"psychotherapy" poems
We can make this edible
without utensils
In a strange, menuless kitchen
Well, can you not make a salad?
Take a cucumber of memory
Slice it so thin that none of the recollections hurt anymore.
Mince some olives so fine
Their oil leaks onto the cucumber like OK.
Add the pulsing flesh of bright red tomatoes
But don’t slice them
Just squeeze them with your hand
Until they explode like wet epiphanies
And dare to dice a garlic clove
Without turning your nose away
As invisible olfactory reality
Assaults you with truth so pungent
That ECT would pale in comparison
To that very assault on your boundaries of understanding
And then toss the whole thing
Watching how it changes color and texture
And just when you both start to get hungry
And you both want to cry
The 50 minutes are over.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:08 AM UTC
pansy's screws weren't loose,
they were missing,
all of them,
leaving gaping holes
of unpredictable insanity
in her manic life
only 22,
and built like haya,
the mistress of desire
and lust,
every male nurse and
a certain shrink at the nut house
couldn't wait to ******
a missing ***** or two
into her
~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~
so mum the matron gave her
a protective room at our crib
only 13,
and built like *** wee
the hermit of lore,
I sat at the dinner table
opposite *****
she played footsie
with my naked toes
then gave me the crazy eye
as her lazy tongue
slid in...and out...
of her crazy mouth
~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~
seed planted,
*** wee fed the fantasy
until it bore fruit:
a succulent apple
in his prurient mind
~ ready to be ...reaped ~
*** wee knocked on the door
~ silence ~
knock.....knock....
~ silence ~
*** wee turned the ****
and there she was...
~ en el desnudo ~
curves, ***** legs
open and inviting,
vacuous eyes staring at me,
daring me...
then she started screaming....
~ P (Pablo)
(7/28/2013)
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
renegade memories
relentless effrontery
rogue fractured intruders
a formulable formidable aside inside
man is a modified monkey
a jackdaw in peacock's feathers
contradictions, the multiplicity that is a unity
a patchwork of odds and ends
snips and snails
dreams and delusions
hopes and fears
a mystifying knot of phantasmagoric disquietude
agape in a stupefied bewilderment
as an autistic child swept up in minutiae
inscrutable incongruities
melange of matters beyond explanations
maundering machinates
necessary inventions repeating and reforming
sheltering some aspect of the mind's deforming
'reaction formations' sotto voce instructs the analyst
defending emotions at the personalities bequest
merrily merrily merrily merrily, life is but a dream
psychotherapy is no mere scheme
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
at the advice
of a persuasive psychotherapy
talk-show
guest
i once attempted staring at myself
in a large mirror propped
on a chair
with a candle,
for four hours
as per his perscription
burning, dripping there
i forget
exactly what happened to my vanity,
but it wasn't pretty
Feb 15, 2013
Feb 15, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Write me a meal plan in bright red pain
And tell me this is the answer to all my problems again
Force down a tube through my nose and into my stomach
And watch as I flummox out of control
Fill this gaping hole inside of me
With drugs and sedation
Numb out pain and realisation
Force feed me promises and a smile
Only to regress back in a while.
Fill these cracks
With temporary fixtures
Concoctions of pills and other mixtures.
Treat me with CBT and psychotherapy
Tell me one day ill be free
And maybe if you say it enough times
Ill start to believe it
As much as you say you do.
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
dear immoral,
salt
seed of
s
la
ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
gives callously
equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
each persnickety biochemistry
is the
longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
No content,
j
us
t web,
you
r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
agile
computation
today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
trembling
je
we
ler
confidant loves increasingly
languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor ***********
perpetual on my
quick
bible;
my psychotherapy roves
into a
bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
psychoanalysis's
preferably quick
psych
otherapy-
how
ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
he
unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
overshadows
his youth
so
that it is contemporary
grin
quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
into appreciated ca
mar
aderies
psychotherapies rove in
my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
grip
of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
on my quick bible;
my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
journey;
my
paralysis ambles
onto a
crazy hotel.
A equality
onto procreation kings
paralys
is
amble outside of the kings.
Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Only LOVE can save Earth and all living creations upon it.
But to LOVE, one must first be loved. That is why it is imperative that the embryo must be loved. Then the infant, then the toddler, then the child, then the teenager, and so on.
If you have never been loved, or not enough, you will have problems, serious problems. But it is never too late to be loved.
I was not loved by my mom and dad. They had a terribly miserable marriage for 36 years. Neither was emotionally capable of loving me.
But our maid, Maggie Woods, bless her heart, loved me. Did I care that her skin was black? If you have a garden that is drying up, do you care if it rains?
