Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Psychscribe Quote #58

April 19, 2009


“Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me.” Sigmund Freud

The Measure of Grief

February 5, 2009





Twenty-five years ago today my father died.  

Even in my dreamless sleep I knew it.


I stumble out of bed  

where is my husband?


I want to hug him    

hug him so tightly

but he is gone

gone to work  

to work his ass off.




I worry about his heart.


I want to hug my father  

(who worked his ass off).

I want to hug him  

hug him so tightly


but he is gone  


gone to rest    

to rest in peace.


I’d rather he were here, God forgive  me.

Yes.  I would rip him right out of paradise  if I could

to have him back here with the whole family

loving    living   YES , even suffering

but right alongside us where   think he belongs.


A quarter of a century.

One-fourth of a whole.

A quarter coin is so small really.  


A hole the size of a quarter 

is still in my heart  

big enough to kill me.


by Psychscribe ©2009

I Am Not Yours

January 17, 2009
by Sara Teasdale
I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Psychscribe Quote #51

January 16, 2009


“It is strange how often a heart must be broken before the years can make it wise.” Sara Teasdale

Winter Twilight (Revised)

January 15, 2009

Listen  to the silent wail of  swaying, naked treetops.

Watch them blindly seeking  cold comfort

from the dark indifferent  sky,

as howling winter winds whisper :

 night is stalking.

The Prodigal Daughter

March 13, 2008

The Prodigal Daughter

Thanks to a class offered by a

soft spoken South American professor

who preaches the gospel of creativity

I am whole again.

Seeking the power of steel beams and girders

I had tossed my Muse (my dearest friend) into the sea.

I needed muscle

not watercolor dreams leading nowhere.

I learned to weld and solder

to read blueprints and gauge distances

to hammer and sweat in the sun

until mine was as big as his.

I forgot how to cry.

Finally one say in class (for three credits)

I walked alone across the bridge that

I had built with my own two hands and

found my Muse waiting there

like an indulgent mother

for me to call her name.

Now words and colors and images

leap and dance before my eyes

and I paint golden wildflowers on my bridge

and I sing purple poems

and my tears fall freely now

because I have come home again,


It is indeed a form of prayer.


by Pyschscribe copyright 2008

To My Adult Son Who Revealed He Writes Poetry

January 5, 2008

Its a secret language.

Only some can understand it,

a chosen few can speak it.

You must be initiated:

a bloody ritual of human sacrifice

and tormenting joy  that could not last.

Therefore the agony.

Like a prophet you are given the excruciating

vision          you scream and rage against it

but it is done to you      and when it is

finished you must write your poems

or you will die.

We’re marked but its invisible.

We walk alone       always alone

and if we are lucky we  recognize each other

along the way and  share      for a moment     

 the kinship of survival.

And so I greet you now,

you of my body and of my blood,

you        my first poem

and whisper this:

we are cursed but we are blessed.

You will be alright.

I can’t say more       they don’t allow it.

Each one must find it for himself.

So though I would stab my own heart with your pain

if I could        to spare you,

I rejoice in learning that

you too have grown wings

and fly closer      each day,

toward the gods.

Copyright Psychscribe 2008


December 3, 2007

Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace

The soul that knows it not

knows no release from little things

knows not the livid loneliness of fear

nor mountain heights

where bitter joy

can hear the sound of wings.

by Amelia Earhart    amelia.jpg

Child crouched behind a wall

November 29, 2007

Hidden, though  she  wants to be  found.

Silent, though  she wants to scream.

Choking on her own  fear and

blind to the hand held out to her.