Ward Stories

Ward Stories
Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief
Four poets are featured in this Winter 2019 edition of Ward Stories. Ayesha, Louie Morano, Eva Tortora and Glenn Slaby have their poems featured below which describe lost loved ones, religious themes, and our soul’s journey. Enjoy!

Poem for my Grandfather
By Ayesha

I remember you Randy.
You were Randolph Nicholson.
A handsome man who, like my grandmother, remind me of alcoholic drinks and celebration music
Nat King Cole CDs I played at Christmas-time and Kwanzaa remind me of you.
The holiday season is almost here again 
I celebrate with alcoholic drinks a few times a year. A cold glass of wine or maybe a wine cooler. Miss you grandpa. 
I’m going to be 37 in January! I get carded all the time. 
I show my ID. I look 25.
I never want to abuse alcohol so I stick to planning my wedding.
Every time I meet a nice man I say “marry me” before we go further.
I need a commitment we can both honor before having sex.
I’m shining bright now.
I’m a poet, a blogger, a memoirist, a mentor and a granddaughter who remembers you all the time.
I thought of you today.

Work Will Seem Like Play 
By Louie Morano

Keep busy and stay active.
It’s a good way to live.
Believe in God and follow him
and you will surely win.

Be grateful for your blessings,
For small and big things.
It will make you happy and
you will feel free.

Love one another as Jesus said.
Say a prayer before you go to bed.
Sunshine will fill your day
and work will seem like play.

Key of Love
By Eva Tortora

And for all my imperfections
I have you
glorious you
to share my tune
to tune me to
the key of love
to the angels’ chorus 
up above
you to show
me how to sing
when storms don’t come
and hope can ring
you, you
glorious you
when I’m flying
you're beneath me in truth
thank you
for all the times
I could not see
it was your wings
that carried me
Bless you
my honored friend
this is only the beginning
and far from the end
and for all my imperfections
you glittered like gold
in truth and hope
it's you that I hold
inside my heart forever....

Soul’s Reach
By Glenn Slaby

Each of us stands alone
On the shoreline viewing
Eternity.

All us of stand together
On the edge of life
Temporarily.

Not knowing tomorrow.
Viewing life’s limited vision
But seeing more.

Because our minds see less
Our soul reaches out deeper.
Like a blind man’s hearing.

Our souls are
More Complete.
Because of our imperfection.

Ward Stories: Poetry

Ward Stories
Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief
Four poets are featured in this Summer 2018 edition of Ward Stories. The themes discussed in these poems reflect some of the experiences felt throughout the mental health community: falling through the cracks, getting back up, healing yourself, a friend’s betrayal and mood swings. 

Escape
By J. David Scott

Your floor is my floor
Having walked upon the cracks
And fallen through where I now linger,
I often look up and wonder what it's like
To never use my feet again,
To never ever run again,
Just to fly away.

The Every Day Healer
By Gracelynn

I heal myself 
Not because I received a prestigious degree
Or trained with the yogis and great healers of the world
But by the innate healing ability all of us possess
To Every Day
Bring my mind, my heart, my body
To a place of presence
To a place of harmony with the Divine
Of which we are all a part.
To a place of Love.
Day by day
I choose to heal
And become Health itself. 

Untitled
By Anna Santacroce

Sister forsythia. Dichotomous dicot flower.
Psychotic psychiatric flower.
Schizoaffective disorder (bipolar type).
I live alone.
I often write.

For my friend with megalomania:
I hope for the best for you.

I often wonder if you remember your words and actions,
Adverse to the lying.

I don't have the same illness.
I must confess.
Do you remember after your tantrums and uses of myself and others?
Or do you just do that lying?

You see yourself in others.
To paint (me) as yourself.

You apply sadism to see myself in your world.
I am not always sure if we are yours.

In your megalomania you imagine a world to target.
Then you lie about it.

Like this personal monopoly.
Gets scarier by the day.

You paint these sadistic pictures to reflect yourself.
Is it love you have ever felt?

Mood Swings
By Ted Walner

The pendulum swings up
The pendulum swings down.
Riding on this ride we go.
As we approach everywhere
One moment utterly depressed.
The next phase in euphoria land
Feeling immersed in these emotions
Takes me nowhere.
I cling and I climb.
I hurt and I love.
One minute blue
The next moment as happy as can be.
Truly, the meds help.
But they don’t terminate my emotions. 
Swinging on this chandelier
Flying through all types of peril.
I look up, I look down
And nowhere would I like to be.
As I shift 
As I ride
As I fall 
I lean to some and hope they are there for me. 
Yes, hoping this perilous ride ends.
And…
I am smoothly sailing.
Hoping I find that happy medium.
Hoping I find that calm in the storm
And am stable once again.

