Ward Stories
(Column: Ward Stories)
Prev « Article 24 of 27 » Next
These poems are relevant to a subject that has recently reared its ugly head in recent issues of New York City Voices. And even cloaked behind Stacey's beautiful and lyrical haiku, the sad fact remains that desperate feelings often lead to desperate acts. There is much truth in the assertion that Sylvia Plath's death by suicide has been mythologized. Better to emulate the little engine with the words "I think I can, I think I canů." You can!


Therapy Interlude Via Poetry: Haiku In Nine Parts

By Stacey Eisenberg

Looking in mirrors
Reflecting a stranger's face
I cease to exist.

Closing my eyes tight
Wishing the fears disappear
Hopelessness prevails.

Drowning in sorrow
Suffocating in despair
The darkness won't fade.

Floating face downward
Breathing is impossible
I pray for relief.

Wanting the pain gone
Death appears a solution
Then love perseveres.

Suicide's no choice
Checking out does not bring peace
It's not that simple.

Seems easy to die
But loved ones left suffer more
There's no peace in that.

Fighting back is hard
Can't expect easy answers
I choose to plod on.

Struggling through each day
Citing "The Engine That Could"
My quest continues.

Postscript/Postmortem:
Haiku In Eight Parts
By Stacey Eisenberg

Do not emulate
The tragic end of poet
Sylvia Plath's life.

Honor her genius
Her beautiful, haunting verse
Striving to survive.

Admire all her works
Use them for inspiration
To share your own views.

Unburden your soul
Express passion and anguish
The depths of your pain.

Creative writing
Is cathartic freedom songs
Of innermost thoughts.

In her memory
Write about mental illness
With moving poems.

Plath's untimely death
Shouild not be romanticized
The message is clear.

Idolize her words
But not the myth of her death
Brilliance ne'er silenced.


Musings From A Father's Heart

In Loving Memory Of Kenneth Paul Hveem

By Paul Hveem

The Boy
A little boy
Lots of toys
A tussled, curly head
An unmade bed
Lots of giggles, kisses and hugs
Sometimes, a box full of bugs

The Teen
The boy became a teen
He was never, ever mean
Lots of grades that were good
Always a happy, joyful mood
Baseball, baseball, baseball
Phone call, phone call, phone call
Beautiful, deep eyes of blue
My heart -- so very proud of you

The Man
The teen became a man
Off to college he ran
Plenty of A's
A job that well pays
Poems in print
A car whose condition was mint
A future full of hope
Many achievements because he
Wouldn't say nope

Then
The dark, sad day
Our boy went away
The disease -- a horrible thing
Began to surround him like a ring
For the family, it would sting
No more could he sing
No joy could he bring
The Doctors, "He'll be fine."
Until that awful moment in ninety-nine

Now
An empty place
A missing face
A heart that can't believe
A son that must be grieved

Life
Is now in shatters
Our hearts are ripped in tatters
For once there were children four
They did their brother adore
Now -- only three
The saddest and most difficult thing for me.
Prev « Article 24 of 27 » Next
The content on this website represents the diversity of viewpoints on the subjects of mental health and mental illness and
does not necessarily reflect the viewpoints of City Voices or its staff and volunteers.
Copyright © 1997-2007 New York City Voices: A Peer Journal for Mental Health Advocacy
Site Design by Diana Jackson/Web3D | Contact Webmaster