Poetry

"Tell me what you see."

Rotten teeth, dirt creased face, he’d come in for a hot and a cot and collapsed with DTs...

There's ego and there's ego.

All summer southwest wind stirs the weeping willows the way my breath disturbs a settled life when I whisper the cancer diagnosis...

Soaked in Mexican sunshine he’s powered back to the Berkshires, all the world’s yellow compressed into a firecracker...

I wanted this to be like a fairy tale walk in the woods before kids, careers, blood clots and bone mets...

Green hills patched with April, snow and I’ve chosen to celebrate. with a full slate of patients.

After he juggles three chainsaws and spins twenty plates balanced on sticks, he moves to the grand finale: ten Bowler hats tossed across the arena and stacked on the ringmaster’s head.

When's your teed off time?

We wrote through the night, between moonlight and morning, admissions and discharges, wrote when phones stopped ringing, when pagers stopped paging. We were raw, opening ourselves to chaos and mystery...

Funny how fast we become prisoners with lost convictions as we fill out the forms, patients getting sicker while they wait.

My doctor-wife squeezes her needle-nose tweezers and lifts the tiny knots high enough to snip with surgical scissors...

Please! No more group hugs!

Our time was Thursday, 5 o’clock, my psychiatrist’s door always opened wide, him wearing a wool sweater, sipping tea, lights dimmed to an endless twilight...

There was combat in Nam and I let my hair grow long, went to college, studied orgo until I became draft exempt...

When the soloist lowers her Strad and takes a bow, she reveals the violin’s mark on her throat, which makes me think of Mozart...

Monday, July 1st...Twenty-two new residents...All with perfect teeth...

I was surfing a long board out past the place where you can still smell Coppertone when a ten foot wave smashed me down into darkness...

Sometimes it just doesn't pay to fight.

People with mood disorders (and those who care about them) are likely to experience a healing reconsideration of their own experiences as they read this book.

Med school finals, ten backpack pounds of biochem hauled for months, my epiphany: I would never know more about glucose metabolism than that morning...

Poor Sigmund. Mrs. Freud gave him the slip.

Introduce yourself, shake hands, sit down. Always sit down. Then ask for permission...

Creativity should not be seen as “optional” in psychiatry. Rather, it helps us to approach clinical problems in new ways.

"If I only had a heart."