By Jamie Jones

In a quiet classroom where science meets soul,
A guide and lifelong learner presides,
Weaving tales of anatomy with threads of compassion,
Each lesson a stitch in the fabric of care.

Words of gentle hands and brave hearts resound,
Echoing quiet courage in every patient story,
Where textbooks become bridges
Linking clinical precision with the art of empathy.

Amid the hum of eager minds,
Not merely facts are shared, but the heartbeat of nursing—
A rhythm pulsing with hope,
A promise that every pulse tells a tale of resilience.

Every question opens a doorway to understanding,
Every shared insight ignites a spark along the path
For future healers destined to carry forward
A legacy of tenderness and truth.

Hoping to spark passion to care with boundless empathy,
A call to always choose what’s right,
Even when the road is steep and the choice is not easy,
For in each act of integrity, hope and healing flourish anew.

In the mirror of their eyes, a calling is renewed,
A beacon clad in scrubs and wisdom,
Forever learning, forever teaching,
In the heart of healing, wholeness is embraced.

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Jamie L. Jones, Ph.D., RN, CNE, is a Clinical Assistant Professor and Director of the Accelerated BSN Program in the UAMS College of Nursing at the Northwest Regional Campus. With over 20 years of experience as a registered nurse and over 15 years as a nurse educator, Jamie is passionate about her roles. Jamie views nursing as a deeply human endeavor, centered on connection, warmth, and kindness. For her, it’s about more than completing tasks; it’s about fostering a sense of safety and well-being for every individual she encounters. Jamie’s overarching life goal is simple yet profound: to brighten at least one person’s day through her actions, every single day.

By Brittany Beasley

When I think about it, I lose my breath.
I feel like the weight of the world is crushing my chest into my spine.
My tears flow freely like a faucet on full force.
I try to find the words, but all that comes out is the silent screams of an ugly cry.
The breathless scream you feel in the depth of your soul.
The grip is so tight all I can do is lie in the floor while my tears dampen the carpet beneath my face.
My stomach turns into a hard knot with overwhelming disgust.
All I want to do is make everything better, but I am powerless.
It is strange in moments like this you realize how helpless you are and how delicate life is.
We never truly know the meaning of, “…the days are long, but the years are short…” until we are met with the finality of time.
Time waits for no one, slows for no one, and stops for no one.
Although at this moment, it feels as if time stands still, and the world stops turning. However, time is ticking…
Ticking on just as the world is still rotating while I lay here breathless in this sorrow.
How can it be that time is both infinite and finite?
What a quandary of the universe.
It seems as if we have all the time in the world until it all comes crashing down.
Then we wonder where time went.
As if time can come and go.
But time is constant, always there, always ticking, ticking away.
Everyone wishes they’d acted differently if they had known time was slipping away.
Time is fleeting.
In the end time spares no one.

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Brittany Beasley, Ph.D., RN, CNE, is a Clinical Assistant Professor in the College of Nursing at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences, where she teaches both undergraduate and graduate students. Her research focuses on telehealth in acute care and nursing education innovation. With over 20 years of experience in acute care, intensive care, geriatrics, telemedicine, research, and nursing education, Dr. Beasley is a Certified Nurse Educator. She mentors BSN honors students, coordinates acute care clinical experiences, and has designed and taught a graduate-level telehealth course. Actively engaged in faculty governance, she chairs various college and university committees, serves on the Academic Senate, and is the President of the Gamma Xi at-Large Chapter of Sigma Nursing.

By Kara Smeltzer

How do I even live?
When do I start living?
Why do I feel like my life hasn’t started yet?

If I just finish school,
If I just get a job,
If I just get promoted,
If I just make this much money,
If I just win this award,
If I just get this grant,
If I just get my dream job,
THEN I’ll really start living.

But that can’t be right.
Time is passing passing passing, and it’s not coming back.
Life is being lived.
My life is happening, my life is now.
So live, so do, so be, so breathe.
Treasure, risk, love.

It’s time to life. You only get one.

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Kara Smeltzer is a third-year medical student at UAMS. She enjoys propagating her houseplants, hiking, spending time with her family, and reading. She plans to apply to family medicine and work in low-resource communities both across the country and internationally.