Ward Stories: Poetry

Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief
Four poets are featured in this Winter 2018 edition of Ward Stories: Eva Tortora, Mary Divine, Richard A. Martinez Jr., and Louie Morano. One poem has an expression of love, another an eloquent and painful complaint, the others offer advice with a side dish of hope. Find what you need; take what you want and hopefully enjoy.

Love
By Eva Tortora
Love
surrounds my heart
from you
accepting me
and all my poems
and all my years
of battles, roses
sweat and tears
so on this day
thank you
and all my lessons
and all my poems,
love in my heart
from your acceptance
so I can write 1,000 more poems
and songs and words
blessing you

Living life with P.T.S.D.
By Mary Divine
How am I supposed to feel,
When the pain and nightmares become so real?

What am I supposed to say,
When all my hope has gone away?

When do I stop and get the choice,
To end the noise, quiet the voice?

Flashbacks, isolation and hypervigilance abound,
Peace and calmness cannot be found.

I often feel like the walking dead,
Stuck with the memories inside my head.

I sit alone quiet and don’t want to talk.
I think I would feel better if I go outside and walk.

This does not help, I feel as bad.
Am I going crazy? Am I going mad?

What can I do? I know this feeling is wrong.
I feel I’m always fighting, but help! I’m not that strong.

I wish I could go back in time,
To a place where my life was truly mine.

And be the person I used to be:
Normal, happy, smiling, free.

But no, this is not then, but now. 
I must devise a way somehow.

To halt bad thoughts, somehow someway,
To live my life from day to day.

A Season of Change
By Richard A. Martinez Jr.
Spending time
With family, with those who care
Living life
With people who share
I know when handling stress
From a heavy heart and burden
Can only tell why
Suddenly you can be certain
There is no way for me to tell
One thing from another
Just treat your sister like your sister
And your brother like your brother
Another day
Under what we stand for
Greatness can be made
Our hearts are our cure

Your Problems Will Disappear
By Louie Morano
You can make your life anything
you want it to be
simply by changing the
way you Think.

Instead of being sad you can feel great.
Go ahead and do it and give
yourself a break.

Turn a rotten day into a terrific one.
Good Times have just begun.

Listen to Norman Vincent Peale
and think positive.
It will be like crossing a bridge
from a world of sadness
to one of joy.

If life has you down and you feel annoyed
Think different thoughts that are a bit happier.
All your problems will disappear.

Ward Stories

Ward Stories

Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief

Four poets are featured in this Summer 2017 edition of Ward Stories: Ayesha, J. Alfreda, Craig Bayer, and Cecil Williams. Themes of love and renewal abound in these selections that I felt were fitting for the spring and summer seasons. Enjoy!

The Truth a Poem

By Ayesha

I used to feel broken inside.

I believed I’d never heal or get better.

I believed I’d be broken forever.

You see I’m better but that does not mean I am “cured” of schizophrenia.

It means I’m on the potter’s wheel.

All human beings have flaws and shortcomings but some see themselves as masterpieces even royalty.

I’m working “on me” in therapy and by registering to take WRAP again but mental illness unfortunately has no cure and is lifelong.

Any psychiatrist or psychologist would say ‘tis true.

So I am going to keep moving forward and just keep working “on me”.

I’m not perfect, I know that, but I love the person I am and was created to be.

Almighty God created me and when he was finished he said “that was good.”

I’m not average. I’m extra-ordinary. I’m eccentric. I’m crazysexycool.

I have become a person that other people acknowledge and seem to like.

That’s good enough for Me.

I wouldn’t want to be super-skinny or want to become another woman who is beautiful by societal standards.

I just want to be myself.

I have three motorcycle jackets that I wear with my motorcycle hat sometimes and I feel powerful whenever I wear it.

I feel like I am a biker chick even if I am a Sunday School Teacher and a volunteer leading a peer support group.

I love my life and I wouldn’t want to trade places with anyone else who either is more “successful,” more “beautiful,” or whatever.

I see myself as having a good life and I love my SZ life even though it’s not perfect, it’s my life and I am proud of my accomplishments. I’ve come a long way.

