The Happiest Guy Alive

Tags

Buddhism, Christianity, compassion, generosity, homeless, kindness, mental illness, poverty, psychology, Sociology, unconditional love

 

So, I’m panning
in my usual spot.
This suit walks by —
in passing he says,
“Get a job!”
“Hire me!” I say.
“Take a shower,” he says.
“I may sleep outside,
that doesn’t mean
I don’t wash —
I wash all over.”

“Hey,” I say,
“if you’re so successful,
why do you look
so unhappy?

“I’ve made the price
of my bottle.
I’ve got some smokes,
a little pot.

“Me, I’m the happiest guy alive.”

 
 

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My Name Is Hippo

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Buddhism, Christianity, compassion, homeless, illness, loving kindness, mental illness, poverty, psychology, Sociology, unconditional love

 

 

My name is Hippo,
I’m an alcoholic.
Joy was the first
to call me Hippo.
My face swells
when I drink beer.
I guess, I look
like a Hippo.

Before that
they called me Farmboy.
I never lived on a farm,
but, I come from
a farming community.
I guess I looked
like a Farmboy.

Why do I drink?
Welfare asks me that
all the time —
I’m also homeless —
I don’t know why I drink.
I have bleeding ulcers;
I shit and puke blood.

I drink because
that’s who I am.
If I didn’t drink
I wouldn’t be me.
If I didn’t drink
I’d die…

 
 

 

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Welcoming the End

Tags

anger, death, depression, eternal, forever, free, frustration, loneliness, mental illness, psychology, rage

 

Visions of my crumpled, lifeless body,
haunt my aimless footsteps.
Spectres from the grave welcome,
this life-weary traveler.

Tomorrow, that will not come, denies
upturned eyes, the soft rains of hope.
Flames of sorrow and rage sear,
this tortured soul.

Ragged hell-cries of desperation rip,
and pierce my mind.
No sound is uttered,
since there is no ear to listen.

Grief rises and swells,
like the limitless ocean,
swallowing this helpless, solitary victim,
in tides of comfortless tears.

Mother earth, take this flesh, these bones
to your rocky bosom.
Pull a cover of earth
over this last weary day.

 

This poem represents a very bleak period in my life. After expressing my feelings on paper I sought psychological and medical help. I am now pleased to report that suicidal feelings have been abandoned. Depression will always be with me; however medication allows me to live a healthy, even happy life.

 
 
 

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How It Began

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compassion, kindness, loving kindness, mankind, mental illness, poverty, psychology, social science, social work, unconditional love

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Author: http://ow.ly/AD39S
Blogger: http://ow.ly/AD3t4
Facebook: http://ow.ly/AD2sG

2010

How It Began

My lungs ached, as frost hung in the bitterly cold December morning air, making breathing difficult. I trudged in the falling snow toward the building where I work, in one of the city’s grey, concrete, office tower canyons. I dodged other pedestrians, also trying to get to work on time, I noticed a woman seated cross-legged on the sidewalk with her back against a building wall. A snow-covered Buddha, wrapped in a sleeping bag, shivering in the below freezing temperature. I guessed her to be in her forties. Everything about her seemed round. She had the most angelic face, sparkling blue eyes and a beautiful smile. A cap was upturned in front of her. I thought, There but for the grace of God go I. Her smile and blue eyes haunted me all day.

In the past I’ve been unemployed, my wife and I were unable to pay our mortgage and other bills, we went through bankruptcy, lost our house, my truck. Being in my fifties, my prospects looked dim. It could have been me, on the sidewalk, in her place.

I was told not to give money to panhandlers because they’ll just spend it on booze. I thought to myself, What should I do, if anything? What would you do? I asked for advice from a friend who has worked with homeless people. She said, ‘The woman is probably hungry. Why don’t you ask her if she’d like a breakfast sandwich and maybe a coffee?’

That sounded reasonable, so the next day I asked, “Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast, perhaps a coffee?”
“That would be nice,” she replied.

When I brought her a sandwich and coffee she said to me, “Thank you so much, sir. You’re so kind. Bless you.” I truly felt blessed.

