Long Therapists Poems
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In our world of healing hearts, there lies
With Michael, Mary Welsh Foundation, a prize,
A haven where souls find solace and rest,
Amidst the storms, they're gently caressed.
Within these walls, a psychological embrace,
A symphony of care, filled with grace,
Guiding troubled minds towards inner peace,
Where anguish and pain find sweet release.
A positive aura, whispers in the air,
Lifting spirits, weaving hope with care,
Laughter dances, mingling with tears,
As wounds mend, erasing darkest fears.
Therapists, with empathetic touch,
Weave tales of triumph, mending hearts' clutch,
With compassion as their sturdy guide,
They empower souls to thrive, not hide.
In this sanctuary, the broken find their way,
With warmth and understanding, shadows sway,
A foundation built on love's sturdy frame,
Bringing healing whispers, banishing shame.
Michael Mary Welsh, a beacon so bright,
Shining forth with love, day and night,
A sanctuary of hope, where souls find rest,
Where healing begins, the foundation's blessed.
O, Blue! Blazing like precious sapphire or Tanzanite pure,
Or the blueness baking and basking the seas and allure;
Like divine rays spreading within cells and leading to depths,
Rendering calmness and serenity as though pure breaths!
Like treasures within the earth, healing is hidden in you;
As tempests or storms, or cyclones, power is pouring too!
Just like tranquilizers, you calm our brain and nerves and veins;
The healing power in you releases our psychic pains!
You're signs of decorum, devotion, and dedication,
And symbolize understanding and determination;
When digging out the deepest roots of human histories,
Therapists find you a revealer of true mysteries!
The Indian truths find you pervading the Visudha,
Like a chain linking the neck, hands and arms, and throat chakra;
Welling up into peace of mind and positive feelings,
And paving within intense insights and sincere dealings!
It's hence, O Blue I admire you! As a color relaxing!
Mending human hearts and minds and keeping them from taxing!
As the color shining, yet, cool and calm in the rainbows;
Mingling the elements and rhythm of the cosmos!
06 November 2021
BLUE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
I CALL IT SLEEPING AWAKE AT NIGHT I RELIVING TRAUMATIC EVENTS SOMETIMES FALLING TO SLEEP AT SIX IN THE MORNING TO FIND MY DAY FILLED WITH NAPS DREAMS REM SLEEP VIVID VISIONS THIS IS WHY I AM NEVER ALONE THE HORRID THOUGHT OF FALLING ASLEEP ON A BUS WAKING UP LOST MY THINGS TORN BUS DRIVER YELLS THIS THE LAST STOP DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU GOING NO SIR WHATS YOUR NAME I DON'T KNOW THE REALITY OF TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY MY DOCTORS AT NASA CALLS IT EARLY ONSET OF DEMENTIA SO I RUSH TO KEEP WRITING EVERYDAY ALL DAY KERPING MY BRAIN ALIVE STRICKENED WITH NARCOLEPSY THERE IS NO CURE AND ITS NOT SLEEP APNEA IT'S THE BRAIN EVERY FEW MINUTES I FALL INTO A DEEP SLEEP RATHER IN A DOCTORS OFFICE GOD FORBID FLYING A PLANE OR JUST A NORMAL JOB VERY DANGEROUS I NEVER DROVE WHICH IS A BLESSING I'D PROBABLY KILL MYSELF FROM FRIGHT READING LICENSE PLATES LOOKING FOR THREATS MY THERAPISTS SAYS THIS IS NORMAL CAUSE I WORE WIRES FOR THE FBI MY JOB WAS READING LICENSE PLATES THE DAY OF MY CRASH A PLATE READ WITNESS I WOKE UP FROM A COMA BLESSING IS MY PARTIAL BLINDNESS DAMAGED EYE SOCKET MY VISION IS GONE I CAN'T READ PLATES ANYMORE FUNNY RIGHT A FEW OF MY CONDITIONS MOST PEOPLE NEVER HEARD OF NARCOLEPSY CRIPPLED ME NO ONE ELSE IN MY FAMILY HAS IT I BELIEVE HARRIETT TUBMAN HAD IT AFTER HER HEAD INJURY HIT IN THE HEAD WITH A CAST IRON WEIGHT I HIT MY HEAD ON THE DASH AIRBAG EXPLODED MY FACE DOMESTIC VIOLENCE BEING STRUCK IN THE HEAD KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY EVENTUALLY WELL LETS KEEP WRITING THE DEEP SLEEP IN THE DAYTIME WHEN I OPEN MY EYES I'M STILL DREAMING SO IF DRAGONS ARE CHASING YOU IN YOUR DREAM WHEN YOU AWAKEN THEY STILL ARE AND THIS COULD BE EMBARRASSING AT CHURCH SCHOOL WORK SO MY DOCTORS STARTED ME ON NUVIGIL THIS KEEPS ME AWAKE ALL DAY SO I COULD SLEEP AT NIGHT AND HAVE LESS PASS OUTS DURING THE DAY SO I WRITE I WRITE I WRITE KEEPING ME CONCIOUSLY UNCONSCIOUS
THERAPY’S THERAPEUTIC THERAPIST
Our poetry writing,
Is very therapeutic—
Healing all shared souls:-
Yes, poetry is God’s self-healing therapy;
Penning away depression with inspiration,
Fueled by our poetic words shared daily:-
Glory to God for all the shared sessions;
We healing with what’s said and read:-
Write on we poets,
We are God’s sent therapist—
Healing with the Word:-
What prayers may leave out,
Poetry will surely add it all in;
Quietly screaming its loud shout,
Streaming from Love’s inking pin:-
Yes, we’re therapists;
Treating with God’s healing words—
Poured from His cistern:-
Most people notice my sunny disposition,
one that can cause blindness & irreparable skin damage.
