Don't Curse the Nurse!

Sharing support with stories & humor


I stumbled on this poem a year or so back. The metaphor is perfect. Perfect. Perfect.

Hope is the thing with feathers                                 

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson



I went to the memorial service of a nurse I worked with twenty years ago.

A Facebook acquaintance made me aware of this elderly nurse’s passing.

The Facebook/nurse friend has quite conservative views compared to mine. I did not expect a friendship to be rekindled at the service. I just wanted to pay my respects. Jean was a strong nurse, a presence. You knew when you looked in her eyes that she’d seen a lot. And helped many people.

The service — nothing in particular stood out. I had heard the stories told by speakers who walked to the front. The last song played surprised me. Jean had specifically picked a country tune. I was thinking it’d be Frank Sinatra or another crooner.

So then I made conversation, left the parlor, got in my car, saw a green funeral procession visor tag stuck under my wiper and that’s when it all changed.

In bolder vertical letters on one side of it was the word ‘FUNERAL’. Something in much small print covered the other side. A commitment prevented me from going on to the cemetery and not having to sneak away before the end ( tacky), so I hurriedly placed the tag on the seat and headed down the road.

When I later got home, I flipped the card over to the other side. It was a poem, Desiderata.

I read it

I’m in love with it, not the author; this is not an envy issue. It’s the intent, the instruction is priceless, lyrical and at the same time crystal clear.

I’ve typed it below. The acknowledgment is at the end.


                                                              By Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise, and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune but do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here. Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive him to be and whatever your labors and aspirations, In the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.


I love how this was placed in my path.


Sometimes this stuff just comes out.

What do you do with your voice?

Do you swallow it daily?

Like a nectar

You’re not supposed to savor

Only pushing it back with your tongue

And gulping it down

Like an unwanted medicine

Or do you roll it around

In your mouth

Sort out the words

Like exquisite flavors



A little bitter at times

And relish that it is there

For you

To do whatever you want with it.



Thanks, But No Thanks


Apparently I am not a poet. Will stick with nursing stories!


Linda’s Prompts


                                                       Four Letter Word










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The Pink Elephant

The pink elephant in the room

I’m not afraid of it.

I’m going to ride it

Climb up there


Ride it like a pony

And when I’m done

I’m taking his trough of food away

So he’ll whither away

He’s taking up to much space

No one can breath


Watch Your Back


Over there

Its fear

Waiting for you

Like a vulture

Ready to nibble at your dreams

And scratch its jagged claw

At your resolve


Hope leaks

And lies in a puddle

At your feet


Watch your back


Only one

My one and only attempt at anything poetic. (I don’t feel this way at work, but other than that, yeah, this is me.)


I prefer the blur, the indistinct line, the spot in the middle between right and wrong, where no one is able to point a finger and draw attention to time or space.

The brilliance of day withers me stooped.

The dark of night leaves me aching for touch.

Give me the dusk when colors lie low, dew leaves the air and eyes are open, no longer darting, dissecting, only embracing — embracing the flaws that equalize us all.

It’s my dream and sometimes it’s my reality; being neither here nor there, having a palpable transparency and at the same time, a cloak that moves like silk and strokes my ego, or my soul, or possibly both.


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