Poems for T

anyone have any to share?

This isn't a poem for T, but he is in it, a little. T has recommended that now that we are separated, my husband and I meet weekly to go over "business." Our last meeting didn't go so well. T is part of the "they" and "them" in this poem in the last few stanzas. Sometimes getting divorced feels to me like getting raped... in front of an audience.

Weekly meeting with my husband

Yesterday
I cowered again
Inside
When he told me what I could and
Couldn’t do

I saw the grain in the wooden table,
Where we sat
The lines flowing around knots
And running off the edge

Outside he thrust
His finger in my face
And wouldn’t let me talk
It felt familiar

I am not here
Sitting at a table
Talking to this man,
The father of my children

Leave me alone
To grow again
I will burst from the lines
When he is gone
And sing arias to the roses

I see his tells,
His face growing ugly
At least to me
Because of my words
It’s my fault

I compile a list
Automatically
Of things not to do the next time
Of words not to say
So that his face remains safe
And I don’t have to flee inside
Again

I always see it coming
The way he tilts his head
From side to side
As if weighing two choices
But there is always only ever one

And they say I have to do this
Again, again, and again
I don’t know why
Tell me why

I have to face him
And dig through soil
That has lain undisturbed
For centuries

I planted a garden on top
But they don’t care just dig it up
And feel the shovel
Slice right through you

And let him watch your wounds
Let them all watch

I’m gone again
Inside
This feels familiar

Not a poem, but written after she gave me a flower. I wrote this so I could show her how one simple, meaningful gesture messed up my already messed up head. I wanted her to see how things worked. You know, kinda train her, lololol.

WHITE PETALS

Little One Speaks
Even though I'm just six years old, I'm smarter than the other two. I’m the only one who knew we needed to come to therapy today. Flowerchild thinks because she is a teenager, no one can tell her what to do. Flowerchild hates therapy. She hates everything, even her own soul. The Grownup was too tired to drive, too tired to shower, but I cried so long she finally gave in and drove us here. It’s hard when three people all live in one head.

I sit real still behind the sofa in Roxanne’s office. My fingers trace the lines on the Chinese rug and I make them skate like Peggy Fleming. I reach up and tug on my grownup’s sleeve, but she won’t look at me. I need a Kleenex and I’m afraid to ask. Flowerchild gives me her “you better shut-up” eyes. I am afraid of her.

Sniff, wipe. Sniff, wipe. I scrunch up my face and squeeze my eyes tight so my tears won’t drip. I whisper cry so Roxanne can’t hear me. If she knew I was here, she’d give me the biggest box of fluffy tissues, cuz she is very nice for a therapist. And even though she can’t see the way my ponytail swings or hear my shoes click-walk, she knows I live inside my Grownup’s head. She looks at me sometimes and smiles. I wish she’d look right now. I finger skate some more and make Peggy twirl.

Sometimes Roxanne wants to give Flowerchild a green plastic bat to swing at the pillows like she’s mad at the sofa. But Flowerchild never takes it. She’d just smash it on Roxanne’s head. Roxanne gave her a gardenia once, but it was really meant for me. It smelled perfume nice and I loved the thick white petals. They were soft and cool. In the car going home, Flowerchild let me keep it in the visor. I was so happy, a big smile got stuck on my face like the wax clown lips I get at the candy store.

But then Flowerchild turned crabby. She said Roxanne didn’t pick the flower for us, that we got a leftover some other client gave her. Cuz that’s what we are, she said. Leftovers. She grabbed the flower and threw it out the window, and I watched the white petals fly away.

Flowerchild Speaks
I see Little One wiping her nose with the back of her hand and she tries to stay quiet. She knows better than to ask for a Kleenex, the sniveling baby *****. I evil eye her and mouth, no hugs today. She pouts, looks down, and plays with her fingers. Screw her. When she’s fifteen, she’ll understand that touch burns you raw.

My foot is bouncing so hard on the floor that my leg shakes uncontrollably. Roxanne is speaking, but my head is so crowded I can’t hear. Instead, I read her lips. “What’s up with the energy?” she asks. I want to kick the wall, stomp about, take that green bat and smash it over her head. Inside my head I scream, Aren’t I paying you to tell me? JUST FIX ME ! I watch Roxanne watch me and wonder what she’s thinking. I turn away and say nothing.

Grownup is unresponsive. She stares out the window, unwilling to face the past. She floats outside to a safe distance, lands on an oak tree branch, and looks back at us. I tell her she’s useless. Her silence is deafening. I tell her to jump.

Roxanne’s afraid that someday I’ll drive off the bridge, so after each session, she asks us to call when we get home. I know she doesn’t really care if we call or not. We pay her to pretend she cares.

One time after a hard session, Roxanne gave us a gardenia. Little One was so happy and felt so special, I let her put it in the visor on the ride home. But I knew that flower wasn't really for us. I asked Roxanne point blank if it was from her garden. We’d been lied to all our lives so I told Little One the truth.

