The child is separated once again from its parent,
He gazes up through tears of worry,
Will someone pick him up,
Or is his death imminent,
What will become of the boy,
Without mindful caring,
His worst fears play on the big screen,
While crystals become warm in the palms of two.
*Poem dedicated to Peter Wilkin
Prior to law I had rights, a right to watch my seed grow,
Half a block from home but mountains away he lay,
This sick game only deals in crumbs of compassion,
Every day I die on the first inch of her territory,
Every right I claim for myself meets deaf ears,
Bless he who have toiled for freedom trampled under foot,
Victimisation and discrimination against love,
This my sole weapon, I bring down with full force.
When joy reaches it’s peak, black leopard claws seer down on praying heads,
Just as the flower reaches its climax, water leaves you dry and seedless,
Winter blue confessions in blinding cheap light,
Circles of radiant illuminati, pointless wastage of a second.
He spoke with hurt and I chose him,
This unfortunate soul becomes ego’s friend,
Father’s boundaries adhered never challenged,
His patience tested on a radius of denial,
Whose crib does he sleep that man in consciousness,
All earthly answers lie creased under pillows,
While the boy rides his bike with tendency to fall,
Caught in sympathies yielding nest,
Growing pains heard from mountains afar,
Gods dream, ripped apart thorn by thorn,
A man is born like a calf with unsound legs,
Who now walks alone under his full moon.
Only the wounded healer can truly heal ~ Irvin D. Yalom
I lust not after the beauty in her heart,
Her appetiser of passion served capable of burn,
It’s debauchery making mockery of my true self,
Like feeding salt to a man who is dying of thirst,
Her new love prompting potent oral tradition,
Satisfying mental images portrayed in a mind accompanied by crime,
Queen of black lace eternally destroying light,
Shadows learned through a child’s premature green eyes,
Weeping and gnashing tyrannising thoughts,
Lust is easy and love is hard.
Of all the worldly passions, lust is the most intense. All other worldly passions seem to follow in its train ~ Buddha
Poetic ambiguity and anxiety about training to become a Psychotherapist.
After millions of years of silence the talking cure emerges yapping.
The young disciples in training follow the talk, degrees in hand, in pre-genital latency. Supposedly there to help the sick, masked with dagger in hand ~ who knows more than I, the ego.
The noise from the Tavistock is deafening as the talking community scratch theory around the table without a trace of anxiety; the shrink family is arguing again while the sleeping Buddhist lion opens one eye briefly ~ Africa carry their babies on their backs in swinging security, what a funny lot!
The therapists lucky chair sits where it wants to and the magic couch lays stiff ~ But I want to sit next to you!
Bookshelves stacked with titles ablaze in the magical land of theory as tumbleweeds pass and tears fill. Please sir, can I have some more? I need to repeat this pleasurable sensation, as the clock is watched and feared ~ Gaps in chat hold golden keys.
Anna and Melanie play in the sand while Winnicott observes, trust verses mistrust, are you watching Daddy?
I don’t have a pen, but where do I sign.