August 2024
Bio Note: I find working as a psychotherapist dovetails perfectly with the endeavor of poetry. I love the deeper meanings of poetry and how it connects us. Also, being able to chronicle what happens, what is important, what it might mean to me.
Author's Note: I love writing to people I care about and writing responses to poems that move me. Very often, but not always, my theme is about trauma and its healing.
Author's Note: I love writing to people I care about and writing responses to poems that move me. Very often, but not always, my theme is about trauma and its healing.
When Is a Farm Not a Farm—
Your Psychologist Wants to Know
Rick says, that body scan has saved
my bacon more times than I can count
meaning I’ve used that technique
to get me out of a mucked-up mess
and it’s worked. He says that bacon
is our precious skin—
Meaning the body is a collection
of memories and firing squads
of neurons fed by proteins
raised on lonely farms. Rick means
to say bring your attention
to your body, one breath at a time
for those lambasted with fear
seeking relief. Rick meets
them in their mud of protections
built up with walls of slop at troughs
of despair. He says he is relentless
with questions:
Where does fear come from
and where does it travel?
Is it a bee or a butterfly?
Why would a body consider itself an enemy?
What is a good enough punishment for existing?
Rick knows it hurts like hell to heal.
The heart a plump tomato
on its vine so easily bruised.
He believes those who survive
the worst hurt have the most love
to give. That’s why he writes things down,
asks and asks. At night, does your heart
switch direction? From love—to hate—
to swill of shame? But what he doesn’t say
means the most. It’s in his eyes,
how they gaze from the ripe fields
of empathy, acres and acres.
Hills
After “Streets” by Naomi Shihab Nye
When my mother died the weather
around my heart softened.
At first the thunderstorm slowly dissipated,
electricity bleeding off
into arms, through fingers, till they stilled.
I wandered awake and in a dream,
waited on the empty sidewalk alone
with a forgetful sky swathed in nepenthe of clouds.
Then it was deluge without rumble,
tropical water that exhales.
The breath that labors lays down its shovel.
Her breathing stopped and mine freed up.
It’s not the kind of thing
that can be forecast. When she died
there was this double life, the one of tornados,
and of trade-winds. I hiked
hill over hill, calling out to myself
for an answer.
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL