14-poetry

By: Carson Haller

The scent of young blood, spilt by a gun.

This summer’s been hot, so I curse at the sun.

His eyes give a flutter; he almost comes to.

Now he’s there, but not really, and there’s nothing to do.

Sweating, I awake. Oh, torturous dream.

When I close my eyes, I can still hear him scream.

Though I’m not one to grieve, he’s never quite left me.

I’m tasked to see death, yet to lend hands—a blessing.

The weight of a life is so much to hold.

I’m stuck grieving that child with no chance to grow old.

A boy had his future ripped right from his chest.

I wish he’d forgive me. Then maybe I’d rest.

When I met that boy, we shared bated breath.

Both doctor and patient defeated by death.

His destiny ripe, never to reap.

Save a minute or two before I can sleep.

Bio

Carson is a first-year medical student at UAMS who finds time to write in between his studies. On a given day, you might find him swimming in a body of water, walking the streets admiring houses, or spending time with his loved ones. He writes poetry in attempts to discover more about the world and himself.

By: Taylor Appleton

When I was a child, I found a hurt animal,

and I ran in the light of the sun.

And was amazed at the smallest of rays that reflected in its eyes as I nurtured it,

And tried to make it whole

One day I realized, you could stare into the light until it began to hurt

And all your shadows would fall behind you.

There was a time when I could not look at pain without feeling it.

Yet now I cannot afford to; I am blinded

I see you but not your suffering anymore

I treat with minimal care, though it feels here nor there

And though I am blinded, on my breaks, I go outside and continue to stare at the sun

They say experience is relative, philosophically, yet

A child, full of hope, is staring at the same sun alongside me

So I tear my eyes away, look down, and say

If only you could be my partner again.

Bio

Tayler is a first year medical student and hoping to go into pediatric neurology. She is the author of one novel and has always had an intense passion for combining medicine with the arts.

By: Lakyn Webb

He rode the city bus to the VA, always early, always dressed like dignity was a duty

shirt crisp, shoes shined to a mirror’s edge, as if he owed the world a polished version of himself.

He was ninety-something, still sharp-eyed, still carrying a posture etched by battles he would never describe.

He had been a prisoner of war, but he never said where, or when, or how long. The details were locked behind a stare that could end a question mid-air.

But he told me once about the Congo how he was lost for two months, fevered and disoriented,

carried back to life by a forest community who shared their water, their shelter, their mercy.

He survived continents, conflicts, viruses, and the slow erosion of outliving everyone he cared for.

But he didn’t think his life mattered.

When the psychiatrist asked if he wished he were dead, he didn’t break eye contact. “I’m ninety-three,” he said. “What exactly am I staying for?”

Then he looked at me, long and discerning, and something inside him softened.

“You understand empathy,” he said once. “That’s why I like you.” He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.

To the hurried staff moving too fast to see him, he’d mutter under his breath, half armor, half warning: “If you’re looking for sympathy, check the dictionary.”

Humor as shield. Loneliness disguised as wit. He carried his pain quietly the way some men carry medals kept close, rarely shown, never mentioned.

After he died, the confusion grew. No obituary, no next of kin, no clean narrative to explain who he had been.

So I held a small gathering at his apartment complex. And people arrived neighbors from twenty years, the bus driver who knew his stop, the mail carrier who saved his letters, the woman downstairs he once helped through chemo.

Each person came with a different story, a different version of him, a fragment of a life he never fully revealed.

We pieced him together like stained glass, each shard bright, incomplete, and unexpectedly holy.

He thought his life was pointless. But mine bent around his. And so did theirs. And theirs. And theirs.

I carry him with me, into every room, every shift, every moment someone needs to be seen before they can be saved.

He believed he didn’t matter. But he did. And we will not forget him.

Bio

Lakyn Webb is an emergency room nurse at the VA, a PhD student in the UAMS College of Nursing, and a Disaster Health Services and Communications volunteer with the American Red Cross. She also serves on the UAMS College of Nursing Board and is the Director of Research for the UAMS 12th Street Health and Wellness Center. Her work reflects a strong commitment to nursing leadership, service, and community health.