I am making a Comeback in my 30s. My 20s were hard and my adolescent years were difficult for me. My 30s so far are amazing! I’ll be 36 years old soon!

Finding Your Way Back to Love

By J. Alfreda

return to forever

is a mind refresh

a quest

becoming one with your Maker

your mind

is Universal property

enhanced it prepares you

for the journey

it will pack your bags

if you let it

the receptacle

is the mind Universal

Love/matter

have you ever seen your brain on Love?

it glows—

like a wave

trying to leave the ocean

you can’t get away from Love

it stalks the soul

and so

it is your essence

you can only be blind to it

like a mother

to her child’s inequities

so a walk to Love

is never a return

but a walk to a mirror

where you like

what you see.

Lovesick
By Craig Bayer
My days have always been painful
But now the pain is intense
I check my emails but you haven’t written
I check my messages-you haven’t called
I visit our hangout, but you aren’t there
Are you avoiding me forever?
Have I struck out again?
I’m not sure, now that I want to see you
Because there may be a negative expression on your lovely face
God, I adore that face
But if you look at me the wrong way, it could crush me
I want to flirt with you
Say or sing that you’re the “Sunshine of My Life”
I want to hold you in my arms
And kiss that face all over
I want to stroke your head
But if you fear or hate me now
All fantasizing and daydreaming becomes terrifyingly meaningless
I’m praying to God
That I haven’t lost you completely
That we can still be friends
That you’ll trust me again
I think I fucked up again, though
I think I may have to move on
And I will move on, if necessary

Pride Parade

By Cecil Williams

My Sunday in June was spent at the blown-in-all-directions Pride Parade

And there was a huge atmosphere of excitement that still does not fade

It appears that everyone was into a rainbow dream and a feeling of pride

No longer were we shallow or unhappy about life, which we call a ride

The future holds dreams and connections to each other that we won't hide

It is a movement similar to Civil Rights and no voter or anyone can be denied

Thank goodness Orlando did not crush the gusto but there were a lot of regrets

Too bad the Massacre brought such vibes of finality we said with cigarettes

And there we were marching and seeing dancers who caused a stir in their dance

And couples wore smiles and offered the waiting universe this brand of romance

Some cried out in joy that legislation about marriage gave us a new chance

And looking around the crowd, such wealth of caring could be taken in a glance

We are the proud and we are fitting together the voices for the fight of the gifted

God shines in sunshine-rays and some of the tribulation has been lifted

Tomorrow, I promise that I will be involved in a less depressing set of rules

For the millions who cheer remind us that we walk the path of different schools

We are united and will dance like hippies, our feet that move to the beat on the street

And I, for one, am enchanted and enraptured what Pride Day brought we could meet

Writing about a future goal will uphold the magic of the body, mind, and soul

And let's be hallelujah-grateful that such a lesbian tale can be told

Ward Stories: Poetry from the Mental Health community

Ward StoriesOrganized by Dan Frey, Editor in ChiefSix poets are featured in this Winter 2017 edition of Ward Stories: Carolyn Sanzenbacher, Debra Faes-Dudden, Carl Blumenthal, Susin Postovoit, and Matty Guerrero. Some poems are seasonally-themed, some upbeat, some clever, some positive, some raw, but all have something to offer as you sip your hot spiced wine by the roaring fire with our publication in hand (or on screen). Be well and have a safe and satisfying autumn and winter.

Autumn Pilgrimage

By Carolyn Sanzenbacher

It was not from disrespect that we smelled of musty earth when the pawpaw trees  felled fruits that oozed into engraver's cuts, rendering the headstones nameless and mute.Here is grandmother, we would say to one another,and there is aunt Vivian who died blind before sixteen, and there is Connard who didn't die from the fever like Vivian did. Others too, stared up from the stones weuncovered each autumn.The unrotted fruits were sweet like mangobut bitter near the peel. Seeking the edge between the two would twist our mouths in joy and throw us back on feather-veined leaves burying the stones we came to revive.Of those amber colored seasons when the acrid was so freely tasted and the dead so simply resurrected, little remains now but for the stones we used as pillows.Long silenced by passages of untasted fallings,iced by slow coming winters, then dried to burnt sienna before the next autumns came.