"Roxanne didn’t pick that. A client gave it to her. Roxanne gave us a used flower. She told us we deserved it, we were worth it. Freakin’ liar, that Roxanne." I took that gardenia, threw it out the window, and watched the stupid petals fly.

Grown Up Speaks
The sun peeks through the blinds of Roxanne's office, creating shadows that bounce across the mint green wall. Between my racing thoughts and the other voices in my head, I fear my mind will snap loose like a tumbleweed driven by the wind. I stare at the oak tree outside the window and see myself swinging on a branch. How can that be.

Little One traces her finger along the pattern of the rug and whimpers while Flowerchild glares at Roxanne. Exhausted by the ongoing chatter and emotional energy these parts of me demand, I sit defeated. I am unable to move or speak. My mind searches for a way to drown out the others, and I sing.

But nobody ever hears him, or the sound he appears to make.
And he never seems to notice, but the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down, and the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning round.

Flowerchild sends the shut-up look to Little One whose eyes grow wide with fear. I am powerless against their anger and sadness, and I look to Roxanne for comfort. Her soothing voice confuses Flowerchild but embraces Little One who hugs herself and rocks.

I’m somewhere in the middle, pressed between these chapters of my life like a faded flower. The day Roxanne gave us the gardenia, I saw my longing for beauty through the eyes of my wounded child and felt the fear of intimacy pound in my raging teen’s heart. But most of all, I saw a future garden where gardenias flourish, love flows and white petals take flight.
© SJN 2001

wow petunia. that is so powerful. you are an amazing writer and so good at verbalizing things. i wish i could write something like that. i wish i could write the same type of thing reflecting my own experience. how did your T respond to that????

Thanks. I think she was hurt to some degree, that there was a part of me that was always so angry at her. But she was also honored that I trusted her enough to share it and thankful that she got some insight into the turmoil in my head over something as simple as a flower.

I've written quite a few pieces like this, most recently about her telling me she had cancer and how "we" all reacted.

Edited to add

This type of writing is not something I can just do by the way, I have to be drowning in the mixed emotion of the situation.

Can you tell I have trouble with reading books when I should be "doing"? The first poem is because I kept buying books when I had also bought plants for my little front garden but I just looked at them instead of planting them! I'd read about gardens but not "make" one. The second, haiku, was how I "suddenly" :-) noticed it was Spring outside, took my nose out of my books long enough LOL

Choices:

Four books just now added to ten.
Two weeks stall the growth spurt.
Books grow faster than plants.
Dooryard mud lies unbroken.

Mulch the books or read about
How plants grow well in paper gardens?
Mine is a dooryard small and perfect;
Yet potbound pansies cry for earth.

Split am I between two worlds:
Paper and earth compost my soul.
A mind is a terrible thing to waste
But sometimes too,
A wasteful thing to mind.

Haiku:

Books are laid aside,
Ashes swept up, the grate cleaned;
The apple tree’s in bloom.

krazibean723,

Do you have any you'd like to share with us?

Have you ever given one to T?

i have written poems before but not about T. I wanted to write some for her so i wanted some ideas...maybe as a little xmas gift or somethin

<font color="green">Here are two that I wrote about my therapist. I gave them to her as well, they are both expressions of my fear of abandonment-- the first one is several years old but the other is fairly recent.

She Can Hardly Breathe

She is drowning in fear
That wells up from deep inside.
That eats at her confidence
And destroys her composure.
She can hardly breathe.

She is afraid to let go
And, afraid to hold on.
It is so hard now,
How much harder will it be?
When you cannot
Endure her neediness.

Maybe it would be
Better to let go now.
To even drive you away now
So that She can survive.
She doesn't know if she can survive
Another change, another hurt.

She hates not having answers,
Only questions.
She wants to control her life
But at every turn
Something else controls
And she is flotsam
On the ocean of her own life.

How can She trust, why would She?
The fear inside is a living thing
With sharp teeth and razor claws.
She is bleeding inside.
Perhaps if she bled on the outside
The pain would not be so wrenching.
She can hardly breathe.


Can I Trust You?

Can I trust you?
How can I be,
Asking this
Same old question.

But can I trust you?
I think I need to
I want to
So I ask it once again.

So many times
In fear and trembling,
I’ve asked
You answer just the same.

Why can’t I trust?
You prove yourself
Over and over
But still I fear to trust.

I find that fear
Seems more real to me
Than love
Or safety with another.

I know I can trust you
My fear is really the lie
I wonder
Can you trust me?
</font>

I feel a Chicken Soup for the Therapist's Soul book coming.

There's Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul! That's close enough for me, Petunia :-)

You all have inspired me. I have written and posted poems to T before and given some to him but I never discussed them with him. Haven't had the courage to.

Petunia, your post moved me to tears.