By Evan Hicks

Skin—simple, yet complex.
Pigment—oh, why the rage?
Did we forget, or did we never learn
From the mistakes we made in 2023?
My pigment is the rage,
Melanocytes hidden beneath the surface.
Oh, why the rage?
A sin that spares no nation,
Doing no favors,
Across the Americas, North, and South Asia.
Is this life fair?
What did we do?
Is the melanin all to blame?
Oh, why the shame?
Am I to blame for the faults of the past?
Was 1964’s fight a mistake—Or was 2008’s hope misplaced?
Here lies the shame, hidden in my skin,
Dripping down my face.
Here lies my rage, bathing the keratinocytes,
Leeching to the surface.
They can no longer hide,
Exposed beneath your eyes.
Did the benefits outweigh the pain?
Was my acceptance the cost of shame?
Did the surface get too hot—
Were you burned by my protection?
My pigmented exterior, always a controversy,
Always a little inferior.
Pardon my rage.
Excuse my shame.
Am I to blame?
Melanin is my name.

---

Evan Hicks is a fourth year M.D./MBA candidate at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences. He earned his undergraduate degrees in Biology, Chemistry, and Physics from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. His academic and research interests focus on dermatology, particularly skin of color and skin cancer in rural communities. He is passionate about bridging gaps in healthcare and improving dermatologic care and awareness in underserved populations. Outside of his professional and academic pursuits, he enjoys spending his free time hiking with his wife, Jocelyn, and their dog, Kylo.

By Courteney Ragan

It’s always with me,
A forever companion forged by circumstances not within my control.
Like a rash that lessens in intensity but never fully goes away.
Or a forgotten bruise that hums with pain at the slightest touch.

In my sleep, like an intruder who steals a peaceful night’s rest and erases memories of joy in an instant,
Only to awake with the sinking, aching, devastation that none of it was real.
In the grocery store, like a soft breeze carrying the scent of her
lemon perfume—
Only to realize, again, it’s worn by a stranger, not her.
In the car, like an echo that replays whispers of her laugh
Only to be met with an empty, dark passenger seat.

Life before my companion was light.
Days never felt too long or like my feet were perpetually stuck in thick, brown mud.
Until years were forever changed in seconds,
And, like rushing water, it poured in, covering and transforming everything in its path.

Grief is my companion.
It is in these everyday occurrences of my life that it has interwoven itself and stands tallest.
Just as I grab my bag before leaving the house in the morning, it grabs me and carries me throughout the day.
A powerful reminder of a life that is no more.

---

Courteney Ragan is an instructor in the Writing Center as part of the Educational and Student Success Center at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences. Before joining UAMS in 2024, she worked as an English teacher for 11 years. She has a Master of Education degree from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock and enjoys reading literature of all genres. She currently resides in Maumelle, Arkansas, and enjoys spending time with family and friends.

By Hira Zafar

In the world of “fear of missing out “
I see faces missing out on life
I see eyes filled with emptiness
I see minds constantly at war
I see hearts about to burst

In the world of “to be honest”
I see lies dripping from the mouths
I see betrayal hinted in the shouts
I see prejudice
I see racial privilege

In the world of “you only live once”
I see people dying of neglect
I see people dying of hunger
I see people dying of sniper shot,
Bombing, drone attack, detonating pager

In the world of “one of my followers”
I see the tiny ones with non-accidental trauma
I see the frail with elder abuse
I see hate crimes
I see intolerance for any and every opinion

In the world of “profile picture”
I see the struggle of weight loss
I see the efforts of weight gain
I see beauty behind the scars
I see the ugliness behind the charm

In the world of “the perfect”
I see the broken
I see the imperfect
I see the shaken
I see you

In my world where no one else sees you,
I see your misery
I see your heartbreak
I see your eyes brimming with desire
I see your ire
I wish they could see it too
I wish they could feel it too
I wish for unconditional love
I wish for a utopian world

---

Hira Zafar is an adult neurology resident at UAMS. She loves traveling and experiencing diverse cultures with her six-year-old, learning new recipes, and advocating for patients with neurological disorders.

By Sabrina Leonard

Too busy to think and too strong to cry
Life must keep going, no time to think about why

Despite opposition, failure, and pain
Find a reason to sing, even in the rain

Storms may come and we may get wet
But sunshine is next, to help you forget

The dark times, the cold nights, all of the sorrow
Just keep moving forward and be optimistic about tomorrow

Be steadfast and unmovable, there’s always a way out
Keep the faith, hold on to hope, and let go of doubt

You have to keep going to persevere my friend
No matter how long it takes, you win in the end.