Living with Mental Illness

By Debra Faes-Dudden

How pretty a picture I would like to paint

Oh, to taste the meringue atop a lemon pie

Or the chocolate chip cookie just so warm from the oven

Mental illness is none of these

Not pretty, not melt-in-your-mouth, sweet and warm

It’s an isolated desert where many of us are lost

Our pockets are empty, our shoes weighted with sand

Our eyes tear out of grief and frustration

Panic makes our legs weak and some of us fall

Confusion is a constant itch when the pace of life gyrates too fast or too slow

And when we awake in the morning,

sometimes we don’t know where we are

Criticism is a cruel response from people

They see our struggle then turn a blind eye

Our voice ripples against seemingly deaf ears

They fear what they do not understand

This awareness does not decrease painful rejections we feel

Mental illness is chronic physical illnessDepression, anxiety, schizophrenia stand besidediabetes, fibromyalgia, asthma, and heart disease

All require patience, understanding, and ongoing treatment

We are all God’s childrenPlease treat us with respect

Here’s What Mood Swings Feel Like…

By Carl Blumenthal

Little Red Riding Hood devouring the Wolf.

Hansel and Gretel stuffing the Witch with bread crumbs.

The Three Bears ordering Goldilocks to bed without porridge.

Tom Thumb bulking up for the Olympics.

The Hare’s Adderall pooping out before the finish line.

Rumpelstiltskin forgetting his name due to Alzheimer’s.

The Giant grinding Jack’s bones for bread flour.

Snow White awakening by her Stepmother’s kiss.

The Wolf’s asthma saving The Three Little Pigs’ homes.

Pinocchio sticking his nose in one too many lives.

The Fisherman catching the Fish with his wife as bait.

Beauty turning into a Beast after the marriage.

The Boy Who Cried Wolf becoming a zookeeper.

Cinderella growing too fat for the glass slipper.

The naked Emperor being mistaken for a porn star.

Rapunzel losing her hair during chemotherapy.

The Goose Who Laid the Golden Egg getting constipated.

Humpty Dumpty rebounding from the fall of the king.

Flights of Fancy

By Susin Postovoit

Oh yes! 

Life's a mess,

I must now confess,

Instant highs caress --

They’re escapes, a mess.

Lies bound with tresses,

In plaits, then pressed.

Naughty! I should stress.

Knotty! to digress.

Lies naughty, useless.

Lies press and harass,

Lies that I suppress --

Ah! Not a success.

I'm flying, oh yes?

Still, nevertheless,

I dress for success --

A liar’s useless.

I'm a liar, I'd guess…

States the choir: Oh yes!

I'm Ready

By Matty Guerrero

I walked in,

Everyone expects me to be nervous,

But it looks like I've been doing this my whole life...

I have the talk,

And I have the walk.

Of course,

I'm scared to death in my head,

Not knowing what's going to happen.

But, oddly, that's not the right word for it...

I'm not scared.

I'm ready...

To face everything you throw my way.

I'm going to fight,

Until it comes out right.

So thank you,

For challenging me.

Ward Stories

Ward Stories
Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief
Four poets are featured in the summer 2016 edition of Ward Stories: Richard A. Martinez Jr., Joel Simonds, Ijaaza EL, and someone who prefers to remain anonymous. Marvin Spieler, a pioneer in peer advocacy, died earlier this year. To those who knew Marvin, some of the poems below, though not intended as such, are a reminder of his struggles, our own, and how someone's death, especially the dearly departed, can force us to put our personal lives in perspective.

My Last Sad Cigarette
By Richard A. Martinez Jr.

I drown my sorrow
Into a lit cigarette
Waiting for this day to be
Better than the next
As the cigarette burns
Down to its final ashes
The things I did comes to me in flashes
Good times and bad
Things that made me happy and mad
Reminders in life
That can make a person so sad
But through the rough
And just when I know I had enough
Thoughts of ending these thoughts
Could be the devil's bluff
Crazy thoughts through a cloudy head
The past still hinders
And a living soul is half dead
But a new day is in sight
Hoping as I sleep in the night
Even when I dream
My cigarette gives me a light.

To Amy (1954-2015)
By Joel Simonds

Still waters run so very deep,
Or so it is that they say;
Now no one could rouse you from sleep,
Even just to see you one more day.

