Some Static, Some Hymn Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Make it your daily path to quiet the dissonance
of the demons shouting inside and outside your head.
See the good in others,
but see, too, your own caregiving self —
high blood pressure, overweight,
worn ragged and ill-tempered at the lack of real cover.

A hand waves the point away; frowns nod along regardless —
some static, some hymn, and under it all,
the residents mumbling, words that answer no one.
Be the one who marks the page without a red line through it,
without a capitulating sigh.
Listen to the cry of blackbirds.
Heart-pumping judgement, kept in check —
the reprisal of gossip never spoken.

Promote the best of what you see,
speak well of deserving others, and give thanks
that the disabilities of those we're jointly caring for now aren't ours —
we position them like abstract art installations,
moved from room to room —
to engage with, or not.
Of course, not all lessons are good — wasn't it the same at school?

Remember, even the saints were once sinners —
who'd watch bullying without reporting it,
who'd fail to act in a medical emergency,
who'd fail to give alms to a beggar,
a beggar they themselves became —
but they, too, forgave themselves,
their hands, once nursing others, turning inward again.