By: Brenique Sheldon

When I was small,

I practiced playing nurse

on my father.

A plastic stethoscope,

a borrowed authority,

my ear pressed to the steady drum

of someone I believed was permanent.

He would close his eyes on purpose,

wait for me to panic,

then laugh

and I would bring him back.

Back then,

I thought returning was simple.

My uncle existed in a room

that never slept.

Dialysis breathed in cycles,

a tired orbit,

a machine teaching his blood

how to be clean again.

He spoke less each time I saw him.

Not because he had nothing to say,

but because words require a future tense.

He was on a list.

Which is another way of saying

he lived suspended

between two endings.

My father learned his body could betray him

by the time I was ten.

Crohn’s disease…

a quiet thief,

taking in pieces small enough

no one applauds their disappearance.

I began to understand then:

strength is not loud.

It is what remains

after certainty leaves.

At eighteen,

I left.

Uniform pressed into sharp lines,

name stitched over my chest

as if identity could be contained

by thread.

Distance makes loss theoretical

until it doesn’t.

My grandfather dissolved slowly.

Dementia turned his memories into constellations

visible,

but unreachable.

By 2018,

even the light had finished traveling.

There are absences

that do not announce themselves.

They accumulate.

Quiet as decay.

I never intended to step toward medicine.

It had already taken enough.

But purpose does not knock.

It appears.

A shadow day.

A dim room.

A man lying still

while something unseen moved through him,

mapping what could not be felt.

A kidney scan.

No alarms.

No urgency.

Only waiting.

Only the soft rotation of the camera,

faithful as gravity.

I watched the screen

as his body translated itself

into light.

Faint at first.

Then undeniable.

And something in my chest

something I had carried without language

shifted

Not grief.

Not closure.

Something else.

Like recognizing a voice

you haven’t heard in years

coming from a room

you don’t remember entering.

The machine continued its orbit.

Unconcerned with past or future.

Only presence.

Only truth.

And for a moment,

I understood

some things do not leave.

They change form.

Bio

Brenique N. Sheldon was born and raised in Los Angeles, CA. She is a military veteran and a nuclear medicine student pursuing a career as a medical dosimetrist. In Half-Life, she reflects on personal encounters with illness and loss, exploring the quiet endurance of those who face vulnerability. The poem is a meditation on presence, care, and the unseen persistence of life. This is an invitation for all health care professionals to remember the humanity, connection, and purpose that guide their work. In the stillness of presence, what lingers long after the moment has passed?

By: J.M. Morgan

In the garden

In the world

A maze of nature

Surrounded by seas

There stands a statue

Cloaked—adorned

In white mulberry silk

And starling feathers

Feathers, twigs, petals

Rest at its feet

“Ki-ki, ki-ki, ki-ki,”

Resound the Northern Flickers

They surround in worship

To the statue—onlookers stare

In admiration, in provocation

At the scene displayed

Ki-ki, ki-ki invades

The space between

Dream and reality

Past and present

A clad, feathered figure

Emerges from the shadows—

Deafening the muffles of

Opposers to this spectacle

Admirations amplify

Insults intensify

Within the garden

Within the world

The figure, Elder Flicker,

Valiant against dissenters

Listens to the drumming while

Twirling through the wind

“Soon they will see,”

Commands Elder Flicker,

“That this is the way,

Gone are the olden days.”

Lone Flicker steps forward

To protest, assert resistance

Of this new devotion—

This fantastical illusion

“Ethics, respect, honor,”

Lone Flicker asserts,

“The principles of our elders’ past

Are our ideal and our resolve.”

Others join Lone Flicker

In protest of this outburst

The devotion circle that

Has become the world

But their fervor is no match

Against the believers of

Elder Flicker—a proponent

Of the new world design

“Fall in line!” believers shriek

Chucking twigs with wings—

“No, you fall in line!”