Amy, when it was that I first saw you here,
Not remembering our older day;
I asked you for a poem to share, and
You declined, shyly stepping away—

Then came days of valiant work,
The work you plied upon yourself;
From struggle your quiet soul couldn’t shirk,
While your art you had to leave upon the shelf…

But soon, in our groups, you began to tell
Of your love of writing in your book;
You ventured forth from your shell,
And gave fleeting Life a final, sweeping look.

You faced the battle so dignified, so brave,
Never giving in to despair;
All of your strength, your art, you gave
And inner feelings once again you shared.

Yes, Amy, you came alive,
Rising from old still waters;
Swimming through the tide, again to thrive,
Your good deeds like new sons and daughters.

Now Amy’s poetry is declared on High,
By G-d’s closest angelic Host;
I don’t know how to say goodbye,
For in this stillness, it’s your stillness we miss the most.

What Goes On Inside My Head (Makes Me Physically Dead)
By Ijaaza EL

What makes these cords, wires, nerves and synapses begin tripping & flipping
causing panic, anxiety and lapses of memory? Is post traumatic stress a part
of my chemistry? What causes this performance? Is it a test for endurance?
For the love of the Almighty, how much can my precious brain take?
These bugs in my brain are driving me insane; the repetition is so in sync it
may also drive me to drink. God! I am afraid to think. It is so devastating…
how I shut my body down and just go absolutely cold. Father, please have mercy
on my soul. From September 17th through September 25th,
life behind bars became as a gift. Though from the start it was a burden of terrors,
a multitude of errors in an assembly line—I couldn’t decipher this strange
dilemma of losing my mind. But hospital staff, doctors, and roommates
were exceptionally kind. I am back home in a corner in the recesses of my mind.
I am doing fine with baby steps, one at a time.
The Almighty has showered me with creations and innovation
whereas in a week I have learned to think things wisely. Through my tears
I will harness my fears and I am more than grateful that he is near.
Post trauma is my drama and I will not invoke negative passage to
disturb my positive karma. What goes on inside my head,
I am compelled to keeping in control. Although my personality and character are
still ever so bold. I am discipline, and I am listening to what makes me better.
I have made my bed with all I have said. What goes on inside my head
I won’t ever let it make me become physically dead…Again.

DEATH

By Anonymous
Death my savior, death my friend
The solace which awaits me, at life’s end
No longer livid, or depressed
No more guilt, or sins to confess
To no longer feel abandoned, or unloved
From mortals below, or G-d above
No short highs, which swiftly turn to lows
And to hear “Understand, this is the way life goes”
No more of life’s heat, and suffocating gloom
Or anguishing torture, on a hot afternoon

To me death is a soft breeze, on a cool Autumn night
‘Ah to bask in death’s rains, and dreary delights’
Its darkness is thick, soothing and warm
And shields me from harsh winds, and bitter storms

Death is a place, of never-ending pleasure
Its paradise cannot be measured
To bond, with the Everlasting Love
To be at one, with G-d above

Life is for saints, who do good
Not for sinners like me, who don’t do as they should

But I truly believe there is hope
If not, how in the world could I cope?
Ya see I got plans and schemes
Hopes and dreams
In this lousy life, for my peace of mind, I pray
But then again there is always death, that glorious day!

Ward Stories: Poetry

Ward Stories
Organized by Dan Frey, Editor in Chief
Four poets are featured in the winter 2016 edition of Ward Stories: Nigel, Bonnieblue, J. Cloven and Jeffrey V. Perry. “Wonderland in the Asylum” is both trippy and frightening, especially if you have ever been inside psychosis. I know at times it can seem like the greatest escape. “My Journey” will make you repeat to yourself its repetitive chorus, so be warned. Everyone should have an admirer like J. Cloven in “August.” And lastly, Jeffrey V. Perry, a senior employee of our parent organization, Baltic Street AEH, asserts that the peer movement in mental health has come a long way. Many people working in the mental health field are “Angels Now at War,” fighting for the rights of their peers who have been diagnosed with severe mental illness.


