poetry

To whom it may concern,

as you might have noticed,
reading my poems,
and other writing
I've revealed
a great deal
about myself
and
would have hoped
that I'd be better -
known
understood
by those I've met.
 

Do not be surprised
as if you didn't
see it coming -
my final act.

In this, my poem,
and other poems,
I've shared an
understanding
of Sylvia Plath
or Anne Sexton
wanting to die
and her aweful
rowing toward god.

Even within my own family
there are those that came
before me.

My auntie Rosie
ended her existence
abruptly
with a shotgun in her mouth.

My first cousin
hanged herself.

Some people believe
that the dead visit
the living
in dreams
or in some altered
sense of consciousness.

My dreaming mind
has encountered
both of them,
as if all was fine,
as if death -
their deaths
were not real
or true...
I shape new narratives
out of memories.

Perhaps
in this final act,
I'll find that I accomplished
something
for which others
will remember
me. 

You look but
do not see
the father of lies
speaks and his followers
come like disciples
drawn to his church -
his temple -
by the millions they come
shouting with exuberant
joy, "It's a miracle."
the great dragon of
perdition fulfills a prophesy
by the abomination of
desolation, declaring himself
god. For whom else but god
can be without sin?

 

The great dragon sits
upon his thrown
upon a great city
in a great land
that swallowed history
centuries ago...
a city on a hill
and the world looks.
He declares his enemies
and they shall be sacrificed
like lambs upon an altar.
Hear them weep!
Hundreds of millions
cry out:
"How long? How long?"
The world awaits its hero
who will come upon the clouds
and slay the dragon of
Babylon!

Notes on the poem: The so-called Christians could see the abomination of desolation that is represented by the current president elect. The belief that we can stop him or stop it, makes it no less evil. The fact that this was part of a US election does not make a candidate any less evil. The monstrosity of evil can exist as such regardless of whether people recognized the evil or whether people are evil in their hearts. 

In fact, the ability of something evil to appear to be something other than evil demonstrates the power of the forces of evil.  People are forced to cry out "how long" must their suffering endure - the suffering the voted for and now deserve. 

In this poem
                 I’d like to alter your
consciousness… and help
you to begin
to find
a greater sense of
re-lax-a tion
and you will be able to return
              to this place or state
of mind
              and this poem
whenever you need
to do so.

And each time
you repeat this,
you’ll go deeper
and deeper
into relaxation.
breathing in relaxation
and breathing out
tension.

Now begin with
a few deep breathes
and as you do,
with your eyes closed,
imagine or pretend that
             you are walking
along a wooded path…

Approaching a safe
and comfortable place –
your place.

You may notice
a clearing
at the top of a mountain
overlooking a town
below...
and you notice
          the sounds here
and the sensation
of the air against
your face.

You can notice
            whatever it is
that is most pleasant
about this experience
and whatever it is
that is most
helpful
in creating
a feeling
of relaxation.

And you begin to wonder
and imagine
what other
pleasant things
may await
your discovery. 

It's Sunday night
and again, like other times before,
a poem seems to be echoing
through my mind
before even its been formed.
It's just a hint of a poem
wanting to come forth -
to be birthed as it where.
The words nag and repeat
over and over in my mind
and I keep thinking,
"I'll work on this later"
but
the poem keeps nagging
and repeating
and shaping itself
and in the mind mind.
I knoiw it isn't fully formed
yet
the poem isn't ready to be written (shared)....
ideas to be flused out
for something better.
But the poem
won't be quiet.
I suppose you shape a poem
or develop it within your mind
but you have to give it some kind of form
on paper
or on our computer.
Tht's how it poosessess me, now,
the formless poem,
yet to be -
the ghost of another poem.

She passed me at the market
as I sat there reading...
seemed innocent enough, 
she said nothing,
just smiled to let me know
she saw me.

She didn't want to talk.
We were never even friends.
Certainly never lovers.

So, what did she want?

She was inside my home,
I discovered,
just recently.
There were just a few signs,
but enough
to let me know
she was there.

I suppose she imagines 
I'm afraid.
Perhaps that's what she wants.

How many times
had she been nearby?
Watching? So close and unseen...
like a snake,
in the shadows,
outside my door
that I nearly step on?

What does she want?

This is not what I wanted...
this place is not where I wanted
to be...
this city of desolation.
The land is parched...
The trees are bare -
they stand like burnt skeletons:
dead souless sentinels,
left as markers or
signs, signs of the times.
The sun no longer is seen;
each day brings only gray
flat, formless clouds above.
I cannot bear
this time, this place,
this reality.
Gone are most colors...
all that rmains are dark
shades of gray.
Some say the end is near.
They have more hope than I do.
I think this monotony,
days like this, these days,
will go on and on and on
forever.