Tornado

Why did you interrupt me
as I gathered the courage to speak
while resting my head on your knee
after losing my shoe in the creek

My reverie suddently smashed
and strewn upon the floor
and the open wound unwashed
I felt exposed like a *****

The attack was sudden and swift
The retreat reactive and certain
She didn't know it was a gift
and hid behind the curtain

You saw where she was cowering and dragged her out
despite your affirmations she was crying
so you began to shout
Inside she was dying

She fled the room and asked me for a ride
I let her come with me
the tears would not subside
the phone calls were meant to convey
The feelings she held inside

I was afraid she would threaten me
with a razor or a knife
But all she did was cry
and run for her life

In the morning she awoke
her tears still dripping down
I dressed her in something pretty
Hoping to transform her frown

I was happy that you called me
But it made her cry again
You said it was a transfer
I began to look within

When I come to see you next
She wants to come with me
She hopes you won't be vexed
Because it is with you that she can be

(((( Everyone ))))

Thanks for sharing.

Here is one I gave T a year ago:

Thank you
For believing in me when I haven’t believed in myself
For looking past the dirt and garbage, and finding a child
For hearing what I need to say
and even more for hearing what I can’t say
For teaching me to hear
For seeing me
For hugging me and holding me
For sitting with my pain; for sitting with Me
For giving, giving, giving and opening your heart
For refusing to go under with me, and
For being my reason to reach and not go under
For laughing with me, for smiling at me, for reading to me
For sharing with me, for telling me things
For being my example and often my beacon
as well as my guide, and my fellow traveler
For celebrating each step I take
For stepping right alongside me
And thank you for teaching me
That this body, this heart, and this Spirit together
make a Person who Matters
And although scarred and battered,
I deserve protection, and healing,
And to dream

Thank you all for sharing; these are wonderful.

**This poem could be triggering as it has a couple indirect references to SI and suicidal ideation**

This poem was written a couple months ago during an extremely difficult time. The "you' in the poem refers to T. He has read this poem. In fact, he has read all of my poems. This one sort of goes over 3 1/2 weeks of sessions with him. This is actually one of the few poems that we have discussed in great detail.

From the Couch to the Pavement

Week 1:

Postmortem disclosure-- you want
to know if it feels original. Ask me
ten more times and I’ll let you know.
Of course it feels new. Like a hazard.

You read from Milner— twice.
I lost the content both times. Something
about external madness related my art,
which seems to have gone missing lately.
I was too busy getting %#@&#! by the process.

Week 2:

I add something fresh to my hip
since the bone is an ideal structure
for precision and release. On
concrete, I hop from left to right
and punch the air. What bigger
effort to stop the movement?

I treat you like this because it
doesn’t happen that you’re real.
I feel bad-- but not enough to stop.
If you walk away, I will shove you
into the picnic table, glass pitcher first.

Week 3:

I inadvertently tell a painting that I don’t care.
The ending went badly, without warning.
Connections are exhausting.
You tell me the argument is related
to the actuality of being passive--
that pushing it back a few days is significant.
********. I made a mistake.

Punching the glove box feels good,
but my joints remain sadly in tact.
Not everything is acceptable, even if
it is presented in a container.

I suppose there’s a sense of simplicity
in calendars if you’re dead to the rest.
You hand me a list and allegro molto,
uncertainty. The chords are precisely
congruent, extensions of dissonance.

I am fascinated by the ways in which
preliminary death can be customized.

Week 3.5:

My fixation on guardrails and specific
amounts of pressure caused a cancellation
between the hours of 7:00 and 9:00 PM.
I found that the more halves you add,
the softer you get.

I spend an inordinate amount of time
thinking about the steps while carefully
challenging traffic. Get of my way.
Such inconveniences of provocation.

this is totally random, but this is a poem sent to me by another member. he left here i am pretty sure, but yeah. first time i read it it made me cry, as it was yet another thing to reming me that this world is a cruel and unforgivable place.

My screams beg for the mercy of a fate left behind.
My silence mistaken for sanity in my mind.
Take what you can get and leave me to wither.
I can't move when over me your fingertips must slither.

The dirt from your fingertips stains me beneath the skin.
The torment from your touch wears my soul ever so thin.
I hold my breath and imagine you aren't behind me.
I shriek in my skull and shut my eyes so u cant see.

Your instructions are never to tell another living soul,
While you stand before me and invade my dirty hole,
You care not for the begs and pleads to stop,
As you thrust harder causing my voice to drop.

I shreik a whisper as you moan low and explode deep inside.
You pull your pants up and leave your sin with me inside.
I couldnt even hug you without fearing the worst.
Now, i can never say i enjoyed my first.

you took away everything i could have hoped for
when you turned me around and made me your *****.

why he sent it to me i dont know. what he was trying to convey i dont know. he sent me another, which was different and harder to understand.
if the member is still here under a different name, i dont dislike them at all for what they did to my friend and i, and i forgive them for accusing me to try to escape blame. meh it doesnt matter its all past.
i guess i needed to post to let it go.

wow, thank you so much everyone i wasn't expecting this many responses. they are all very good and from the heart!!