Wonderland And The Asylum
By Nigel

I want to visit Wonderland again
I want to see The Mad Hatter
And say hello to the March Hare
I want to watch the Cheshire Cat disappear
But I am locked away in the Asylum
They say all these things are part of my illness
The imaginings of a disturbed mind
They give me pills to calm me
But I want to visit Wonderland again
The doctors think I am mad
They think I will always remain in the Asylum
I want to be free again
And play games with Tweedledum and Tweedledee
I even miss the screams of the Red Queen
Wonderland was a beautiful place
I know things were a little strange
But I felt happy and alive
Will you help me escape from the Asylum?
I have no friends here
My life is passing me by
Perhaps if I sleep awhile
Maybe I will find a way back to Wonderland
In my dreams I may find some peace
Please don't wake me up
I want to sleep forever and dream of Wonderland

My Journey
By Bonnieblue

My journey has been fierce
At times, it has been a battle field
I have cried and my screams piercing
Running, running, to where
Anywhere, but here

Fighting to grow, to live, to know
Being ill, treated poorly, why
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here

Having a child to love to grow
Fighting for child to live, to play, to know
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here

Living a lie, dying slow, hurting so
Working hard, loving job, lonely though
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here

Losing loved ones who are dear
Heart is broken can't repair
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here

Having two dogs love unconditionally
Wet kisses constantly
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here

Too much clutter in my mind
Not enough space left behind
Running, running, to where
Anywhere but here........

August
By J. Cloven

it has been so long
your voice so deep
no longer at your mother's breast
i must confess
that i always wanted to see you
grow into the young man
you have become.

Memory serves me
we used to stroll you on the streets
of sun-stained Chula Vista
you were the best man
at my wedding
god bless you and your splendor
and the grace that he has brought us back together.

your name is symbolic
of a love once shared
the sun blazes on in August
August is majestic
August is grandeur

Angels Now at War
By Jeffrey V. Perry

We believe that people can help people!
One can't be trained to be compassionate!
Experiences are valuable!
First, we must recognize other people as people

This is different than those who are asked
To do just their job or do a task;
Those who were taught to don a completed skill,
We too know experiences earned are real.

We will say that we can, because we have.
And there is no theory on our behalf.
We are those who have been suppressed.
We overcame a system with success

The system did not ask for us to come.
It has been common sense we have spun from.
Systems cannot be asked to change themselves.
From out of systems we come back to help.

If you didn't know, there is a peer movement
In mental health growing that we represent.
A Peer-run Agency, started on Baltic Street,
Where, experience-based services compete.

We offer many, who are underserved,
To share their voices so they will be heard.
Because, we use a peer to peer experience-based,
We know our lives are far too great to waste.

Now Baltic Street A.E.H., Inc. employs
Through many programs, hundreds, it deploys.
With hospitals and community, it does give
Self-help, recovery, jobs, and a place to live

Baltic Street has been here almost twenty years.
It helped in the movement, peers helping peers.
Now that Mental Health Agencies are on board,
I believe the peer concept struck a chord.

Witness this day where peers have paved a way.
Now government listens to what peers say.
It has been amazing to see this swing,
One day all the angels in chorus will sing.

Ward Stories

Ward Stories

Organized by Dan Frey

Two poets are featured in the summer 2015 edition of ward stories: Craig R. Bayer and Sheryl. Craig describes his hot and cold relationship toward the King of the Universe and Sheryl's song encourages her (and all women) to be strong. Enjoy.

Untitled Poem

By Craig R. Bayer

God
You’ve blessed me with so much
A loving family
A privileged background
Charismatic rabbis
Great teachers and professors
A joyful and carefree youth
Yet you’ve seemingly cursed me, too
My family was ultimately cynical about religion and it stifled my early attempt at zealotry
You crippled my mother with mental illness
Took away my kindergarten playmate Teri (whom I thought I was destined to marry yet she declined to attend my bar mitzvah)
Deprived me of sex until I was in my twenties
Made a joke out of my attempts to find a career
Yet you saved me that postgraduate summer in Boston
When this bold artist and revolutionary couldn’t find a decent job or pay the rent
The stress was so intense that my ears heard the slightest of sounds
I was depressed and virtually psychotic
I thought I was under surveillance
My anger turned me from a peaceful democratic socialist into a potentially violent Marxist-Leninist
But then I read the biography of Martin Luther King: “Bearing the Cross”
And it described how his faith in You gave him comfort, direction and strength
And I gave my mind and soul back to You
And my inner turmoil subsided…
From that point on, it’s been a journey about how to properly serve You and the people
Should I remain a Jew
Or go Christian or Buddhist?
What if I don’t want to accept that Jesus is your son or that the world is what it is?
Should I give up Marxism, embrace capitalism?
Should I be a professor or rabbi or journalist or hack?
I always fall back on being Marxist Jew and poet
But I think that my journey will never ever be complete
All I know is that I need You for my sanity
Because secular life turned out to be bankrupt and traumatic.