The Voice of the hypnotist saying,
"And my voice will go with you."

When I was a hypnotherapist
I'd say those words,
guiding someone into facing something
frightening, because
that's what I wanted
back when I was scared...
and fear was something I knew,
like every other kid,
shaped by our surroundings
or the stories we heard...

Come with me,
let's go back to where I grew up...
on East Mountain Drive, Southington
a dead end road, surrounded
by woods and hills -
you are nearly living in the woods,
far from town.
You've just watched "Killer Grizzly,"
and you wonder about what appear
to be bear tracks in the woods...
or you think about "Day of the Animals"
and you think about snakes
on a regalar hike through the woods
and the neighborhood dogs...
and every time you close your eyes,
you see snakes everywhere
or again, you're being chased by
the neighbor's dog.

Then before you know it,
your pre-teen mind thinks about killers
in the news...
the police show up on your street,
this is new -
police cars out here.
looking for a murder suspect,
who was heading this way.

"Were you in the words?"

"Of course."
 

The same question
asked by your mother.

Does this change you?
No, not at all.

What about the movie,
"Helter Skelter"
about the Manson family,
doing creepy crawly
through homes.
and the house -
is so big,
two stories plus a basement -
how lucky we were,
yeah right?
Without love or compassion
or safety.

What do you do?
Check under the bed?
No, that's silly, or is it?
So you do it...
and what if...
what if,
someone really is in the house...
what if...
you've become obsessed with that notion.
and you wake your sister
and before you know it,
you've come to the conclusion
that you'll have to go downstairs.
and check the house,
look around...

You approach the bottom of the stairs,
frozen, feeling that chill creeping up your back...
someone could be around the corner
in the dark room to the right...
somehow, you've made it inot the hall
avoided the room on the right,
turning on all the lights - first - going
from room to room.

You wake up...
your walking in the woods
beyind your house.
Every neighborhood has a haunted house.
Right?

I was the only one
who truly wanted to see
something...
anything.
something more than the eagle
whose sudden flight
startled us as we entered the woods...
 

The choice of lighting
in the "haunted house"
was enough to suspend disbelief
for me.

I wanted something to fear
besides the rattlesnake that I
almost stepped on...
the dog that actually bit me.
 

Something more satisfying
than what H. P. Lovecraft presented...
the lurking fear...

If you just looked upon it,
your terror would change you.

Looked at what?

There are so many real stories
I've heard since then.

There are experiences
we would wish never happened...
memories re-experienced
again and again,
without warning,
like a knock on the door
that you wished you had ignored....
a call that you wish you missed...
a place so dark
it never leaves you....
infinity that cannot be endured -
or so it seems...
you know this will be
a part of you, forever,
Always showing up uninvited.

PS: What we know
is not always true.

I always needed a place to hide
growing up...
and that little boy
is still a part of me.

I used to hide in the woods
near home
from that witch
that was my mother.

I knew how killable I was
as an infant
and that that somehow
the witch had killed my mother
when she was holding me -
better than to believe
my mother was that witch.

It makes no sense
but I was just an infant
and I was afraid that I was
not a person,
that I was just a part
of my mother
and that this meant
that the witch would eat me too.

Some time passed
and I came to know
that the witch was my mother.

Oh, through these years,
I've come to realize
that my fears and the dangers
I faced
were not 
mine alone.

Don't ask me why these things
happen...
why a mother can't love
why a child
becomes and adult
struggling for a reason 
to understand this
seeking those who tell them
their existence 
is important and valuable. 

Later in life,
as an adult
I just wanted to be that
nurturing or protective
surrogate
to help people 
do more than exist
but to live...

If only you will
invite me into your life.

I also won't lie to you
I won't deny
just how desperately
I could use a hug
or some other form of touch -
any human physical contact.

Having seen evil,
spent an hour or more
in the same room
with him -
or it - 
the hairs on the back
of my neck stood up...
I felt both a strong urge
to wipe his image
from my mind,
so as to go back to a life
of having never seen
or known
or been exposed
to Evil
and at the same time
I felt an obligation
to destroy him
as if that was my duty
to protect
all whom he
might otherwise come to harm...

Isn't that what I owed
one of his victims?
I could still hear her words
and probably always would,
"Are you just going to let him
get away with it?"
His words echoed through time.
He said, she had disrespected him
and for that she knew she would have
to escape
in the daylight.
 

So she boarded a train
the next day,
for a state 
up north,
from where she had come.

Now I know,
many years later,
that he cannot be destroyed
and I just want to forget him,
forget his name,
act as if I never met him...
no, act as if I never knew
he existed.