I stopped going to therapy
because I knew my therapist was right
and I wanted to keep being wrong.
I wanted to keep my bad habits
like charms on a bracelet.
I did not want to be brave.
I think I like my brain best
in a bar fight with my heart.
I think I like myself a little broken.
I’m ok if that makes me less loved.
I like poetry better than therapy anyway.
The poems never judge me
for healing wrong.
Clementine von Radics
When I get old
I wonder if I will hide my stuff in weird places.
Will someone cleaning out my living space
find things like
my baptismal certificate from 1932
in a plastic Oil of Olay box
mixed with various items
like eyebrow pencils,
and various sizes of
finger nail clippers?
Will I place a baby hair brush
in a bag wrapped in paper towels
with coffee filters
and refrigerator magnets of all sorts?
Will I hide my telephone and address book under my mattress,
and my bills under the bathroom sink?
Will I buy more shampoo than I have years left to use it all,
and put cans of soup in my entertainment center?
What will I do when i get old?
I’m sure it will be eccentric and unusual.
I’m sure it will seem totally understandable to me
when I put my socks and underwear in the bathtub
and keep my kitchen cabinets completely empty.
Don’t you wish they would stop,
all the thoughts swirling around in your head,
bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage.
I should rake the leaves in the carport, buy Christmas lights.
Was there really life on Mars? What will I cook for dinner?
I walk up the driveway, put out the garbage bins.
I should stop using plastic bags, visit my friend
whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny.
I wish I hadn’t said Patrick’s painting looked “ominous.”
Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called.
Does the car need oil, again? There’s a hole in the ozone
the size of Texas, and everything seems to be speeding up.
Come, let’s stand by the window and look out
at the light on the field. Let’s watch how
the clouds cover the sun, and almost nothing
stirs in the grass.
Thinking by Danusha Laméris
To be nobody but yourself in a world doing its best to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human being can fight. ~ E.E. Cummings
after the four Miles had come and gone
and the three tenors had paused abruptly
my two legs stopped to design some landscapes
plant a few hedged borders
build a moat
or maybe several
the forsythia’s flame had burned to the ground in minutes
I had no cake
so I sat eating a protein bar by the ocean
tho the sensual strength of it makes me smile)
sand, definitely, all up in my business
I lay, watching blue and white swirls
birds up high – teaching me to trust
the sun making a last stand atop the tree-line
water…well, what more do I need to say..
the erotic mixture of charcoal and meat
mixed with freshly mowed grass
I float in tune with the laughter of children
fading in and out as they just run until breathless
<there was nothing sexy
about the couple loudly talking staff meetings
beside the waters edge>
but the feather left on the path in front of me
on my way home
spoke of wisdom meant just for me
I carried it home in my pocket
I used to miss you on a Friday night
now I make an important discovery
as I slowly make my way home
between sitting on freshly cut stumps
and old stone bridges
writing poems on the path
Now Im much too busy to miss you
being at peace
with my own lyrics
being in love
with my own shades of life