a degree and he knows it all
summarizes me in a nanosecond
has me all figured out
simplified into a likely story
for someone else perhaps
but no sir, not for me
casually randomizing
careless comments tossed
into a common salad
the maestro takes words
and plays them back askew
creating his own new melody
with all his pomp and arrogance
he is the type that gives
the profession a bad name
AP: 2nd place 2026, 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
Dorothy and her lovely small dog Toto.
Were all taken up in a fierce tornado.
Ran into three helpless bobos.
A Tin man, Lion, and Scarecrow.
No Wizard needed, just the Dr Phil show.
The three went to see Dr. Phil, a PHD.
No heart for the Tin man, just psychotherapy.
Told the Lion to get a set,
and the Scarecrow to not forget.
All thanked the Dr, and walked away happily.
The Wizard they all thought had magical powers.
Worked and schemed, behind his curtain, every hour.
His curtain was removed.
The people were amused.
Now, he plays behind the curtain in the shower..
Bobo: A slang Spanish word meaning half witted.
Wizard Of Oz Limerick Poetry Contest Charles Messina
Written November 22 2024
I dreamt about an alligator
- what could that possibly mean?
Am I hoping that a lizard man
will slowly romance me?
Are my desires so primitive, so ancient
that we could come to some arraignment?
Would a silent and cold-blooded lover
be as ??considerate as any other?
Do I long for scaly fingers
to caress me up and down?
Or lust for reptile Dolce Gabbana pumps
and a matching iguana gown?
Do I long for another dazzling week
of lying lizard-like under a mediterranean sun?
If I saw an alligator prowling there,
I’m fairly sure that I would run.
What, on earth is going on,
in my secret subconscious mind?
After years of psychotherapy,
what do you think they’d find?
.
Mood swings I expect you to beat
You can by beating a retreat.
Same psychotherapists treat
And you'll be back on firmer feet...
Next, you've got a food habit
I wish to talk about a bit,
Trusting that you can quite beat it:
These days you eat a lot of wheat
Standing up, "Thanks" to offered seats!
Some keep watching and grows the heat:
The throat sounds are worse than bleat...
As one drops bad habits turns white sheet,
Proud to have performed a big feat.
I’m a bohemian girl
I wear my hair in curls,
I wear maxi skirts
And denim shirts.
I wear long earrings
And black stockings.
I like folk songs,
And pierced tongues.
I like Wittgenstein,
And Melanie Klein.
I had psychotherapy,
But it was given to me free.
As I am so interesting,
And so infinitely trusting.
My unconscious mind
Is an analyst’s find.
I have such wise dreams,
On intellectual themes.
I see all my lives
From new perspectives.
I was an Egyptian Queen,
Feeling extremely mean.
I loved Mark Anthony
His touch was a symphony
Written by Schubert,odd,
Because Cleopatra was long gone
When Schubert composed his songs
And his symphonies too.
So time has got all curled up,
Like a snake in a drinking cup.
Now I have woken again,
I want that dream all over again.
I want a Roman Emperor
To be a sexual tempter.
I shan’t mind at all,
If I hear him call.
I’ll be excitedly glad
When my hormones go mad.
I’m a Bohemian girl,
I’ll make any man’s hair curl
Psychotherapy, micro-bearably.
Pyro-merrily, gyro-herapy,
lots of chatter, bright new ways,
all pointing to one result.
If we are kind to each other,
if we follow our natural loving hearts,
none of these ways or theories
will be needed by anybody.
Be nice. Be kind. Be considerate.
Treat others the way you want to be treated.
Live as well as you can, by letting others live their way.
Psychotherapy, micro-bearably.
None of it needed if we follow the golden rule.
Dear Patient, Welcome to the asylum of your mind.
Let’s get rid of the boundaries to which you’re confined.
Let’s sit down and discuss your medical record:
Schizophrenic disorders, Anxiety, hemorrhages,
all documented in one-hundred-and-forty-nine pages.
There are some treatments we haven’t explored.
Do you feel like you’re in constant company?
People told me about your constant soliloquy.
A feeling that someone’s around you, spectating?
The voices: are they advising or debating?
Is it more like a monologue or is it a dialogue?
To who is it that you constantly talk?
Son, Why won’t you leave the dead behind?
Within the asylum of your mind?
After years of psychotherapy
Same
Man
Normally I am sober
Love to socialize
Never lose composure
Need no disguise
I am an IT engineer
I am a good husband
Clara my wife dear
Earns several thousand
We are a happy family
Except the deadly alter
As they say the insanity
Needs a strong halter
Whenever you humiliate me
The rebel will come up
Will bring out invariably
The beast in my soul-hub
And when the beast is out
To do something horrible
Irrational bloods shout
I am criminally terrible
But the normal I has no memory
Of the monster in me
Nor the alter is aware
Of the others who accompany
This dissociation is disastrous
Psychiatry has no remedy
Psychotherapy is advantageous
For the disturbed chemistry
The broken home of my childhood
Haunts me in my dream
Both the identities in the darkness
Are in full-throated scream
Doctors give me medicines
For anxiety and depression
Sending me in reticence
To tranquilize the elephant
I don’t know how long I will stay
With this miserable destiny
I am afraid one clouded day
I'll kill both of me
___________________________
May 22, 2016
For: Split Personalities – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Brian Davey
The Russian healer,
who once kissed me in a New York restaurant bathroom,
pulls me aside after meditation class
and tells me I am broken,
My voice and words,
Lift and fall, halt and rush,
Peppered with question marks or blank doubt,
When I debated another student that
Psychotherapy can help people as much as numerology
Apparently, I am driving down the road of life,
Without a map or GPS,
I am lost and tripping over myself,
Wandering in infinite circles,
But, HE CAN HELP ME,
By offering affirmations, meditations,
Hands-on healing where he channels Godly
Light and goodness that
can glue, sew, nail
My fractured soul, low self-esteem, inconstant faith
Back together
(for a fee of $125 per session).
Maybe he can,
I see the earnestness of his sky blue eyes
Illuminated by the street light overhead.
And, if I believe, truly surrender,
It could possibly work.
I nod and listen and question,
and then tell him I have to meet someone for dinner,
Walking away,
I ponder how my psyche can be so shattered
When I am starting to feel whole.
Drowning the inner temperament babble,
Every drop desperately taken to escape,
Attempt to suppress delusions from acts of travel,
The cure, a simply complex psychotherapy mandate.
In an irritate direction towards premonitory fate,
Compulsively obsessed self-cognition ignored,
Fear that nearby sanatorium awaits,
Reflections give credence that mental stupor is adored.
Redundant dysphoria dances with superfluous isolation,
Relieving aid found in a paradox of intoxication,
Fathomed continuance of abuse requires excusing imploration,
Humor devised to disguise ominous personification.
CONCRETE WALLS
The darkness crashes down all around,
Like concrete walls that keep you bound.
I've heard we're a nation of pill poppers these days,
And that psychotherapy is all the rage.
I wonder if those who say such things
Know what it's like when your heart no longer sings.
And the darkness crashes down all around,
Like concrete walls that keep you bound.
You hear a moaning, groaning sound
That seems to to be coming from underground,
But then you realize with a start
That sound is coming from within your own heart.
And you long for a pill, a shrink, a drink,
Something to keep you from going over the brink.
A prayer to God to hear your cry,
To give you wings and let you fly.
At times you see a ray of light,
And wonder could this be the end of the night?
So you crawl across the prison floor
Where you saw the light just a moment before.
But darkness crashes down all around
Like concrete walls that keep you bound.
Wounded Healer
Submitted 8/23/09
Written 8/31/08
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