---

Sabrina Leonard is a PA student at UAMS. Poetry has been a personal outlet for her, helping her navigate her own struggles with depression and anxiety while fueling my passion to continue my academic journey. She hopes this poem offers encouragement or strength to others who read it.

By Jessiela Roberts

“I have nothing more to give. I have run out of gas.”

These were the tragic last words said by a fellow physician before ending it all.

I wish I could borrow one of those precious last minutes to tell him that he wasn’t alone:
I, too, have been there, and there is light on the other side of darkness.
Often, we must look within for the courage to reach out for a torch in the dark.
There is one where we least expect.
Broken candles can be relit even when they have burnt out.
Though diminished by circumstances, a fire can be awakened with a small gust of wind.

I wish I could tell him,
“Tomorrow is depending on you to show up, so don’t give up today without a fight.
There are more people for you than against you.
There is so much good in you, in the world, and in our profession still.”

I wish that every healer who feels the embers of hope slowly burning out will remember to turn their face towards heaven and catch a gust of wind so strong that it is enough to ignite a wildfire.
Strong enough to overcome the despair and replace it with hope.
Strong enough to remind themselves that they are enough, that they are more than the initials or lack thereof at the end of their names.
They are more than their mistakes or deficiencies.
They are more than that exam or negative remark from an attending.
I wish I could shout from the mountain top to say that they are human first and healers second.

It’s ok to prioritize themselves and get the help needed to refill their gas tanks.
It’s ok to pursue that which sets their soul on fire, even though it may upset the status quo.
I wish they knew that they are equally deserving of the respect, dignity, and compassion they give to their patients.

Collectively, we are more powerful than we think, and together we can be the change we want to see.
Small flickers of light can glow in the dark; random acts of kindness can keep someone’s lamp from burning out.

We are not all guilty of eating our young.
We don’t all breathe the air of self-importance.
We don’t all fuel our own ego by stumping out the flames of the weak with our influence.

To the struggling: There are those of us who see you, who feel you, and are ready to make space for you.
There are those of us who keep our lighthouses lit, because we know what it’s like to have been lost and burnt in the dark.

Since I can’t be everywhere, and I can’t save everyone, I pass the torch to you reading this poem to spread hope and love in the dark corners of our profession.

Because sometimes as physicians we can’t heal ourselves—we need others to heal us.

---

Jessiela Roberts, M.D., is a Family Medicine Specialist in Fort Smith, Arkansas. She is a graduate of Trinity School of Medicine.

By Charles Hayden Strahan

There is nothing more simple
than how you find your joy.
And not the kind that’s derived
from games or from toys.

But rather, it’s natural.
The little things on this planet,
that as I’ve grown older
I’ve taken for granted.

I’ve seen you on mornings
that don’t start off right,
where you’re tired, or hungry,
or couldn’t sleep through the night.

Your eyes full of tears.
You scream and you shout.
You fight every step
As we make our way out.

But as soon as you see
those purple-pink skies
I watch as the sun
and your spirits both rise.

And I’ve seen you on evenings
you don’t want to be over,
when you’d rather stay out
picking flowers and clovers.

And although we both know
it’s time to head off to bed
before we go in
we make a quick stop instead.

We walk to the corner
where we can hear the bugs cry.
And to you they sing songs
like sweet lullabies.
I’m afraid I can’t see
Or hear the world like you do
But I feel the world’s light
shining brightly through you.

So when the hustle and bustle
of the world gets too loud
your laugh sings like crickets
and I tune the rest out.

When the fog starts to roll in
and my clouds start to gray,
your smile is my pink sky
and I know I’m okay.

---

Charles Hayden Strahan is a Receiving Administrative Coordinator at UAMS Northwest.

By Jonathan Aibel

The hole in my chest,
better than a daily pierce,

my three-headed dock
for tubes. Hard to distinguish

medicine from venom. Spins
sometimes, the hospital,

nurses interrupt dreams,
the bed squeals in alarm

if I try to get up
on my own. I’m doing well,

they say. I never know
from minute to shivering

minute. Waiting on me
to emerge, fight the cells

circulating my seas, restore
to something I recognize, me.

---

Jonathan B. Aibel is a recovering software engineer who lives in Concord, Massachusetts, traditional homelands of the Nipmuc. His poems have been published in Barrelhouse, Chautauqua, Pangyrus, Lily Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, and elsewhere. Jonathan’s chapbook Echoes of Uruk was a semi-finalist for the Tupelo Press 2024 Snowbound Prize. http://www.jbaibelpoet.com.