The Journey

Let me in, let me see what is inside

Let me feel that place where you are trying to hide.

Two wounded souls from different places in time

Coming together without a map or a rhyme.


As you suffer in silence, I fly around in the dark

and search for words to help you embark.

Stolen moments meet us half way

to carry us forward thru a whole new day.


Two lovers gather in the evening silence

Yearning to touch and find their way once more.

They seek solace in the arms of each other

Hoping to find what they are looking for.


The past sits on the edge of reason and doubt

While it waits to be soothed and coddled.

Confusion lurks and passions await

Time moves on in haste.


The bed feels empty; the mind is reprieved

By a thought or a gesture that provides some relief.

I wait and I ponder and I wonder as I wander

The roads are clear but the climb is steep.


The painting is finished but the oils have yet to dry.

The journey is in motion and there is still more to do.

The dancers step forward and take their cue

While the room lets out a sigh…


The sounds are released and they move

Two people together, aware of nothing

But the instruments guiding their way.

As it is…

The Truth

Is that we are who we are whether we like it or not.

The Dream

We wished for came true, then we gave it back.

The Mountain

Was tall and slippery, jaded and painful; yet we climbed and stood on top.

The Journey

Continues while we look back and take inventory, keep walking even though we limp and set goals even though the old ones have not been reached.

The Choice

To move ahead while you drag your feet behind makes sense because you follow intuition.

The Answers

Are not clear and may never be, though we must live and seek as though we will find.

The Faith

Waivers when we don’t get what we want. It is clear that we have a belief but not in ourself.

The Time

Has come to let go and be.

The Message

Is not here even though it has told you many things – that you already knew.

The Point

Was to remind you.

copyright 2005

Down By The Lake

Standing on the dock, looking out at the mossy green basin, she discards her clothes, and jumps in.  Half-way across the lake she looks up, and notices there is no gate in the distance.  Just as she is beginning to gage her sense of timing to get to the other side, a motor sounds off to the right from the lagoon.  Dr. Lion comes toward her or “Guru” as he likes to be called.  She calls him nothing. 

He has respect from his colleagues, for his papers on depression and isolation.  He alludes to having traveled extensively, to lecture about the pressures of society. No one is allowed access to the institution, without his express permission.  Dr. Lion is viewed by his clients with fear and trepidation.  Like a drill sergeant, he demands that they live by his rules.  There is a list next to each bed: 1. Rise at seven, 2. Ten minute showers, 3. Twenty minute breakfast, and it goes on to account for the day with twelve more items.  When it was time for therapy, clients would sit on the metal chairs, in order by appointment; they were alphabetized.  No talking, no listening, the room outside his office must be silent.  Each client is allowed to read the books he has chosen for them.

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An Ode to Gabriel Garcia Marquez

After 10 years of solitude, Carlotta had all but given up on the ability to imagine life with a man once more. This time of absence was her own doing, though it was largely the fault of the menopause; which was now nearing its end.  The curse had turned into a bitter coming of age story. As her words shot out of her mouth, laced with turpentine just at the tips of the letters, that would leave a mark on anyone she had an opinion about. And these days this was just about anyone. Her pheromones would emit a scent, that was not enticing any more than if she had been a rotting corpse left out on a table to dry. One by one her friends had walked away, too tired of the dark energy that stood near her, even though they too were in the crisis of aging.

Each woman can only tolerate their own pain and each man is looking for one who is not yet touched; if he is lucky. She saw herself as a hag, up in a tree in an apple orchard, throwing barely ripe fruit down; on people who came near her. She tried to explain to people what was going on; to no avail. How could anyone understand a personal crisis which is designed for the individual? While they all know that the Grim Reaper, with his sickle, can come to call any day, and this is expected, most try not to think about it until the time comes; and then it is too late. When the old woman begins to emerge, it is like looking out your window one day and noticing the neighbor has installed a new walkway, that he had been working on for weeks and you had ignored. One day Carlotta had looked in the mirror and wondered who had suddenly appeared before her.

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Who Am I

Through the passage of time, I have found my mark

And I look back to see how treacherous it was, to embark.

I recall a moment of slashed wrists and a broken plate

A baby crying in the back, while he lay in wait.


I sat in a corner as people walked by

And observed that they lived while I tried to die.

The wells of my emotions had all run dry.


The body was stiff but craved the touch of

One so great who would want so much.

And I looked and I took but they were wrong

Yet even still, I went along.


I knew in my heart that I should walk away

But I craved and I yearned for a voice that would stay.