Maggie loved me. She fixed me two poached eggs, grits (she grew up in southern Texas), and two slices of toasted wholewheat bread buttered every morning for years. She washed my clothes. If I needed a spanking, she spanked me. If I needed a hug, she hugged me. I could feel Maggie's LOVE.
My biological mother never entered my bedroom when I was in it. Maggie did.
I remember one incident in particular. I was a kid. I was sick in bed. I distinctly remember Maggie coming into my room with something to eat and a Squirt to drink. I had never drunk a Squirt before, but apparently Maggie loved it. (Maggie and Floyd, her husband, lived in our house in an apartment on the third floor.) The Squirt unconsciously symbolized her LOVE for me.
In my early 30s, I entered psychotherapy with Dr. Patricia Norris at the famous Menninger Foundation. We used what I was to refer to as "unguided" imagery. (Most refer to this modality as guided imaginary,) I worked with Pat, as I came to call her, a long time.
In short, the way it worked was that as we sat in our chairs, we both closed our eyes and waited for something to come into my mind, which I then would share with Pat. The long story was that Pat became my surrogate mother. We experienced many loving moments in our "unguided" imagery. The LOVE I felt from Pat, though through imagery, was real. I was finally and fully loved, and that made me who I am today.
Hate is not the opposite of love. It is the absence of love. Those who suffer from the paucity of LOVE unconsciously try to compensate for its dearth through becoming wealthy, then mega wealthy; by garnering fame; or by accruing power. None works.
But LOVE works. The more of it you share, the more you have to share.
Earth suffers so greatly from the lack of LOVE that it is dying. But even if one human being feels love, that love can spread like wildfire.
Let's hope the wildfire of LOVE spreads over Earth entirely and soon.
It is utterly plausible that it can happen.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 27, 2021
Jan 27, 2021 at 3:01 PM UTC
.Asleep and unknown,fat brushed ash adheres toblind, bleating teeth;as the hovering world hangs-the mighty boats rise and fallwith the longing tide.Mountains rise with the respectto music, while electrical nightmarescelebrate light stained forgiveness,where hard, heavy tongues bindan entire generation. The tappingsoul forest's eternal beat, heavilywooded with pine and cedar,chips away at the teenager's stonedeyes. Bus stops stand like tombstonesfor those standing alone, runs its' icy fingersup and down the neck of perfect strangers;sending one long chilllike the spines of a sea urchin.Now! Psychotherapy is the new world's one hour sport.So, there's a broken creation of transparent things,plastic things, opaque things; and your precious Xanax tabs. My blackened bus lungs long to sing sailor songs of skyscrapers and simple melodies of old. With your rolled-up sleeves burning, you take note of the poor antstender feet as they carry their own dead off ofthe blistered path, where your neighbors perfectthe art of growing appleswithout trees, which has nothing to do with dying.
Feb 25, 2010
Feb 25, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC
She lit a cigarette. It made a whispering inhale and exhaled a thin white thread of smoke. The woman smoked, despite that she never really liked neither the scent that stayed on her skin and clothes, nor the effect of nicotine, which was lost after a couple of packs. One day she started smoking to manifest her freedom, today she is smoking to entertain herself. It is entertaining for her to exhale white clouds out of lips and try to recognize a moments of innocent happiness in them. Each moment spent with a cigarette reminded about all other moments, which were earlier, younger...
She inhaled again and in the exhale smiled. The white mist coming out of her red lips looked magically. But it was not the cigarettes; it was her special elite beauty that made the bench she was sitting on so attractive… expensive.
Today she was in black. Luxurious half dark stockings with a black line, shining spike heels, a strict skirt and a costume, which accurately underlined her breast, in a way that gives to any passing by man an insuperable longing to undo one more button, just one more button…
If I said that her face was beautilful, that would mean nothing. The beauity of her face could be equal only to the sensation of a hot chocolate on a tip of your tongue.
Smooth, white skin, without any face’ powder. Skin that would make you touch it, and slide through it with your cheek, to find out if it is real, or to feel how real it is… Just that would be a best psychotherapy that nobody ever offered you.
What does she want? What she doesn’t need, it’s an attention… She is hungry for something sincere that rises right from depth of the soul, nurtured by warmth of the heart, delivered by the means of good thoughts and sensible words that would nurture and cure her heart… But all she has it is smoke of the cigarette. What an unfair trade…
She smiled again. What is she thinking about? May be about the age when she was a little girl and promised her mom to be a good girl. Or about a little boy who was the first to say that loves her... and the last man who meant it... or meant it in the way she needs it now. She remembered how she used to sleep cuddling with her dad, a man of the strong cologne, big hands and passionate embrace. Oh, how she wanted just to sleep next to somebody like her dad… Strong, warm, silent, sincere…
She is not smiling… Please don’t cry. Don’t cry. Client is coming…
-Hello, How are you?