Who You Are

By Sheryl

It's hard to be optimistic
Looking though an aged mirror
Not seeing the girl
I used to know
The smile hiding inside
Somewhere like a rose
Its leaves die

People say your pessimistic
Why can't you see the glass half full?
You would rather tip it over
Cry out yesterday a river
Distress eustress
Negative and positive
Where is the empowerment of 

the woman you use to be?
Has generativity after the break up
Confused you on commitment
Are you quality?

Chorus:
Procrastination will not bring you anything
What you're waiting for
It's time to open the door to today
Perfectionism is hard to attain in the past
The clock on the wall
Stop forgetting who you are
Who you are?

Stop meditation on the past You should be glad that it past Hypnosis on one guy Why wait and listen To the stranger's feedback They all are lies Why treat them like cognitive self talk Can you see the lack of self-esteem Keep your mind on who you are Rather than what people think you do Only you know the truth. Distress eustress Negative and positive Where is the empowerment of the woman you used to be? Has generativity after the break-up confused you on commitment Are you quality? Chorus: Procrastination will not bring you anything What are you waiting for It's time to open the door to today Perfectionism is hard to attain in the past The clock on the wall, stop forgetting who you are Who you are?

Ward Stories A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor

Ward Stories
A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor
For this winter 2015 edition, we feature three poets, each with their own style and message. R. Martinez Jr. makes addiction real for his readers in Love is a Drug. Paul Chipkin grows into a peaceful man through his poem I Am That I Am. Beryl Khabeer explains that our soul is beyond the material world in her poem Brooching SOUL. I hope that you enjoy as much as I have.

Love is a Drug
By R. Martinez Jr.
I need a quick fix
I'm addicted to you
feeling high feeling low
what am I to do?
an aphrodesiac
affection in a sack
I can feel you in my veins
but Im stuck without a track
I'm drowning in a bottle
of absolute sorrow
if I cant have you now
there will be no tomorrow
Pure euphoria
when I'm with you its ecstasy
I take so much of you in
that I can't even see
I might have to quit cold turkey
I might have to ween
Love is a drug
you already proved it to me.

I Am That I Am
By Paul Chipkin
I am the very one
Who did those things
That I can be the one
Who is growing into
Who I am today
Because I am who I was
And have seen complexity
As I strengthened
Growing
And making peace better.

Love appears here,
Sprouts anew there…
Goodness greets me
In response to faith.

Divinely-inspired liberties
And holy trust
Bring me to pray
That those
Who I hurt along the way
Are exercising forgiveness,
(Believing in that eases my burden
as I stand in this present moment
loving my fellows with developing confidence).

Having fought off hoplessness,
I hold an optimistic vision
For the salvation of individuals.

Now, as it always was,
I am grateful for all that I have!

Brooching SOUL
By Beryl Khabeer, M.A.
The body is just the shell I live in.
I am no sensation; I am no senses.
I am a living  S O U L.
The beat of my environ touch my true self,
Touch my  S O  U  L
And echo through the senses.

Knowing and using the senses
For only the senses’ sake
Is to abridge Creation and Creator.

Ward Stories A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor

Ward Stories

A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor

Jeffrey Perry, a peer advocate of many years, wrote an op-ed titled “Recovery is the Level of Happiness We Obtain” for the summer 2013 edition of NYC Voices. You can learn more about him and his work at: http://www.jeffreyvperry.com. Andrea shared her work with Voices for the first time. Her poem is darker, but from the heart, about the struggles many people have when they live with mental illness.

Stigmas Are Not Imagined

By Jeffrey Perry

Stigma is not imagined

Stigma is very true and really real.

Stigma is not just an outside force,

Stigma is something one can also feel.

Sometimes thoughtless people do mistake

And call fixation with stigma, just a fake.

Often billions are spent for the system’s sake,

For not knowing the prices stigmas do take.

We cannot account for stigma’s heartache

Or the loss love missed from stigma’s heartbreak.

In the first rule of Sociology,

You are not to blame any poor victim.

Mental health is a chief priority,

Not to be treated any less for some.

Symptoms too, are real and take their toll,

On those who know their continuous hold.

One needs more than clout to stay in the door,

While witnessing the pain one may endure.

Do not be deceived by what you work for.

Forget not this clouded vale none adore.

Remember through hurt, we open that store.

Our products are on the shelves at our core.