This has become a morning routine for the past four years. The woman (I’ll call Joy) and I have become friends. Often I’ll sit with her on the sidewalk. We sometimes meet her companions in the park. They have become my closest friends. I think of them as angels. My life has become much richer for the experience.

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Careful With That Axe, Eugene

Tags

compassion, delusion, despair, desperation, emotion, empathy, fantasy, free, mental illness, music, psychedelic rock, schizophrenia

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Eugene had a mind of his own,
not, as some would say, a sound mind,
but his own mind, nevertheless.

“It’s awfully considerate of you
to think of me here.
And I’m most obliged to you
for making it clear
that I’m not here.”

Eugene was a great musician,
taking music to the limit;
his songs will always survive.
Eugene took drugs to the limit;
he’s now in Interstellar Overdrive.

When we observed him with an axe,
you may understand our concern.
Was he in danger, or were we?

Eugene had already left us in spirit,
but he wandered away that day
and was lost to us forever.

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This poem is dedicated to the memory of “Syd Barrett (born Roger Keith Barrett; 6 January 1946 – 7 July 2006) who was an English singer, songwriter, guitarist and artist. He is most remembered as a founding member of  band Pink Floyd, providing major musical and stylistic direction in their early work, although he left the group in 1968 amidst speculations of mental illness exacerbated by heavy drug use.”

Axe is also British slang for guitar. Pink Floyd’s use of the title Careful With That Axe, Eugene may refer to “Barrett’s behaviour (which) became increasingly unpredictable, partly as a consequence of frequent experimentation with psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Many report having seen him on stage with the group, strumming on one chord through the entire concert, or not playing at all. At a show at The Fillmore West in San Francisco, during a performance of “Interstellar Overdrive”, Barrett slowly detuned his guitar. The audience seemed to enjoy such antics, unaware of the rest of the band’s consternation.” (Source: Wikipedia)

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Paranoia

Tags

anxiety, bipolar, fear, imagination, low self esteem, mental illness, obsessive compulsive, Paranoid personality disorder, psychiatry, psychology, trust

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“…telling an alcoholic to control his drinking is like telling a guy suffering the world’s most cataclysmic case of diarrhea to control his shitting.” ~ Steven King

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“Paranoid personality disorder (PPD) is a mental disorder characterized by paranoia and a pervasive, long-standing suspiciousness and generalized mistrust of others. Individuals with this personality disorder may be hypersensitive, easily feel slighted, and habitually relate to the world by vigilant scanning of the environment for clues or suggestions that may validate their fears or biases. Paranoid individuals are eager observers. They think they are in danger and look for signs and threats of that danger, potentially not appreciating other evidence.[1]”   ~ Wikipedia

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Somebody said to me, “…you feel the need to place yourself at the center of every word so that every hurt seems aimed at you.” This poem is meant to answer this concern.

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I don’t trust people.
There are medical reasons:
bipolar, obsessive compulsive
and paranoid personality disorders.
I take medication for them,
and practise daily
meditation.

I do irrational things;
even while I’m doing them
I know they’re irrational —
I do them anyway.
I can’t help it.

Usually, I live
a relatively sane existence;
then a trigger goes off
Bam!
Somebody’s talking
behind my back.
Somebody’s writing about me
for all the world to see.

Sleepless nights
rereading
what did he/she mean by that?
more sleepless nights
more rereading
more anxiety.
Why,
are they doing this to me?

What do I do?
There may be other explanations.
There are other people in the world
that may act the way I do,
say the things I say,
fit my description…
But, all of this,
all at once;
impossible.

So I ask,
“Are you writing about me?”
They say, “I sometimes write about people,
but not about you.”
Problem solved —
or is it?
They write about people —
I’m people…
more sleepless nights,
more rereading,
more anxiety.

I don’t trust people.
I’m not acting rational.
I’m not rational.
I know, I’m not rational.
I’m acting paranoid.
I am paranoid.
I know, I’m paranoid.
I should control my paranoia.
I should control my shitting.

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