The Wicked Therapist

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By David Derey

When they lay down on the couch, and open up to me;

They have no clue what they’re letting in.

The deep-rooted problems they bring up – I make grow.

It’s my drug.

Then she comes.

From the first session, I have a bad feeling.

Every angle I play her with, she spins around – and thanks me for the perspective.

Every evil seed I plant, blossoms into beautiful flowers in her mind.

I try my best, but she just won’t break.

She wants seven double sessions a week.
Lately, the few times I sleep:
My dreams are bleak.

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My Father

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By Dianne Moritz

My father was not
a strong man,
so I’ve heard.
He boozed,
caroused
with woman,
Mother said,
words rattling
like pebbles
in my toy maraca,
till I wanted
to scream my ears off.

One summer day,
he grabbed
his billfold
and left us …
Smooth as stone.

          
Dianne Moritz, seeks understanding of her troubled relationship with her mother. She writes poetry and picture books for children since retiring from teaching in inner city Los Angeles.

3:00 AM Walk

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By Michael Morell

Thunder
like a Mingus
composition
rolls in
to scare her from sleep.
The storm not yet
here, I dress and take
her for a walk
followed by lemon tea
on the couch
as her telescopic
Greyhound neck
rests in my lap.
Flittering legs
lit by lightning
getting her nowhere,
she falls asleep
to the honeyed sounds
of Billie Holiday
while I dream awake.

           
Michael Morell writes to satisfy his need to create, and to better understand the world.

One Day at the Bookstore

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By Anda Marcu

I came across a book
On how to grow an orchard
And thought to myself
I could do that.
There was another one
beside it, on macrame knots
and starting your
dream business
And thought to myself,
Once more,
I could do that.
Kept going along the
Shelves, ignoring
books on various diets,
Better time management,
Cupboard organizing,
Since why would I ever
Want to do that.
But I could do that.
Kept going.
Got stuck staring at
“In Search of Lost Time.”
On sale.

           
Anda Marcu is a visual artist with a deep love for the written word. Her work includes film photography, mixed media, short stories and poetry.

The Hike

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By Dianne Moritz

Walking through
forests of lost years,
you dropped small clues,
like Hansel’s breadcrumbs,
leading the way back.
Ravenous, I promptly
sweeten harsh words,
raw truths, as one
would a bitter fruit.
We continued down
those pot-holed trails,
rock-strewn paths,
muddy lanes, hoping
to reignite long ago,
young love …

           
Dianne Moritz is a former teacher who feels compelled to write down her observations on life and love.

Wander

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By Murdoch Mouse

I’ve never had a desk job,
My mind tends to wander.
It cannot be confined to four walls.
Who thought of that?
A cubical,
People in boxes,
People hate being put in boxes.
Boxes are for storage,
For gifts,
For chocolate.
Of course chocolate’s good in anything,
Or on anything.
I could go for some truffles right now.
Not the pig-hunting kind.
Or the desert-lightning kind.
You ever see lightning hit sand?
It fuses,
Leaves glass sculptures
Like Singapore Supertrees.
Weird stuff.
Sorry.
What we’re we talking about?
Oh yeah
Like I said
My mind tends to wander.

           
“Searching for the perfect tale.” – the author

My Radical Day

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By Carolyn Cordon

Edging sideways from normal, to creative
then further left of ‘ordinary’ to radical.
Taking tiny steps, with unmatched socks,
one black & white striped sock, one green.

They may get matched on the line to dry
but once dry & unpegged, who knows
what might happen. They’re matched
once brought inside, usually, but …

But today was different, radical, washing
tipped onto bed to fold & put away,
but get this, for the first time ever
I DIDN’T MATCH MY SOCKS!

It felt awesome, radical, the universe
sang, as I tipped a wild rainbow
into the drawer, a marvelous mess
of unmatched mayhem!

             
South Australian country writer. Words come, become blogs, poems, stories, life is good.