With all stigmas and symptoms that prevail,

Recovery is still a bright light that shines well.

Where Do I Go From Here?

By Andrea

Where do I go from here?

That’s always the question

My heart, my soul, my life

The fear just keeps coming

Where do I go from here?

I’m lost, forever floating

The love I should feel for myself

It does not exist, and it will never surface

Where do I go from here?

Others think they know

They’re so high and mighty

But their wisdom cannot match my demons

Where do I go from here?

The answer is inevitable

Hell on earth is waiting

I will suffer to live…I will suffer to die

Where do I go from here?

Ward Stories Winter 2014: Poetry

Ward Stories
A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor
In this edition of Ward Stories I am pleased to present two powerful poems. DeAnn puts the struggle of a single mother to poetry while Chaim shares his experience of love with a fellow consumer/survivor in rhyming verse. Enjoy.

First Born Son
By DeAnn
Once a bright promise
Star of our eyes
And hearts,
His mind broke,
Into disorder.
The cold hard stone
Of sorrow
Dropped,
Sending rings
Of disappointment
Ever outward.

His father,
My husband,
Died years ago,
Broken-hearted.
His sister
My daughter has
Stood long in grief’s shadow,
I ask for her forgiveness.

Blinded with pain
I prayed
For God to pull me
From the smoke and ash,
I prayed for Him
To wash away the grime
Of sorrowful days.
I didn’t even see that
He was there all along,
Patiently holding me up
Waiting to breathe
Hope’s holy light
Into my darkest hours.


I Will Stay By You Always
By Chaim
Your depression, not unlike a heavy fog.
Like the stench and gloom of industrial smog.
We both just want it to go away.
And you are too sick to hope, too tired to pray.

They give you therapy and pills to ease the pain.
But the gloom and sadness still remains.

Maybe it is written in fate.
Your feelings of sadness, which we both hate.

Maybe it was festering in the womb, before you were born.
This creature called depression, so relentless and strong.

But despite the beast that keeps you in bed.
Crying dry tears feeling half dead.

My love, I just want you to know.
That I too feel powerless and hate it so!

But my love, don't feel that you must smile.
Or I will pick myself up and leave after a while.

Yes it's got to get better, just you wait and see
Yes that's the way, it's got to be

But Heaven forbid, if these feelings never leave?
My love, you must believe

I'll stay with you always, through thick and thin
Regardless of what emotional shape you are in

For our love is beyond space and time
I am forever yours and you are eternally mine

Ward Stories - Summer 2013

Ward Stories

A column organized by Dan Frey, Interim Poetry Editor

It is my pleasure to present the poems of Sarah and Gil. Sarah has been very eager to get published by City Voices and sent us many an encouraging email. She has written many fine poems but alas we only have room for one. Gil's poem highlights his experiences in a psych hospital where they sent him for treatment of his drug addiction.

Autobiography

By Sarah

I’ve lived my life on an island

A round one, green and plush

Where my white feet shift all the white sand

And the salt makes my pale face flush

I sing with the island fairies

And make walls of tiny stones

And pretend that the clouds make me merry

And pretend that I'm not alone

Every now and then someone will float past

On their way to some far-off place

And I wave as the current sweeps by fast

While I memorize each smiling face

But my stone walls have started to totter

And the clouds are falling down

Still I dare not go out in the water

For then surely I will drown

Bughouse Birthday

By Gil

Days before I turned 24,

I told my family doctor

I had a heroin habit

and blinking like a mosquito landed

in his eye, he sent me to Fairfield Hills

State Hospital.

There was no group therapy,

no individual sessions,

no psycho-education,

no 12-step programs.

The attendants communicated

with grunts and hand gestures

behind shatter-proof glass.

When I complained of withdrawal symptoms,

the nurse said junkies

have a low threshold for pain.

A patient who memorized

Edgar Allen Poe

kept me up nights ranting:

“Ghastly grin and ancient raven

wandering from the Nightly shore…”

Another, called me paesan’

and said a Mafia hit team

was out gunning for him,

smashing the TV against a wall,

inches above my head.

My roomies boasted

how they played the skull doctors

by faking psychiatric problems

to avoid jail time

fantasizing out loud how much

dope they were going to shoot

the minute they hit the streets.

When I was discharged,

they gave me the phone numbers

to their connections.

Sobered by my hospital stay,

I stuck to wine coolers and reefer

for three months.