They remark on the fact that all of my poetry
is so cheerful and positive,
wonder how a person who finds everything so funny,
could ever be sad about anything.
But what they don't know is that,
I, like most other people,
have encountered my fair share of difficulty.
How my brain is an inhospitable residence
I only stay in because I was forced to make my home there.
However, what goes on behind closed doors
remains a mystery to the ignorant.
As a child, I laid prone on the floor,
organizing my toy cars,
and later, books on a shelf.
Flying into a frenzy when someone messed them up;
invariably causing more disorder in my wake.
Anxious moments spent, gnawing on fingers & toes,
nails chewed off into jagged calcium crescents.
Nervous air-drumming when I'm writing or stressed,
or my bouncing knee when I'm patient or
trying to quickly get through a book.
Not so fond memories of standing alone in corners,
away from the crowd,
when having confidence was an unrealized
pipe-dream I feverishly entertained.
No man's an island,
but I've been a peninsula
who took pleasure in his eroding shores.
What normal kid talks to himself and has night terrors?
What 6th grader has an identity crisis,
especially to the extent of believing he doesn't exist or
is incapable of going back to a way of being
that made him comfortable;
how he felt like a stranger to himself, family, and friends?
The weight of depression straddled me to the point that I
wished for a broken leg like a horse running the gauntlet.
Warnings of ed up family members--
therapists, mental institutions, lives of reclusion...
how close I ran the risk of becoming like them.
But, at least, I have the perfect conditions for making art.
Even if weird thoughts sometimes strike at inconvenient moments...
I wouldn't wish being normal
on my worst enemy,
because I once wished it on myself,
and I've finally realized I can use my tendencies to my benefit.
There are so many different kinds of heroes.
There are those who watch over us at home –
the police, the firemen, the paramedics and doctors;
any who help their fellow man,
try to keep them from harm.
Look up to them as heroes.
There are those who serve –
the soldiers, the marines, the sailors and pilots;
any who would lay down their lives,
whether at home, or more frequently abroad.
It is so that others might live,
and might do so free.
Those who all too often watch their charges,
their friends, fall -
we live because of their sacrifice,
and they due to their friends'.
Heroes above the dead.
There are those who support the former -
the therapists, the counselors, the shoulders and ears;
any who give relief or assistance,
break down the walls to what others truly need.
Heroes in their own right.
Being one such is a tremendous torch,
one that all too often burns the bearer.
Their friends and families all watch and worry,
proud yet perturbed; appreciative yet apprehensive.
Heroes hurt and saviors stumble;
this life, these trials, none can abide alone.
