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Browse Best Hospital Poetry, we have a special collection of superb, one line and short Hospital Poetry. Get Beautiful Hospital Poetry.
- A hospital isn’t a home
There’s no room for emotions – and no space to cry
A hospital isn’t a home
There’s no hugs and kisses – and no one knows why
A hospital isn’t a home
And does anyone really care
A hospital isn’t a home
But I can’t be anywhere but here
- This is where your heartbeat lingers:
somewhere between hospital bed sheets
and the new-found aching in my chest.
The bed in which you slept
has been soiled by silent tears
and your nervous sweat.
You were always home to me,
but I was robbed by all your misery.
Replace your sorrows with an absence
of yourself, and I’ll make my home
in your hospital bed sheets.
For some, this is a place of miracles.
For us, it’s one of tragedy.
- It’s not that I don’t like the hospital.
Those small bouquets of flowers, pert and brave.
The smell of antiseptic cleansers.
The ill, so wistful in their rooms, so true.
My friend, the one who’s dying, took me out
To where the patients go to smoke, IV’s
And oxygen in tanks attached to them—
A tiny patio for skeletons. We shared
A cigarette, which was delicious but
Too brief. I held his hand; it felt
Like someone’s keys. How beautiful it was,
The sunlight pointing down at us, as if
We were important, full of life, unbound.
I wandered for a moment where his ribs
Had made a space for me, and there, beside
The thundering waterfall of his heart,
I rubbed my eyes and thought, “I’m lost.”
- Arriving late, my clinic having run
past 6 again, I realize I don’t
have cancer, don’t have HIV, like them,
these students who are patients, who I lead
in writing exercises, reading poems.
For them, this isn’t academic, it’s
reality: I ask that they describe
an object right in front of them, to make
it come alive, and one writes about death,
her death, as if by just imagining
the softness of its skin, its panting rush
into her lap, that she might tame it; one
observes instead the love he lost, he’s there,
beside him in his gown and wheelchair,
together finally again. I take
a good, long breath; we’re quiet as newborns.
The little conference room grows warm, and right
before my eyes, I see that what I thought
unspeakable was more than this, was hope.
By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind. Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-
They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter. All about them
the cold, familiar wind-
Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound change
has come upon them: rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken
- Hospitals remind me of my father.
The chilly fluorescent lights stinging.
So much pain, but
It has to go somewhere.
Most people forget it exists until it’s too late-
Life or death,
And maybe hope.
She wasn’t as gentle as I would be,
His back, crooked, hunched.
His gnarled hands, like weathered wood.
My head on his chest.
I remember late nights,
Doing homework on my lap.
Pinching siblings overwhelmed by boredom.
I barely recall the sound of his voice.
- i’m staring at the iv bag
praying it would just
empty faster but i know
that’ll do no good and
it’ll take at least another
two or three hours and
you’re sitting in what
looks to be the most
in the world and i
invite you to lay on
the most uncomfortable
hospital bed in the world
with me but you said you
didn’t want to take up too
much space and crush me
but to be honest i don’t
think i’d mind being
smothered by you
i’d still love you
- I like seeing nurse frieda knitting
as I like watching my wife knitting
as I liked watching my mother knitting
though she was more of a dabber
(plain and purl, plain and purl)
“women being in their place”
or knitting the chains that keep them down
the future, knitting the future
the present peaceful, quiet
the same woman knitting
for a thousand years
- Next to Children’s Hospital, in a hurry
Down the stairs, two at a time
Slowed down by a family, moving slowly
Blocking the stairway, I’m in a hurry
I stop, annoyed, I’m in a hurry
Seeing me, they move to the side
A woman says softly, “sorry” in Spanish
I look down in passing, there’s a little boy
Unsteady in gait, holding onto an arm
Head shaved, stitches in scalp
Patch over eye, thin and pale
He catches my eye and gives me a smile
My walk is slower for the rest of the day
- They gave him a bed by the entrance
Of the surfeited hospital’s wing,
A drought blew on him every instant,
With air and with smell of iodine.
The window was a background –
The sky and the garden in parts.
The novice was watching, around,
The coats, the floors and the wards.
When, lo!, from the nurses’ fast questions,
(Was shaking with her head a while),
He learned that he hasn’t any chances
To go this place out alive.
Then he, very thankful, looked out
The window, where a high wall,
Was lit up by glare of the town,
As if by the sparks of star-falls.
There was the red suburb; and boughs,
Of trees in red glare that swells,
Were making the sorrow bows,
Like trying to say farewell.
“O, Lord! How perfect and dipped
Your works” thought the man to the sight,
“The beds, and the walls, and the people,
The death and the city in night.
I’ve had sleeping tablets and here
I weep, plucking my cambric through.
O God, the emotional tear
Prevent me from looking at You.
It’s nice, when dim light has been stolen
To my deathly bed’s whitened sheets,
To know that I and my dole
Are Your irreplaceable gift.
And dying in this clinic’s section,
I feel the blessed warmth of your hands.
You’re holding me – your craft’s creation,
And carrying – your ring – to your case.”