Hitchcock and Psyches


I cannot watch scarey movies
I have been too terrorized in my life
By Masters you betcha
Better than Hitchcock

You see
I cannot remember what happened
I will never forget…
Buried in my psyche…

A woman once told me of her pursuit
Of a memory not known
An inkling of incident she insisted on prying out
Of its hiding place

She knew not the danger and
She continued zealously
Though not in possession of any structure
Within which to place such evil

So she went mad and
They locked her away
For many years.

It is as such, I have been warned…
Just this brief story
From a stranger
With stricken eyes

Now I know that I will wait
With patience and with love
For my demon to come
When he is ready.

demon blue background Painting by MT


Woman Walks thru Walls II

Last night, I read two of my poems, The Door in the Ceiling and
at Elena’s Third Friday Night at the Rapp Saloon….
terrifying BUT exalting.  This reading was better than my
last experience there, a Night of Terror ‘poeticized’ in
The Crystal Necklace. 

After I read The Door in the Ceiling, a poem about my father,
everyone who followed, also read poems about their parents…

A LESSON:   only by stepping out into the voids, can one
receive the kudos!

Floating in Eons of other lifetimes
Without the reality of reality
I must have determined that this life would be a Quest
A quest not only to try to touch others

But also to allow the others to touch me

However did I fathom
As I wafted about in those spheres
The level of surender required
For such an endeavor
Instead handicapped with barricades of
Rather than
Qualities certainly not included
In my current design

But necessary for such engagement
Scarey stuff!
If contemplated,
If just begun
A first step into an endeavor
A surrender
To written words
To vibrate with them
To resonate at their pitch
How much fun it is oozing
All over the world like syrup
Loving and loving and loving

And who knew such a tumult of  response
Would be given back

As Atlantis sings….
Thank you,  Consequence!





A Poem about the Door in the Ceiling

A Poem for my Father…..


Dad was dying
I went back for his 86th Birth Day

With CDs of home movies
Copies of 8mm films
Dad had recorded of our life
From the time
When his biggest hopes and dreams were confirmed
Confirmed of his life with us as his Family

Everyone was in it
Mom, us kids, his mother and father, our cousins
Our aunts and uncles, the cats and dogs
Our grandparents and great grandparents
Everyone was smiling on that celluloid
In spite of rancor gradually
Accumulating like dust silently settles on a table
secret from the camera

I brought the CD’s because I wanted my father to remember
The faceted life he had lived when he was a young hero
When he was scuba diving under the ice
Or sailing in the Caribbean
When he was a Father and Husband, a Son and a Grandson
When he had not succumbed to a wheelchair as a finale
With permanent tubes of oxygen
And no longer even able to wipe his own ass after shitting

I waited for one of his quiet days
A day of no pain
Before setting up the computer with the CD’s.
To operate the gizmos, I had to stand behind him
I could not see his face
Dad said nothing; he just looked
I pointed
“There’s Sandra! And Look! Aunt Eldora!”
But Dad said nothing, but just looked
Had he fallen asleep?
I began to think my attempts of reclamation
Of past lives, futile and silly.

But that night, as I turned at the door
To wish him a good night,

Dad said his signature
“Now you be a good girl”
And looked at me with
A gratitude unmistakable

It was the next day was when it all began
Dad declared he was going home
His arms emphasized his intention,
Lifting his skeletal frame
Up in his wheelchair
As if he was ready to just walk away
From his reality
But his muscles so weak curtailed the rebellion
And my father slunk back into his wheelchair

Though his mind was still imbued
With humor and wisdom
“What day is it”, he asked me
“January 13th,” I said
“Show me on the calendar, will you?”
I stood and gestured to the date on the wall calendar
“I will go home tomorrow”, he said.

He scratched at his hand like a monkey
And regarded the ceiling fixedly.
I followed his gaze to know his interest
It was a lone brass sprinkler head in white plaster
But Dad still stared
And then began talking fast to the ceiling
A garbled communication animated,
Excited, happy
Pointing his left index finger at the sky

I could not understand him.
Though someone seemed to……
And then, Dad clearly said,
“I’ll do that after school”
Now my Father was eighty-six years old
And talking to someone he knew
More gabble, more pointing
“Mrs. Roy Schubert Junior”? he asked,
(That was my Mother’s married name
The name he gave her when they married)
“Nah, she’s dead,” he answered
The unseen examiner.

No opiates, no delusions, no fog
But more conversation with the sprinkler head
Then Dad turned to me
He looked at me fixedly for a few moments
To be sure that I understood he was talking to me
And explained

“There’s a door in the ceiling, but you can’t see it”

And then he went back happily
For more conversation in another world
With those who had come to visit him
With those who obviously loved him.

My Father had been right, you see
He was on his way home
But he got the date wrong
He died a week later,

Postponing his departure

In hopes that he would live to see his sonman looking at night sky


A Celebration of My Mother

Here is a poem for Mother’s Day or for a new Mother. I usually
give a conch shell with
the poem to make the gift
especially special. Whenever I have given this gift, especially
to a new mother, she is always very moved, often
to tears.

Baby Poem cropped

 My beautiful mother
and me!

My Mother and me cropped