11 – Poetry

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.

By Rachel Armes-McLaughlin

I was sitting down to dinner
when you left this earth.

I had just bathed my daughter
and looked at the time.

I could smell the roasted vegetables.
Dinner was later than usual—

The chicken took forever,
and the cabbage burned.

The leftovers are in my fridge,
but I don’t think they’ll be eaten.

Maybe it’s silly, but I keep thinking
about how I cooked for you

and your daughter, 
long before mine was born.

You didn’t like to cook meat yourself, 
but I think you would have liked the chicken.

I wish you could have been here,
instead of where you were

and where you are now.

---

Rachel Armes-McLaughlin, a grant writer with the UAMS Institute for Digital Health and Innovation, has written poetry for over 20 years. Her work is published in Loblolly Press; Middle Mouse Press; Medicine and Meaning, where she reviews poetry; and a Central Arkansas Library System anthology, with one poem nominated for Best of the Net. Rachel lives in Little Rock, Arkansas, with her husband, daughter, and cats.

By Jeff Rawlings

Britney gloves up and wonders
if she has a taco seasoning packet
in her kitchen cabinet where she stores
her spices and her sanity while doing twelves
at the nursing home.

Britney rolls up the draw sheet
and tucks it under Mr. Cipriando’s left side,
to make it easier to pull it out from under him
when he’s rolled off the bedpan.
She remembers that there is no taco seasoning packet
in her kitchen cabinet.

Britney wishes all her residents were as nice
as Mr. Cipriando, who has never hit Britney on purpose.
Once, back when he was a little more verbal,
he complimented Britney on her tattoos.
She’ll stop at the market after work and get the seasoning.
She’ll bring Mr. Cipriando a bowl of her taco soup tomorrow,
but he won’t be there, and only a part of Britney will ever be there.

---

Jeff Rawlings is retired following a military stint, a long career in quality systems management, and a delightful four and a half years on the staff of the Donald W. Reynolds Library serving Baxter County. He is a 1972 U of A Fayetteville English Lit graduate, and he was most active in writing and publishing during the 1990s and early 2000s. In recent years, he has reclaimed his passion for the language and the written word. He was the poetry critic for the Poet’s Roundtable of Arkansas for the 2015-2016 term, and he is now connected with several local poets with whom he shares his scribblings and observations.