IMAGE DESCRIPTION: An image of a notepad, and pen with a circular image of Frances. The title: Severe ME Week 2023 7th -13th August. The ME Association logo (bottom right)

Severe ME Week 2023: Poems

Poems – (3 of 4 website blogs)

I will wait

I will wait for sunset from the bench
To ignore the signs and jump the fence
For blackberries and puffballs
I will wait

I will wait for icy reservoir dips
To gasp as waves splash above my hips
To smell Pines and Oak and Birch
I will wait

I will wait to spot the Orion's Belt
To crunch the snow before it melts
For the harvest Moon and conkers
I will wait

I will wait for vows beneath the trees
Even if I’m still diseased
For cabins, apples, pumpkins
I will wait

I will wait for minutes of relief
I will wait out the waves of grief
For tomorrow and tomorrow
I will wait, I will wait

– By Frances

N.B. The featured image shows Frances before having Severe ME

An Ordinary Person

I am an ordinary person, just like you. 

With feelings you feel, I’m the same as you. 

Just like before, you can be sure,

I’m going nowhere,

Because I’m here too. 

No-one’s to blame, I’m still the same. 

Just as I was when you came. 

To see me again, I’m sorry you have to. 

It’s like deja vu,

I’m still here too.

I don’t look like me, I don’t look like you. 

I’m sorry to say but I just have to. 

The despondent vanity, clutching at my soul,

Wreaks havoc, but it’s beyond my control.

Have I faded, I think I might. 

I used to be so very bright. 

Acceptance is hard, but I do try, although I’m still ready, life isn’t steady. 

Because I’m still here too. 

I want to run just like you. 

Could I, could I really?

Will I, will I ever? Or even nearly?

Please don’t forget me, I’m waiting patiently. 

I want to belong, really I do. 

The challenge is great, as I lie here, it’s my fate.

But I’m still here, just like you.

– by Alison Love


Imagine the most hushed, unrushed procession possible,

flocks of people with severe M.E. filling the streets

on berths, bunks, beds, futons, beanbags, sofas, wheelchairs –

crash pads all, running on dreams and discipline.

Tens, hundreds, thousands, and those who cannot leave

the rooms they lie in, there with their walls around them,

curtains drawn.
Housebound, occasionally out;

bathed, unwashed, half-dressed, PJ's or Sunday best;

some with bedpans or commodes, some with feeding tubes;

speaking, humming, silent, eyes closed, eyes wide – all of us.

No drums beaten, nor banners waved.

Instead see our bidding magnified

on bedclothes, headboards, eiderdowns, and,

if the sun is out, scrawled all over the big blue:

urging serious commitment to medical research,

increased support, and being heard.

We're too tired for a riot,

and only up to rallying sighs.

But a simmering rage is in the air –


– By Marion Michell

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