The resistance retorts.

Elder Flicker directs them

To banish the resistance

From the circle

Amid the celebration

“Disrespect, dishonor?”

Elder Flicker coaxes,

“Reverence and obedience—

Opposers? Swift demise!”

“Fall in line,” followers beg.

The resistance declines

Choosing to rebel, venture

Beyond the worship circle

Elder Flicker flicks his wings—

The followers squawk

Choosing to surround the

Dissenters, their opposition

They bound them with sisal

Surround them with twigs

“Ki-ki, ki-ki, ki-ki,”

Praises the followers

Onlookers—now bystanders

Observe the lit flame

Set to the twigs

In the piercing sun

“ki-ki! Ki-Ki! KI-KI!”

Weeps the opposition

As their flesh becomes

One with the flames

The resistance ceases

Inside their garden

Amid the drumming

Inside their world

Elder Flicker observes

Flaps his wings

Speaking a soliloquy while

Gazing out beyond the smoke

Rhythmic sounds echo

Marking the new purpose

“I am your king—your world,”

Boasts Elder Flicker.

His followers kneel

Harmonies erupt

Worshipping ensues

Amidst the sun’s setting

Elder Flicker speaks in a

Foreign tongue—toasting to

The day’s events

This moment’s feats

“Pray,” Elder Flicker commands.

His followers witness

Him beckoning his wings

Raising his beak

His followers delight

Bystanders flee

Beyond the circle

Outside the world

Elder Flicker dons the

Mulberry silk—sunset exposes

His Starling feathers as he

Soars atop the statue

“I am vengeance,

Never resist my doctrine—

My way, my world,”

Elder Starling asserts.

He fluffs his feathers as

His pawns cower with

Buried beaks—concealed eyes,

Bound wings in the moonlight

The statue, unprotected—

Makes an audible thud

As Elder Starling nudges

At its pedestal, its roots

New has emerged

In his garden

Waning to silence

Becoming—His World

Bio

J.M. Morgan is a postdoctoral researcher at UAMS. She is a poet, storyteller, and dreamer who explores identity through her writing. She published her debut poetry collection, silent scream, in 2021. When she isn’t buried in her academic and creative writing, she enjoys crafting, watching The Golden Girls, playing video games, and learning to play the guitar. 

By: Julia Wang

Sleepless nights, interruptions and anxiety. Did I do the right thing? Did I say the right thing? Are you going to be ok?

I’ve found that there are a lot of similarities between motherhood and medicine.

Whether I’m wearing a white coat or snot on my shoulder; I’m here. For you.

For the strangers who are waiting to find out if their life is about to change.

For my toddler handing me the next book to read.

My thoughts and feelings; they are mostly the same.

Did I do the right thing? Did I say the right thing? Are you going to be ok?

I hope you always know – I’m here for you.

Bio

Julia Wang is currently a third year Neurology resident. She gets her writing inspiration from experiences in parenthood, medicine, and the few quiet moments in between.

By: Charles Strahan

When I look into your eyes

my world just melts away.

The things I know evaporate

and I watch you take their place.

I’m standing at the crossroads

of what is and what could be

trying to find the line

between what’s real and make believe.

When I look into your eyes

I feel your head against my chest.

I feel your fingers down arms

and your lips upon my neck.

And as we lie together

I can feel our hearts connect

as we close our eyes and soon shall find

a long and peaceful rest.

When I look into your eyes

I’m having dinner with your mother.

I’m talking music with your sister

and watching football with your brother.

And when I’m with your father

I’m never feeling antsy

because I know he won’t reject me

because I’m already his family.

When I look into your eyes

I must surely be insane.

I want to see your everything,

all the pleasure, all the pain.

I want to bring you laughter.

I want to wipe away your tears.

I want to make you comfortable.

I want to squash all of your fears.

I want to see you walk the aisle.

I want for us to share a name.

And what’s craziest of all

Is that I think you want the same!

