**********

Parkinson’s Poetry Contest

A couple of weeks ago, fellow Parkinson’s blogger Laura Kennedy Gould encouraged me to enter some of my poetry in a contest for people with Parkinson’s, their care takers, family and friends.  I sent in five sonnets, all below.  The organization running the contest (Parkinson’s Community Los Angeles) will host a live Zoom poetry slam with the winning poets on Sunday, April 24.  Click on the organization’s link for more information.

Here’s my submission:

**********

Parkinson’s Poetry Contest Submission

Name:  Bruce Ballard

Age:  69

Bio:  I live just north of New York City.  I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s about ten years ago.  I have a blog called Parking Suns, in which I review current research, discuss physical therapy options, and provide an “enriched environment,” which includes poetry, humor, and art.

One of my blog posts consists of 100 haiku about Parkinson’s.  That’s too many for this contest, but maybe you’ll find another use for it.

Thanks for all you do.

Here are my poems!

**********

Sonnet Response to “Richard Cory” ***

I think I know how Richard Cory felt,
‘Cause when I’m “on” I glitter as I walk.
The words flow from my mouth as happy talk,
And I accept the hand that I’ve been dealt.
But whoa!  The world turns dismal when I’m “off”!
I tremble.  Stumble.  Cannot hold a pen.
Anxiety, that snarling lion’s den,
Tosses me like slop into its trough.
Yet even though I know things will get worse
(Just look at Janet Reno’s final days),
My inner drive keeps piercing through the haze,
Compelling me to put this down in verse:
On many/most days I’m still having fun.
So Richard Cory, throw away that gun!

– Bruce Ballard

*** “Richard Cory” is a famous poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson.  You’ll find it at the bottom of this post.

 

**********

Appointment w/ My Neurologist

“Have you fallen yet?” she always asks,
In her paisley scarf and white lab coat.
“Feeling dizzy?  Spit caught in your throat?
Frustrated that you can’t do daily tasks?”
She makes me tap my fingers, tap my toes,
Then follow with my eyes her roving pen.
Up and down and side to side it goes:
A font of jokes for a comedian.
Well, Parkinson’s is not some morbid joke,
Yet in her office all these tasks evoke
A childish sense of humor.  Soaring mirth
That doesn’t flag or drag me down to earth.
What have I learned from my movement disorder?
‘Tween mirth and death, it’s just a hazy border.

– Bruce Ballard

 

**********

Sonnet for Sinemet

Today I start a new stage in my life:
Some Sinemet for Mr. Parkinson –
The guy who’s caused a fair amount of strife
Gets carbidopa/levodopa.  Fun!
Who knows what’s next in store for me?  I don’t!
My doctor says my right hand will revive.
If so, it means that starting soon I won’t
Refuse to dice up chicken, carrots, chives.
The past few years I’ve lived a different man,
With listless leg and useless, shaking arm.
I made adjustments.  Every day I’d plan
To tough it out.  I churned up all my charm.
But now I think that possibly I see
A life that’s filled with possibility.

– Bruce Ballard

 

**********

The Guest

I have this guest named Mr. Parkinson,
Who’s balled up like a nut inside my head.
Some people think my life is over.  Done.
That every night I drool on my death bed.
“Well, look,” they say, “Your body hair turned white;
The pallor’s firmly set in your gaunt cheeks.
Your daily blog posts still might bring delight,
But when you poop your nose can’t tell it reeks.”
They don’t have to tell me this.  I know
My left leg lamely limps along the ground.
At times, I can’t control the urge to go.
My voice is weak; I barely make a sound.
But hold it!  I’m not heading to no tomb
While lilacs – roses – crocuses still bloom!

– Bruce Ballard

 

**********

Winter Holiday Season Comes to Ossining

The days grow dim.  The nights are cold.  It’s time
To bundle up and dread the snow that falls
And causes me to curse the car that stalls
Ahead up some steep hill, commits the crime
Of slipping backwards down the icy slope
And, horrors, never once regaining traction
Smashes my car, starts a chain reaction –
Cars smash cars, collapsing telescope.
In my back seat, gaily wrapped, are gifts
For friends and family.  They’re still OK.
My car still drives.  I’ll probably downplay
The dents, the vicious snow, the shifting drifts.
I live on never-ending tribulations
Eased by friend-and-family celebrations.

– Bruce Ballard

 

**********

Richard Cory

By EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

 

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.