11 – Poetry

By Duane Anderson

They asked him if he was feeling okay
after having just donated a unit of blood,
being concerned with his well being
knowing that some bodies act differently
with a change of bodily fluids, especially
with the recent loss of a pint of blood.

He said that he thought so,
and then they went into their good cop,
bad cop routine with him,
responding that they would
soon know if he was lying
if his face began to turn pale,

or if he passed out on the donation bed.
It seemed you either felt fine, or you didn’t,
there wasn’t any in-between,
and their concern wasn’t meant to be
part of a guessing game with questions like
who’s on first, or what’s the meaning of life?

In the end, everything turned out well,
another happy ending,
walking out of the room without any assistance
into the lighted hallway to go back to his office,
later riding off into the sunset
as he went home that evening.

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Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, Nebraska. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, The Blood Drives: One Pint Down, Conquer the Mountains, and Family Portraits.

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.

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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.

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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 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.

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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.