Poetry

"For no particular reason I lift my dusty volume of Freud’s Standard Edition from a shelf..."

“Pottery is life. The finished product is just a reminder of the steps taken on the way.”

"Look out for me I’m a-coming too..."

"...her steady green eyes and naked display of farmgirl skill the chemistry that bonded us for life."

Poetic musings on posttraumatic growth...

Reflecting on the process of healing...

"I scribble as if my father is beside me years and years ago, scoring whole-notes, white holes through rims of night."

"In the silence I could feel the air slip in and out of his lungs and the moment when the motion reversed, like a goldfish making the turn at the glass end of its tank..."

A fourth-year medical student reflects on leaving medical and entering residency—and all the patients who impacted their life.

"I was a Jewish boy from the Jersey burbs raised on corned beef and Milano cookies. She was a Mennonite farmgirl whose father shot deer for dinner."

A psychiatrist reflects on the fears resulting from real life experiences...

"The sand stuck in an hourglass? Your brain is like stop it."

“Things change. People come and go. You quietly remain…”

"Patients get better, treatments end..."

Celebrating and honoring Black Poetry Day...

Reflections through poetry after a moving visit...

"You feel in your bones the gray gravity of late August clouds..."

"Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore..."

A Halloween reflection on stigma...

Reflections on the bounty of life...

A psychiatrist reflects on trauma, healing, and growth...

"Patients get better, treatments end, openings appear in my schedule and I leave them open..."

"Moments like that, you can love this country..."

"We ate, and talked, and went to bed, And slept. It was a miracle."