I wish there was a state-of-the-art hospital
All sterile and overstaffed
Surgeons with stethoscope ears
To hear the pulse of the troubled poets
A M*A*S*H tent, full of stretchered sentences
Giving proper attention to the wounds
That whisper as they bleed out
Hope turning gangrene
An erected Red Cross shelter
Providing provisions to those
Tossed and caught up in the wake
Of water rising too high, too fast
A battlefield medic with medals of valor
Applying pressure to save the ink of the fallen poet
Syringes filled with sweet sonnets
Sedating their pain, bullet ridden burdens
And a metaphorical Medicine Man
Chanting to chase the evil from their thoughts
Burning sage to cleanse their souls
Peyote PEACE calm their senses
Maybe just a poolside first aid station
Pulling them from the deep end
Pumping New life into their lungs
Expelling the salt from their tears
I shall take to carrying extra band-aids
In my pockets, just in case I come across
the skinned knees of a quiet writer
Who bleeds by their own hand
Alan Alda and McClain Stevenson immediately came to mind. Hawkeye and Trapper John. Wonderful poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your poem is so very true, so many people suffer from within, and it can be seen in many people's art. When I was young I was one of the tortured souls, and it has inspired much of my writing. The theme song of M*A*S*H (the movie) was my song for a few years. Life is wonderful now, and my medic is my fiance and my curing medicine are his soothing hugs.