poetry

She seemed out of place
on this late July day,
wearing several layers of clothes
including a coat.

But she was invisible
even with her several bags
of belongings -
as if she was traveling - 
she was always traveling,
I believe.

I couldn't help looking.
I wanted to notice her.
I don't think anyone else
coming into the coffee shop
noticed her - she was invisble.

We made her invisible.
Not because we didn't notice...
we all believed that it was best
not to look
or to turn away
like when you catch someone 
picking their nose,
the polite thing
is to turn away - and fast.

I wanted to think of something
to say to her...
I wanted to notice her.
During the event,
I didn't see her leave
the shop and join us...
but she was gone...

I just wanted to show her
some empathy. 

I don't know
what her experience is
but I was thinking, 
just today...
I am also
invisible.

At 7 AM the homeless shelter
spits people out like,
some great phallus
or like a bad cough.

The sky drips
and the sun squints
and ghosts move
through the morning fog.

A people set apart
like shadows
that you wouldn't notice
until they speak to you...
asking for spare change.

Maybe you turn
or maybe you move
along faster - most of the time
they're invisible.

As a homeless person
they had no sense
of past or future...
the past was mourned -
the hopes, 
expectations,
predictability...
the past was lost.
The Present
was so 
all encompassing,
so overwhelming,
so challenging...
the only future
was immediate.

He lived an as-if life.
When he asked himself
what was different about himself
now versus just months ago.
He held two contradictory beliefs at once...
He knew there was nothing different
about his nature or character
than existed just months ago,
but he also wasn't fully
himself.

He had been part of 
a family
a couple...
He had a home.

Now he had no home -
no one who would 
care
about his arrival and departure...
no one who wanted him...
the same one who delighted
in his career success,
couldn't prevent its loss.

He didn't look any different...
didn't have any different 
character or morals... 

But he began to see himself
the way he had been told
others would see someone
like this. 
No, he KNEW
others saw him differently.

Thus he held two contradictory views
at the same time
about himself.
The reality he knew
and the as-if vie of himself
that he held - 
the as-if view of himself
based on the assumptions
he felt others surely held
about him,
as if these assumptions
were true. 
 

He began to think of himself
as if he was a different person...
as if he must be an alcoholic (?) 
or an addict - 
without the alcohol
or drugs...
as if he was 
lazy.
Though, while certainly not lazy,
he was losing hope - motivation.

Little by little,
these false and contradictory beliefs
became entangled with
the assumptions
regarding the 
as-if person he had become.

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. 

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 it 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 child creeping up your back...
someone could be around the corner
in the dark room to the right...
somehow, you'v emade 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.

Introduction: There can be a hypnotic pattern in poetry. Sometimes I write, those things that have altered my consciousness, in the most intense or profound ways... maybe you will feel the same.

So the question is not, can you be hypnotized. The question is, can I find the language patterns that will be most effective in altering your consciousness.

In this poem
        I'd like to alter
your consciousness
            and help   you
to begin
to find
a greater snese 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
if you open your mind.

Now begin
with a couple of deep breathes
and as you do,
with your eyes closed;
imagine or pretend
              you are walking
along a wooded path...

approaching a safe
and comfortable place -
                 your place.

You've reached
a clearing
in the woods
overlooking a town
 

below...

you notice
                    the sounds
here - the wind in the trees
and the sensation
of the air
against your face...

You notice
            whatever it is
that is most pleasant
and peaceful
about this experience
and whatever it is
that is most 
helpful
in creating 
a feeling
of re-lax-a-tion.

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

The poem has ended
but let the experience
continue.

Introductory Note: This was an actual dream I had decades ago and in part during a hypnosis session. I was thinking about connections and friendships. When I thought about reading this poem, I saw outside a house a decorative bird that was black. I thought, "aren't most white?" 

I then thought about how we use language and the concept of racism. This thinking is after the dream that needed to be written. Psychologically, we are warmer, kinder, when we are in contact with something warm to the touch. White as a sheet is sickly. Darker skin is warmer, it seems, and so again, at some level instinctual level I was confused by racist ideology.

I am in a park somewhere.
I see a bird,
a black swan
with subtle green markings -
and I'm fascinated.

I turn away
and when I turn back
the bird is gone
and I see a beautiful black woman.

I'm drawn to her
instantly, passionately,
attracted to her.

She approaches me and says,
"You act as if you
do not know me."

"Should I?"

"I am part of you
and have always been
a part of you,
the source of your comfort,
what you have sought
to find.

"Come with me,"
she says.
And I follow,
longing to be absorbed
by her warmth,
as light itself
combines,
and joins with
leaving nothing
lost or reflected back.

Monday night, up late,
And I cannot quite find
the poem in me.
It was just there. ;
somewhere around some corner,
in my mind,
haunting me. 

I must call forth this apparition,
It is an exorcism I seek. 

Will you stay?
Will you believe in me,
and my ghosts?

I don't -
not literally - but
the more I search,
the less I'm free,
the ghost is me.