Captain Jack and his Cat

Captain Jack had a cat, and a very nice cat it was too. He would meow in the mornings and in the evenings to let Captain Jack know he was not alone. If Captain Jack was ever worried about anything the cat would rub its cheeks on the Captain’s legs and walk around and around under Captain Jack’s legs until he got picked up.

Captain Jack would often sing this little song to himself, knowing the cat could hear him. But the cat always ignored the Captain’s singing, and would just curl up in his basket and sleep.

It went like this:

My name's Captain Jack and on this boat I wear my cap
I got a cat but he'll just nap
He's never caught a blasted rat

Once again the cat ignored him, or seemed to. He knew that he was loved.

— Stephanie Russell

The Grandmothers

A grandmother is a woman who doesn’t have children: that’s why she likes other people’s children.

The grandmothers have nothing to do, they just have to be there.

When they take us for a walk, they walk slowly and don’t step on leaves or caterpillars.

They never say hurry up. They are usually fat, but even so, they manage to tie our shoes.

They always know that we want another piece of cake, or a bigger piece.

A real grandmother never hits a child: she gets angry but laughing.

Grandmothers wear glasses, and sometimes they even manage to remove their teeth.

When they read us stories they never skip bits and don’t mind telling the same story over and over again. Grandmothers are the only big people who always have time.

They are not weak as they say, although they die more often than we do.

Everyone should do their best to have a grandmother, especially if you don’t have a television.

— António Viegas

The Problem

I have a friend who helps me when I am sad. She says that I’m a child, and that I need to grow up, to be more like an adult.

I have adults, they know me, they know my fears even if I’m not aware of all of them myself. I’m hypervigilent, always on the look out for danger or offense. I’m hypersensitive, the smallest thing will trigger me. I exaggerate the impacts, the world will come to an end.

I try to tell others that I don’t feel safe, but they don’t believe me. They say it is safe. They say I’m hypervigilant, I’m hypersensitive and I’m exaggerating. Oh dear.

It’s time to take a break. Maybe they are right, maybe my sensitivity is a problem. Maybe I’m the problem. A friend said, “We’re not coping”, another said, “Why can’t we just curl up in fear, it’s worked before.” Oh dear.

I am the problem. I’m stuck fast in the before times and I can’t get out. I’m becoming aware that I’m stuck, its a new feeling, being aware. My adult friends just might be right. It is safe, and I just can’t see it.

I’m going to sleep now, wake me if you need me. But, that seems unlikely, I can’t protect you anymore, my skills have expired, I’m the problem now, instead of the solution.

— Stephanie Russell

I’m Dead

Floating
I look up and feel the sun on my face
I look down and see that my feet are no longer on the ground
I glide over the tree tops
Outstretch my hand and feel the tops of the leaves
I am dead
Thank God, I’m dead

— Stephanie Russell

How are you?

How do you answer your client at the beginning of the session when they ask ‘How are you?’

At the start of every session, a quick hello.

Hi, how are you? And she’ll say, okay….

Never anything more descriptive, her greeting, so predictive. I listen to her tone of voice, searching for clues. How is she, really?

Because she won’t elaborate, I’ll begin. Undoing my shopping bag of issues. The tumbling out, of this and that. Filling the space she’s provided.

It’s all about me, although

what if, we changed this up? At the start of every session, answering my question. The simple inquiry and a listing, the responses she’s resisting.

I am exhausted. I slept, not at all.
I feel sort of sad.
I am so excited!
I am furious.
I have a headache, a cold, some stomach issues.
I am worried.
I am so happy to see you!
Any which way, what she says, never inconsequential. The ambiguity of her reply, by design.

It’s our turn.

— Ann Hotez

The Obvious Covid Poem

Right, so this is a poem about Covid19. It starts in your throat and ends in your spleen. You think you’ll recover but listen up you. You’ll die like a pig, it’s not like the flu.

Do you like all your take out, and loving the net. Is that report due but you’re stuck at the vet. Were your groceries delivered with off milk and old bread. Is the mental health stigma playing games in your head.

But there, not to worry, the vaccine is ready. If you’re alive in 6 months to hold your arm steady. It’s all been a wake up, the planet is weary. Ignore at your peril, that QAnon theory.

— Stephanie Russell

Please note that I am pro vax and anti conspiricy. The poem is satirical.

Entertainment

It's entertainment
But it's not entertaining
I won't entertain it

— Stephanie Russell

Anger

I wish I could be as angry as a bird
Shouting at a world gone bad
Snarling with vitreole at the lame
Diving on their useless head

I wish I could avoid the mindless herd
Each and every one gone mad
Watching them play out their game
Send them crying to their bed

I wish I could for once be heard
Silence wraps me up in sad
I’m beaten to the edge of tame
Tired, hungry to be fed

— Stephanie Russell

If I Were A God (A Comment)

If I were God
I wouldn’t need poems
I wouldn’t need poets
I wouldn’t need comments

But, you are a human
On linkedin
Connected
Posting
Wanting comments

And maybe
Just maybe
If I smile
On your attempt
To define
The divine
Then this will be
The only comment
You will get
That smiles 🙂

— Stephanie Russell

Forgotten

I’m quite fickle when it comes to poetry
I’m often at a loss
Why write poems to describe the stress of writing poems
Isn’t that bizarrely circular
Self referential
Introspective

Where are the poems about love, grief, joy or passion
Where are my emotions
Have they left me
A poem as bland as oatmeal does not make good reading
Yet, here we are
The soulless poem
Crushing me, I can rattle the bars but to no avail
I can write only of loneliness and isolation
Devoid of contact with others with whom I could share a moment of humanity
The joy of contact
The wonderment of discovery
The safety of friendship
First love rising into passion
The innocence in a child’s eye
Pride, as the young overcome their struggles, as I once did
To arrive here
Writing a poem
Devoid, dead, wasted
Forgotten

— Stephanie Russell