After She Died In My Ambulance

Too Devoted To Let Poverty Stop Me

Only experience opens the eyes to know what something's like.

Having no shelter, or base to call "Home," is a truly unpleasant hike.

When that woman died in my ambulance,

from a gunshot wound to her chest,

my paramedic spirit was launched into unrest.

When others want to see hard cash,

or possessions, as proof that I'm good,

if that woman was their Mother, or Daughter,

perhaps I'd be more understood.

Instead, it's just a work of faith

to be devoted to the unseen,

believing in the power of words

instead of the lure of more green.

The time it takes to search the soul,

and the pulsing human heart,

manifested in acts of society,

either binding, or splitting apart,

takes more than just a lucky guess,

or seconds worth of thought.

Those who attempt to find cures, or solutions,

into continuous struggle, are caught.

"An Ounce of Prevention Is Worth a Pound of Cure,"

so how does one measure such cause?

The look in her eyes, as she squeezed my arm,

through all of their ridicule, gnaws.

"You need to be responsible!"

"A decent man earns more pay!"

I listen as they lash at my soul.

The blood of my patients drowns out what they say.

Who wants to wed a poor dreamer

who would rather make peace than more cash?

On April 22, 2005, I almost jumped from the Golden Gate.

With no bridge to escape who i am, it seemed a paliative fate.

The California Highway Patrolman, who talked me up, back over the rail,

admonished me the sun would shine, however gusty the relentless gale.

My priorities are different than most,

rather, I've been affected by what I've seen.

My years as a paramedic cause me to labor for the unseen.

I want to be loved, and have shelter, but an epidemic does exist.

Disrespect locks a blind generation in a violent "I don't care!" fist.

I 'd rather die leaving ten thousand keys, of poems for the human heart,

than marketing thousands of copies, pretending that war won't start.

Preserving human life deserves prolific rhyme, not only some.

I'm tired of the curse of my wounds, and long for healing to come.

Sincerely,

Tired, Yet Tenacious

4:48am Monday, May 17, 2010


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