Reasons you might be a serial killer
-all your lampshades are made from human skin
-all 3 of your chainsaws are always fully fuelled
-your wallpapers is hundreds of pictures of a rocking horse ridden by a gorilla
-you live in the basement of the asylum with all your ex therapists
Not to do with the poem but could zombies smile
Normally I would bait your breath
was craving some razor clams
eat them sitting in the elm tree
at the end of nightmare street
Misses V
Never played hockey but plenty of masks
Hand me a ball
Don’t give me no lectures
Shut it you shoop
Working to play
Slicing J ack with an axe shines amazingly
Mire mire as I take the mic
Hello from between
-you consider attempted murder is a fail
-your closets are made from skeletons
I mean how terrifying would that be a smiling zombie
-you can’t get your frozen peas in the fridge for heads
-your living room has meat hooks hanging from the ceiling
Who’s the creep in the jeep
Screamed at the ghost as it faced me
-Chuck me that doll let us be good friends
Without the why where would the s and k be
Spring may heal but who gives a jack
-your pets are buried in layers
-all your poetry starts with the word kill
-saw John he said to shut your trap
Reading dictionaries, encyclopedias ; talking to friends ,Pastors, even therapists
Searching for the aura, the feeling ,of LOVE : A concept I can not find in my Heart
LOVE, It sounds so Beautiful : If I could grasp LOVE for only a moment, Eternity
To find LOVE and the words to express such a find to no longer be unemotional
Where is the sound of LOVE? Why doesn’t my Heart hear the rhythmic song of LOVE
Light this dark Heart with the brilliancy of a symphony written by a LOVING Heart
Who would want to teach; to show this old opaque Heart : A living Portrait of LOVE
I would Embrace such LOVE
I have been counting the days and nights,
23,427 so far,
no two exactly the same
just as no two snowflakes
precisely duplicate a common design structure.
Having received over 23,000 days and nights
to get my act together,
this day, right now,
culminating my entire story line
about how I came to become
communicating
and miscommunicating
and sometimes discommunicating here
and
now as mindful organic bodies must
intend sacred integrity all along
somehow.
Each of those thousands of days
invested in what cannot be purchased
or demanded.
Therapists call this investment in health.
Mom called it love.
Spiritual guides know re-ligious
regenerative
reconnecting integrity's communion intent
as deep mind/body listening wisdom
and divine grace.
Evangelists praise this multisensory thrival experience
of organically sacred communication as goodness
and righteousness
and not unnatural atheistic leftist mess.
Artists name it Beauty
and indigenous Muses
nonverbally
and nonviolently communicate
EarthMother's primal empowering relationship
with FatherSun's enlightenment
as unboundaried
fearless ecological co-relationship
peace-fulfilling re-ligious
SacredMind/OrganicBody trust
in peak communion experiences.
Philosophers call authentic communication Truth;
which is not irreligious discommunicating False.
Economists call community-inclusive win/win co-investment
abundantly resilient cooperative wealth,
what cannot be sufficiently earned
yet can never become overly reinvested,
gifting compassionate communication
pro-actively forward.
Through thousands of high purposed
well-sung days
and deep ecology drifting sifting
wellness dancing nights
no more or less ready for final down payment
than that first invested breath,
23,427 nights ago.
Perhaps a more mature love communication
would prefer I stop counting my impatient
lack of peaceful EarthTribe belonging days.
To stop counting the cost
of irreligious discommunication
at least sounds like a more generously evangelical co-investment
engaging this actively curious
peace-seeking SacredMind/OrganicBody
in perennially recycling love life
No longer counting the days and nights,
no two exactly the same
just as no two mind-full neurosystemic bodies
precisely duplicate a divine design structure.
What is the difference between a Rescuer
and a Facilitator?
A codependent
and a resilient health-enabler?
Why?
If we insist we must have at least one,
What is a difference
between a pan-sectarian Messiah/Bodhisattva,
a co-inviter into health-fertile mutual service
And, a compassioned co-facilitator,
an eco/ego-therapist,
An Other/Self-cooperative healer?
As for the first,
I look for a distinction,
unconscious or not,
between LeftEgo's self-dominant intent
for internal wealth-serving service,
growing more fame and less infamy,
more adoration and less apathy,
self-rescuing from an anonymous pit
of unprominent history;
On the other hand,
the Facilitator is an equal opportunity rescuer
for both Ego and Ego's healthy EcoHabitat,
including planet,
animals and plants and people,
foreign forests and HereNow complex technocratic cities,
far away deserts and internal oceans of motion,
former golden days and still perpetual nights,
past nutrition and future health,
ancient tribes and future families.
As for differences
between sacred CoMessiahs
and eco-over-ego secular therapists,
perhaps the difference between an integral spirit of abundant faith
and a robust soul for healthy and humble HereNow agnosticism,
like John Rawls' vulnerable veil of self/other unknowing,
perhaps this is one of those distinctions between metaphysical identities
without a RealTime physical nature difference,
The dubious difference between non-violent sacred communication
and enthymematic,
nondual-WinWin,
secular co-passionate discernment,
between LeftBrain active hope
for future cooperative healthy-wealth understanding,
and RightBrain historical faith
in ancient wealthy-health tribal experience
DNA's secular/sacred nonsectarian history
of rescuing ourselves
from dubious
dead-end
unhealthy differences.
What's the difference between what's metaphysically uplifting
and what's physically integral,
interdependent,
synergetic?
Maybe both are heavier
and one promises to co-arise lighter?