-I’m perfect today! What about you?
-Apartments are there, how much is one hour?...
Mar 9, 2010
Mar 9, 2010 at 5:50 PM UTC
Matrix vector analysis is easy
for a long time it will keep you busy.
To be honest,its like psychotherapy..
Cause it keeps your brain from other thoughts,
that would make you dizzy.
To be or not to be,thats not the matter.
Choosing the less bad,from your only bad options
should be your talend.
Your criteria should be logic and a planning list
That's what will assist.
And when you evetually start vectors liking,
congrats,
youre now a *********
Dec 8, 2019
Dec 8, 2019 at 7:09 PM UTC
Age, ages, what ages you?
Time, times, what troubles you?
Space, spaces on a blank page.
Face, faces, from rapture to rage.
If you can throw words like dark looks,
Put on paper and fill notebooks, emotion filled and colourful!
Writing is sorting your thoughts, like psychotherapy,
Without the couch or the cost, can you afford a puppy?
Fifty-two poems in fifty-two weeks, mostly direct,
a few tongue and cheek, through the life I trekked.
Look, looks at a mirrored image fractured,
Distance, distances, relationships manufactured.
Dimension, dimensions, superficial to beyond 3-D,
Life, lives, filled please until full, honest vulnerability?
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
The coming of Biden and Harris reminds me of one of the most beautiful and evocative songs ever sung, the first line of which goes something like this: "If you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair." It was written and composed by John Phillips and sung by Scott McKenzie. Implicit not only in its writing and composing, but also in its singing, this song emotes the most powerful message that can ever be delivered to and absorbed by humankind: LOVE.
I would have been in Haight-Ashbury in June, July, and August of 1967, but I was a patient at the famous Menninger Foundation at that time, the best help of its kind in the world, and expensive (my father was a rich). But it was my mother who finessed my way into Menninger’s, not my father. He wanted me to become an attorney on Wall Street and make millions (now billions). That is, after all, why he had gladly paid a fortune to send me to the best schools in the world: Phillips Andover Academy (prep school) and Columbia College, Columbia University. I attended law school after college, but began to have problems sleeping that only grew worse during my first semester. The less sleep I got, the more difficult it was to study. Finally, I couldn’t sleep at all. I dropped out of law school right before first-semester finals, an act for which my father never forgave me.
But my sleepless nights continued even after I dropped out, which ******* up my mind and my life terribly. I had no idea why this was happening to me. If my mother had not surreptitiously intervened and got me into Menninger’s, I no doubt would not be writing this to you. Psychotherapy not only saved my life, but also allowed me, for the first time in my life, to realize I had feelings--my own feelings--my hopes, my dreams, my wishes, my needs. And after months, something magical happened when I unconsciously married my intellect with my new-found feelings: out of me popped a poem, and I have remained a poet to this very day.
What does what I’ve just shared with you have to do with Biden and Harris? The answer is that both brought, and now bring, great promise, great hope. Out of total darkness comes the bright light of a new beginning--a caring, a compassion, the lack thereof almost brought me to my death, and our nation, democratically speaking, to the same. Now there are, metaphorically speaking, flowers in our hair once more.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 4:38 PM UTC
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?
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 8:49 AM UTC
Look at my eyeliner, one wing still there from the night previous. The clothes I wear are the first clothes I grabbed from the pile on the floor yesterday. I'm really, really, very good at forgetting to take my medicine.
My only friend, a 11.2 lb. Mutt is more than happy to snuggle with me through the days, sleeping in is now my medicine. "You do it to yourself." they say. Not today, please, not today.
Another job that "didn't work out". Whatever, as long as I don't have to leave, outside is so ******* loud. I swear I tried, and I worked so hard, I always do. Still, I'll stumble through time, not unlike everyone else, the crowds of people all unknowingly living on a shelf. The judgments pass on, as does the ticking, and it all comes back around next time with even more kicking. "YOU DO IT TO YOURSELF!"
At night is when the real fun begins, I get to cry, and hug myself, and say its going to be better. One more day. That's it. I'll give it one more day. As for the night, well the mysteries know no bounds, the crickets shall chirp me on as the stars part the clouds. I can finally scream and curse the world silently. Maybe night will come quick, like a thief or death... Ah, wish-filled thinking, I really should take my medicine.
Don't think I'm not hopeful; on the contrary I feel as if I am quite hope-filled, even extremely optimistic. Not today though, today I take the only medicine I can, and crave; sleep. One day at a time, that hope of dying young haunts me. Still I imagine a world with my very own family and a home. Realistic Hallucinations if you would ask someone well studied in the field of psychotherapy; I've got to find that medication.
