Once again

Doctor’s Appointment
by C. Wolf

Once again we enter the waiting room
We find seats, side by side
Our hands pressed together
In a death grip

This is our dark cavern of foreboding
Our domicile of dread
In my other hand I clutch a list
A catalog of your symptoms
Least panic strikes us dumb

There are more poems by C. Wolf on her web page, HERE.

A New Significance

In this excerpt from a letter to Scott,  Zelda Fitzgerald describes her mental illness in words that sound very much like Beat Poetry:

In Paris, before I realized that I was sick, there was a new significance to everything:  stations and streets and facades of buildings– colors were infinite, part of the air, and not restricted by the lines that encompassed them and lines were free of the masses they held.  There was music that beat behind my forehead and other music that fell into my stomach from a high parabola and there was some of Schumann that was still and tender and the sadness of Chopin Mazurkas– Some of them sound as if he thought he couldn’t compose them– and there was the madness of turning, turning, turning through the decisiveness of Litz.  Then the world became embryonic in Africa– and there was no need for communication.  The Arabs fermenting in the vastness; the curious quality of their eyes and the smell of ants; a detachment as if I was on the other side of a black gauze…

From Zelda by Nancy Milford, ©1970, pages 166-167.

21.

TWENTY-ONE
by Rod McKuen, from Listen To The Warm © 1967

Only a day away
the loneliness is unbearable.
How will it be if you are a year gone?

What will happen
if I am not to know again
                        your warm arms
your shoulder next to my face at night
the quiet talk over strong coffee
the chase along the toll beach
                                 and oh God
so many things.

I am afraid of being alone now
it happens every time you close the door
or go into the next room
                 away from me.

I am like a child again
I can’t be left alone.

Hurry.

Not of My Own Will

I Have Come Here
by ​Adyashanti

I have come here
into this life
not of my own will
but of the will
of the Hidden One—
the One who sprouts every seed
the One who causes the leaves to fall
the One who beats hearts
and breathes air into lungs.
I have come here
as a spark cast off
of the Eternal Fire
looking for dry grass
and a gentle breeze
to kindle the Hidden One’s
heat into flame.

All things must

Excerpt from Kéramos by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

All things must change
To something new, to something strange;
Nothing that is can pause or stay;
The moon will wax, the moon will wane,
The mist and cloud will turn to rain,
The rain to mist and cloud again…

You can read the entire poem online HERE.

I Just Hope He Doesn’t Get Any Uglier

The Killers
by Leonard Cohen
from The Energy of Slaves (1972) (via)

The killers that run

   the other countries

are trying to get us

to overthrow the killers

   that run our own

I for one

prefer the rule

   of our native killers

I am convinced

   the foreign killer

will kill more of us

than the old familiar killer does

   Frankly I don’t believe

anyone out there

really wants us to solve

our social problems

   I base this all on how I feel

about the man next door

I just hope he doesn’t

   get any uglier

Therefore I am a patriot

I don’t like to see

   a burning flag

because it excites

the killers on either side

to unfortunate excess

which goes on gaily

   quite unchecked

until everyone is dead