But when you close your eyes

and I’m brought back to here and now,

you’re standing here before me

in a sparkling wedding gown.

Your husband stands beside you

with his hand around your waist.

You both thank me for coming,

a smile stretched across your face.

As much as I would like to try

to selfishly object

and justify a fantasy 

of a life that we both have left,

There’s no more room for ‘what could be’.

The truth is what this is.

And though I’d like to call you mine

I know that you are his.

I force a smile and shake his hand

And wish you best of luck.

I thank you for the invitation

and say I have to duck.

You wrap your arms around me

As you give me your goodbye

I feel your warmth encompass me

as I’m trying not to cry.

I know that this is for the best.

It should come as no surprise.

But I still see what we could be

when I look into your eyes.

By: Kristi Jones

Microscopic airborne germs, coughed out by one who is sick

rhinovirus or influenza or SARS COVID 2

Inhaled by an especially unlucky person

who suffers from asthma

The germs have hit the jackpot on where they can cause harm

The wily respiratory virus sneaks into the lungs

an invader the body can’t fight off

an unwelcome visitor who doesn’t ask permission to enter

The virus ignites a firestorm of irritation and inflammation

Coughing commences and mucus multiplies

Bring on the arsenal of asthma medications.

Albuterol relaxes and opens airways

Nebulizer medicines travel deep into the lungs

long-acting bronchodilators + inhaled steroids make breathing easier

The “big guns” oral steroids do the job well—beware of side effects.

Eventually, the virus symptoms subside

The horrible cough evolves into 

an annoying post-viral cough

Slowly this residual cough disappears

as the lungs continue to heal.

Bio

Kristi Jones is a poet by night, and works in academic public health at UW-Madison School of Medicine and Public Health by day. Her poems has been published in Kaiser Health News. She holds a BA from St Olaf College.

By: Matthew Zambito

Panic is accelerating as if in freefall,

a tumor on your thoughts, lesions 

on your feelings. Melancholia turns into 

dysthymia (if you’re lottery lucky) or into

a treatment-resistant depression deep

as the Mariana Trench if the Mariana Trench

got used as a drainage ditch. Tics convulse

muscles by a nervy, bedeviled compulsion. 

The holed shebang remains a mystery

of the mind with no whodunit revelation

come the last chapter. Psych-prescribed

pills popped provide effective effects plus

plenty of others on the side. Your cerebral

hemispheres keep having a hateful lovers’

quarrel over corpus callosum and require

couples counseling you can’t afford. Ideas

for brainchildren, already straightjacketed 

in a room padded with corpses, sob in-

consolably. If you’re gabbing with ghosts

you’re all the way there. You’re there,

and not, and a god, golden and bovine.

Bio

Matt Zambito is the author of The Fantastic Congress of Oddities, and two chapbooks, Guy Talk and Checks & Balances. New poems appear or are forthcoming in Freshwater Literary Journal, Braided Way, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, and elsewhere. Originally from Niagara Falls, he now writes from Wilson, New York.

By: Kenneth Gaynes

Stars that swirl and glow in mine shine in a way I can’t believe is real

Unable to look away I’m drawn to the way her eyes gleam

Something about this feeling warns my heart and mind not to scream

As one small worry or doubt may unravel this perfect seal

This entire moment I wait, for this woman’s blink I steel

Only longing will come with the disconnecting of this seam

Fate may have it I may stay eternally in this dream

Because all my life I’ve wished to be the star that swirls around that wheel

This constellation shows our thoughts combined

As my own sight begins to disappear

I look deeper into our conjoined mind

And realize it’s through her stars I peer

In this new life with our souls aligned

I hold comfort knowing she’s always near

Bio

Kenneth Gaynes was born and raised in Southern California where he worked EMS for three years and attained an AAS in Behavioral Health before moving to Central Arkansas to further his education. He writes poetry and fiction in the form of short stories in his free time. He currently attends UAMS’s CON BSN program where he is currently on the final semester of his junior year.