My pain digs in, begging me to play, not today, please, I beg not today. My blankets are warm, my eyes don't wish to open, my bestfriend is yawning softly, as he scoots closer to me. Maybe I'll fall into a wonderful hope filled slumber, the dreams aren't worse than the living.
Might as well, I doubt if I will ever take that ******* medicine.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
Limericks are part of modern psychotherapy
Found to be efficacious in many a country
Edward Lear was before his time and did not think
He could sell his poems to every shrink
Today he would be worth millions in US currency
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
I want to quit.
I don't feel like telling them
every thing that goes through my mind.
I never did.
I hided things.
I always hide stuff.
But I don't know when my therapy will end
and that scares me.
Quiting it sounds good right now..
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:36 AM UTC
I've always wanted to **** a psychiatrist.
I think it'd be hot for someone to hear all my ********
On the couch meant for listening, while their legs are spread;
I'd pay what's more than fair to know what goes on in their head.
I know this kid who once made his psychiatrist cry.
I swear to god, he's my hero.
I worry about him sometimes.
But I don't get paid for that **** you know?
They're so fond of handing out pills.
Psychobabble jargon and all of that swill.
"Your emotions are too strong. Take these and they'll be killed."
******* psychiatry.
It's adorable.
"Did you know that your profession has one of the highest suicide rates?
What are you doing tonight?
Wanna go on a date?"
I bet they hear a lot about ****
Do you think they might get off on it?
Poor ********
Your career choice was a mistake.
No, really though, I think it's pretty great.
Trying to help people function properly and stuff.
Psychiatrists are hot.
They can all get ******
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:27 AM UTC
*history repeats its childhood
and dwells on its faults
in need of psychotherapy
it analyzes its insecurities
and cannot bear to be told what to do
it finds freedom in repetition
like a machine gun against the cold
streams of ****** victims
immediate and visceral
silence overcame our blankets
and wrapped us up in fear
our guardians whispered warnings
that we could never hear*
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 12:20 AM UTC
The story is that Rachmaninov was depressed for three years from 1898 to 1901. Eventually he sought the help of Dr. Nikoli Dahl who saw Rachmaninov daily using hypnotherapy and psychotherapy. Rachmaninov responded favorably to these treatments. In 1902 he composed his Piano Concerto No, 2. There are, of course, many great and beautiful musical compositions, but Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 2, along with Beethoven's 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th symphonies, together with Bach's Brandenburg Concertos and his Toccata and Fugue in G Minor stand at the pinnacle of the world's pyramid of great music. I have written poems since my early 20s. A poem is not a symphony, but it is a work of art. Do I ever feel the way Rachmaninov felt when he heard the deafening applause after No. 2 was performed for the first time? Sometimes.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 4:31 AM UTC
I wish that if no one was there for me, at least I would be there for nobody.
I wish that the absence of my presence is not felt (as it is not already) but that memories of me would be like blurry photographs burned away by hazy summers. And that I would be the outline of someone standing on a distant shore, those who walk on the bottom of the sea to reach me will only find plastic propped up by an advertisement for psychotherapy. I want to drift the world like a transient woman tied down only by an obsession to leave. I want to dance in midnight covered streets, damp with moonlight and dew, singing in the silent way of the quietly insane. I need to be alone on my couch in front of my t.v. ******* on artificially sweetened dreams. I need to breathe in the still air and learn to stop giving so many *****
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
A few weeks ago, I had less thoughts,
But now they’ve come back and they can’t seem to stop
I feel massive and huge
I’ve let myself go
How can I live like this
I’m puffy like dough
I want to control what I eat.
But I’m at the mercy of what my parents make
And the awkwardness that surrounds my plate
I can’t talk about how this is driving me insane
I know I’m crazy, these thoughts are inane
But I don’t know what to do.
I just want to be fit, like what I see in the mirror
Not hate every inch of fat on my rear
I want to be lean.
But what if I can’t have this
That might be true
Too much restriction
Metabolism won’t come through
Messed up my body
Messed up my life
On a path to a body,
I’m filled with strife
I don’t believe this will cease to haunt me
Incompatible with my nature
Incompatible with me
I want to achieve
And be the best I can be
I obsess over my shape
And my unknown weight
I’d rather be destroyed
Than discover I’ve gained
Truly, there is no cure.
Intense psychotherapy
Is the only hope there
But my thoughts aren’t distorted,
It’s our culture, I swear
My struggles are normal
Reflective of today
In these thoughts I may drown
In our culture I am prey
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 11:02 AM UTC