Someone to see me for who I am

To just once get it right, even if it meant putting up a fight

Thinking I must fix it, assuming it was my fault, to hold this

Relationship and behave like an adult.


In and out of the rooms I would go

Putting on one hell of a show.

I danced and sang and praised and played

While they sucked up the juices and

Fed in to my demise.


I saw the noose hanging above the trap

While I ate and supped on all of their lies.


And when I searched for my mother once more

To give me some respite and nurture these wounds.

Hoping to get a tender embrace, instead she would slap me in my face.

She would call out the shadows from within

And laugh as they sprang forth; ripping the scars on my skin.


There I would sit in a void.

Numb to this renewed place I so wanted to avoid.

Stuck in a web from conception to light

I would scream and cry out wishing it would disappear with the night.

Alas, I am here as is she and the trees are filled with my memories.


I struggle and plod forward with all of my might

Working up the courage to make it alone; assuming that I have the right

And thinking that one day I may become known


When the stone turns and the walls collapse and out of this I won’t relapse.

I dream and I write and I scour my brain, looking for the answers out on the plain.

To imagine this is possible to think that I can,

Like the train who would and could and should make it up to that terrain.

I walked as I thought until I came up with a plan.

Would it work? I wondered as I thought out in haste,

I didn’t want this to be one big waste.


To my surprise the person inside began to emerge

And I saw the words cause the fears to purge

The rage and torment slipped behind the gate

As I felt my fingers once more and I began to create.

Winter Garden – An Homage to Kristin Hannah

We three Leos’ have read your books which were handed down from one to another. First, it was Lia, who once was a little toddler that crossed the border from Hungary in 1956 with mommy and daddy. She was sick and they were granted passage on a plane to get her to America more quickly, I believe from an Austrian camp. Then it was her mother, Marika neni who read it next. Marika neni has told me her story many times of coming to this country. She was a woman I grew up with, who was like an aunt but more of a sister to my stepfather. Lia was our babysitter in my formative years. Marika neni and my stepfather met at Camp Kilmer in New Jersey, when a group of refugees decided on Wheeling for their new home.

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The Perfect Host; not a Perfect Movie

The Perfect Host stars David Hyde Pierce as Warwick Wilson, in an outstanding performance as a first-class creep. He has gone a long way from Niles on Frasier, our first cerebral goofball to see on television. As a psychotherapist, I always reveled in that show and the intellectually snobbery between he and his brother. In this role as Warwick, he has stepped into a new dimension (perhaps he has done this in another role, but this is my first time to see him in this type of character portrayal) and mesmerized me the entire time. The dissociative identity disorder idea was flabby in the storyline but made sense, nonetheless. He could have been schizophrenic as well, but I think the writer wanted to portray DID instead.

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David Bowie, More Than You Wanted to Know

1983 poster that once hung in my living room

It was shocking to hear that he passed a month ago, as most of his fans had no idea he was dying. As I began to read the obituary in “The Guardian,” mid-way there was a YouTube link for Lazarus which I clicked on to watch.  Listening to the first sentence “Look up here, I’m in heaven,” and the chills began to creep up. What an amazing way to say goodbye at the end of your life. At the same time, I began looking at other articles related to his passing and kept hearing Christopher Sandford’s name as the author of what appears to be Bowie’s only biography, entitled “Loving the Alien.” I put myself in queue through Amazon, for this book which was immediately on backorder after his death.

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Gone Girl – A Plot with a Twist or Non-stereotypical Roles

Last night I watched Gone Girl, which I found quite scary! I didn’t really like the ending but then I realized, if he had killed her that would have been predictable. If she had killed him, this would have been expected. It also would have turned the movie into a horror film and I would not have watched it. The ending was rather odd though and made no sense. Usually, this is what I love about foreign films, non-predictable and full of questions.

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L’Apparition – France 2018

I am a huge fan of the Song of Bernadette with Jennifer Jones (1943). In fact, that movie changed my life spiritually. More recently, I read the non-fiction by Franz Werfel and this moved me even more – his story was included; another miracle from the Lady of Lourdes.  I am also a psychotherapist for a living and if a movie is made correctly, I can figure it out from the get go. If you have ever watched the Poirot series by Agatha Christie, recall the scene where he is watching a play with his side kick, Inspector Hastings. Poirot is telling Hastings what will happen but it doesn’t and he is confused why it was written that way. That is me in a nutshell. This was written correctly (spoiler alert!) but the ending was way over the top and unnecessary. It was almost like an American film where they have to make everyone feel good. The ending closed up character plot lines but this could have been done in a dialogue – perhaps with his wife. She needed her husband back!

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