Bach and my Poisoned Blood

I am posting a poem. When I started writing poetry again, I figured it would all be really crappy as it was before. But when I wrote a few things, I actually started to like them. I haven't liked any of the short stories I've been working on. Since the poetry is going better, I'm putting some up.

This poem, Bach and my Poisoned Blood, is basically about cancer treatment and insomnia. Please note that I still have no intention of making this a "cancer blog". But I am really just starting to process some of this stuff that happened to me, and I realize I couldn't really process it at the time. It's good to get this out. Maybe I can really leave it behind me soon.

One of the things that always kept me up was a side effect that gave me the feeling that I had cables knotted around my ankles and wrists. I'd have to wake up and roll my feet and wrists several times. Also, I had some lovely hot flashes. That, my friends, is no picnic. There is no sleep when your inner thermostat is broken.

I had to give Bach a shout out though, because that was my soundtrack when I was sick. Just trying to relax, trying to sleep, trying not to panic. It actually worked. Yo-Yo Ma's cello solos. I've since found a lot of people say that these particular recordings have gotten them through tough times.

While this poem is about my personal experience with this pain and sleeplessness, it can also be said to be about insomnia in general. Because if I'm not in physical pain, there are other things that keep me awake at night, usually just thinking too much. I don't have joint pain much anymore, only occasionally when it gets cold. But I continue to be an insomniac, as I've been off and on most of my life. Something about the quiet of the middle of the night makes me awake. This is often a creative time, but it can be torment too if I actually need to sleep.

Let me know if you like this.



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Bach and my Poisoned Blood

Tighter, tighter still

It hurts

You rock
You crack
You do not sleep
You're hot
You're cold

There is no help
There is no Mom
There is no Dad
There is no glass of water

Just you.

and the ceiling
and the dog
and the cats
and the radio

Bach is with you
at least in your mind
that silver cloud falls over
Til the coffee cuts on
and it's time for the day