Litany
A television plays in the background
while a housemate sits on the couch.
The sun through the window
promises another day.
My basketball team lost in the round
of the Sweet Sixteen, a disappointment.
Afterwards I nursed a drink and sang
a Paul McCartney song.
This morning when I walk barefoot
in my office space words stir inside my head.
When in high school I told my dad
writing was all I wanted to do.
Then I laughed when reading Walter Mitty
while sitting on my parents’ couch. Mitty
was a quiet man who wanted life
to be something more.
Now the cat leaps onto my desk
as I write. Is it so crazy to have another
life, I ask. He blinks his eyes.
Today, a day off from a part-time job
after working four-years traveling
for a flagger job for construction crews.
People in writers’ groups know me
for roads I travelled.
Trees at the end of the street
reach for wispy clouds.
I saw a friend last night as she sat
at an art walk and displayed
the stickers she made.
In college, I studied hard
to become a psychotherapist
but through a litany of poems
and songs my life is found.
the eyes of the Steiff Teddy hung from its threads
loving can take its toll when small nimble hands
poke and explore in innocent fashion and passion
what lies underneath a warm glance into the truth
the button in the animal’s ear like a hearing aid
attended to sorrows tears nightmares and joy
like a sounding board for emotions it listened
Teddy always knew how to deal with the pain
his fur was fuzzy from compassion and touch
naked patches showed signs of wear and tear
but his resolve as tested and trusted companion
never diminished and comforted the young child
the soft toy was better than a psychotherapist
and he talked way more than Freud at the couch
his messages were clearer than psycho babble
and his embracing caress secured childhood
when he growled it came from a place of support
a warning sign here and there and encouragement
not one harsh word ever came from his sweet mouth
and even today the adult cuddles him every night
sometimes simply being present is all that one needs
14th June 2021
A tender Moment from Childhood
Sponsor Malabika Ray Choudhury
In walked the psychotherapist
New moon like cute and graceful
Twinkling eyes to speak in smile
Everyone looked happily at the
Reassuring beam calm and cool
Every word that for us she spoke
Sunflower like lively and positive
Tilting always to listen more to
Incessant issues in human psych
Needing psychological support
Grinningly indulging, angel like
_________________________________
26/9/2016
SCARED
… when I jumpstarted my thirst for sin
danced young
whistled with the wind
sold short my youth
burnt like the witches of salem
scared
… when I was the one with crooked smile
he chose to stomp through
as if I was a ghost town
with flowers and chains
with good will and free will
… when the wind sounded like winter
he exuded calm
my hands were callous
and he cut my breath
I still have cuts everywhere
scared
… when my psychotherapist
wants to change me because
I put my ear to the ground
to hear the earth’s heart beat
… when I am tired
of jeans that don’t fit well
of people shivering
of paid and unpaid bills
tired of being a survivor
… when the road lies in front of me
and I go on an adventure
by crossing it
I become commercial
with only one dimension
… when the trees become
prime material for caskets
I feel their hardness
on my back and sides
the dry wood cracks
waiting for my body’s moisture
… when I become a comic book
next to my wilted lips balloons
filled up with words
as if they are rivers or veins
and a bored reader
decides if my life is rust or blood
I went to his door
After doing a bit of a crazy thing
My Doc told me this man could settle
my brain and it's loose spring
PSYCHO-THE-RAPIST
Was some kind of psychiatrist
But after reading the words beheld
on that door,
I must admit- from that building I tore!
A. Green
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.