deceived
into the false belief
that violence is the entry fee
to an imagined heaven
oh, england
tears again, and fear
mothers in anguish
dialing cells that won't respond
tonight or tomorrow
cell and owner both
endlessly out of service
meteoric
after a night of shooting stars
my gun barrel overheated
gun stock caught fire
acrid smoke of fine walnut
ascended, swirling
like the milky way
leaving me nothing
but a cosmic headache
and a full limit
of five-point trophies
Vincent's Other Ear
If I could see with Vincent's ear,
The one that he himself detached,
I'd paint in words of abstract sight
A flower, myself, a starry night.
And bold-stroked fields with men that matched,
Or island lovelies sans brassiere.
If only he had given me
The ear with which he couldn't see.
© 2017 j.lewis
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