Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Thursday, October 11, 2012


Jan Steen (1665) Sick Woman

Noble doctor am I, with all my tools
Despite modern Modicine's system of rules
Stand stymied and puzzled beyond all belief
For I cannot determine the root her grief!

She suffers from pains and from a fever
Despite my assessment, I cannot relieve her!

A thorough exam; there’s nothing amiss
But her vigor continues on down the abyss!

Her countenance flushed; her pulse it runs quick
I know by these symptoms she surely is sick!

All day she just sighs; the appetite poor
Despite my best efforts, I can’t find the cure!

I am bound to an oath; I’ll continue to try
For if I cannot help her, she surely will die!

Submitted for The Mag, Mag 138


Brian Miller said...

love will mess you up as much as many a disease...smiles.

Margaret said...

Ah... quite the puzzle for the wise ol' doctor.

hyperCRYPTICal said...

Poor gal.

Agree with Brian in that love can really mess you up...

Anna :o]

darev2005 said...

Love is always fatal, I'm afraid. And for the most part incurable.

Tumblewords: said...

Oh, yes. And there's nothing that can be done. Well crafted!