Poetry

My Poetry

In the Midst of the Puzzles and Counseling Journey

There is a quietness that comes
in the awareness of presenting names
and recalling places
in the history of persons
who come seeking help.
Confusion and direction are a part of the process
where in trying to sort out tracks
that parallel into life
a person's past is traveled.
Counseling is a complex riddle
where the mind's lines are joined
with scrambling and precision
to make sense out of nonsense,
a tedious process
like piecing fragments of a puzzle together
until a picture is formed.

Gladding, S. T. (1978). In the midst of the puzzles and counseling journey. Personnel and Guidance Journal, 57, 148. copyright ACA.

Reality Sits in a Green-Cushioned Chair

In the midst of a day
that has brought only grey skies, hard rain,
and two cups of lukewarm coffee,
You come to me with Disney World wishes
Waiting for me to change into:
a Houdini figure with Daniel Boone's style
Prince Charming's grace and Abe Lincoln's wisdom
Who with magic words, a wand,
frontier spirit, and perhaps a smile
Can cure all troubles in a flash.
But reality sits in a green-cushioned chairù
lightning has struck a nearby tree,
Yesterday ended another month,
I'm uncomfortable sometimes in silence,
And unlike fantasy figures
I can't always be
what you see in your mind.

Gladding, S. T. (1973). Reality sits in a green-cushioned chair. Personnel and Guidance Journal, 54, 222. copyright ACA.

Autumn Storm

Your words splash heavily upon my mind
like early cold October rain
falling on my roof at dusk.
The patterns change like an Autumn storm
from violently rumbling thundering sounds
to clear, soft steady streams of expression.
Through it all I look at you
soaked in past fears and turmoil;
Then patiently I watch with you in the darkness
for the breaking of black clouds
that linger in your turbulent mind
And the dawning of your smile
that comes in the light of new beginnings.

Memory Traces

Active as I am in sessions
going with you to the marrow of emotions
our shared journey has an end.
Tonight, as you hesitantly leave my office
to the early darkness of winter days
and the coldness of December nights,
you do so on your own.
Yet, this season of crystallized rain
changes, if however slowly,
and our time and words together
can be a memory from which may grow
a new seed of life within you,
Not without knowledge of past years' traumas
but rather in the sobering realization
that in being heard a chance is created
to fill a time with different feelings,
And savor them in the silent hours
when you stand by yourself alone.

Tea-kettle Song

I know how the pressure can build sometimes
In your own metallic tea-kettle world,
Sporadically you whistle to me,
At other times you explode!
Somewhere beneath that noisy facade
(In silence or stillness perhaps)
Feelings might flow with quickness and strength,
Like the Dan or the Shenandoah,
But now they incessantly boil in your mind
Steam-filling dark shadows and choking conversation.

Here and Now

I feel at times that I'm wasting my mind
as we wade through your thoughts and emotions.
With my skills I could be in a world-renowned clinic
with a plush, private office, soft padded chairs,
and a sharp secretary at my command.
Instead of here in a pink cinderblock room
where it leaks when it rains
and the noise seeps under the door like water.
But in leaving, you pause for a moment
as your voice spills out in a whisper:
"Thanks for being here when I hurt."
With those words my fantasies end, as reality,
like a wellspring begins filling me
with life-giving knowledge, as it cascades through my mind,
That in meeting you, when you're flooded with pain,
I discover myself.

Patchwork

She works in a world I have never known
Full of rainbow pills and lilac candles
Woven together with simple time-stitches
A pattern of color in a gray fabric factory
Where she spends her days
spinning threads
that go to Chicago by night.
Once with a little girl smile and a giggle
She flew to Atlanta in her mind,
Opening the door to instant adventures
far from her present fatigue,
That was a journal we shared
arranging her thoughts in a patchwork pattern
until the designs and desires came together.

The Bandaid Man

At times I envy the bandaid man
who cleaned my cuts when I was young
While painting me as "mercurochrome clown"
before he patched my pain with adhesive.
That was security to know he cared and would be around
to fix, when possible, all the hurts of childhood
that come in growing to be man.
His job, I think, was easier than mine
for in counseling I cannot always see
your past wounds, scars, and might-have-beens.
If I could, on days like today,
I might like the old man I remember
try with gentleness to cover them.
For you sit beside me with tears in your eyes
and I know how slowly it takes words to heal.

Harbor Thoughts

Far in the back of his mind he harbors thoughts
like small boats in a quiet cove
ready to set sail at a moment's notice.
I, seated on his starboard side,
listen for the winds of change
ready to lift anchor with him
and explore the choppy waves of reality ahead.
Counseling requires a special patience
best known to seamen and navigators,
courses are only charted for times
when the tide is high and breezes steady.

Portraits

I skip down the hall like a boy of seven
before the last bell of school
and the first day of summer
My ivy-league tie flying through the stagnant air
that I break into small breezes as I bobblingly pass.
At my side, within fingertip touch,
a first grade child with a large cowlick
roughly traces my every step
filling in spaces with moves of his own
on the janitor's just waxed floor.
"Draw me a man"
I stop and request
And with no thought of crayons and paper
he shyly comes with open arms
to quietly embrace me.

Through the Seasons to New Life

Just like fall foliage
we watch what you bring forth each September.
Your changes are not as dramatic as the red of Maples,
or as warm as the orange of twilight fires;
But your presence, both individually and collectively,
like leaves adds color to a campus
that would otherwise be bland
in the shades of administration grey.
We celebrate your coming
much as we look forward to the crisp cool air
at the end of summer.
We welcome your spirit
for it enlivens us to the metaphors and ideals
that live unchanging lives ...

Scars

As our sessions go on you speak of your scars
and show me the places where you have been burned.
Sadly, I hear your fiery stories
reliving with you, through your memories and words,
all of the tension-filled blows and events
that have beaten and shaped your life.
"I wish I were molten steel" you say,
"And you were a blacksmith's hammer.
Maybe then, on time's anvil, we could structure together
a whole new person, with soft smooth sounds,
inner strength and glowing warmth."

Of Frogs, Princes and Lily Pond Changes

She went about kissing frogs
for in her once-upon-time mind
that's what she had learned to do.
With each kiss came expectations
of slimy green changing to Ajax white.
With each day came realizations
that fly-eating, quick-tongued, croaking creatures
Don't magically turn to instant princes
from the after effects of a fast-smooching,
smooth-talking helping beauty.
So with regret she came back from a lively lily-pond
to the sobering stacks of the village library
To page through the well-worn stories again
and find in print what she knew in fact
that even loved frogs sometimes stay frogs
no matter how pretty the damsel or how high the hope.

Gladding, S. T. (1976). Of frogs, princes and lily pond changes. Copyright Prentice Hall.

Twilight

When all my clients have left the office
I turn off the silent overhead lights
And watch a lingering afternoon sun
like a patient court square artist
slowly spread gold-tinged hues
across a wooden floor canvas
and onto my cluttered desk.
That moment fills me with a sense of awe
for quiet light and moving life.
Walking in twilight
I picture past sessions
And wonder if lives I so fleetingly touched
will dare envision their inner beauty
painted in the colors and grace of time....

Secrets

Out of the depth of your mind come the secrets
rough diamond-shaped forms
slowly pressured in pain and cut with hope.
With inner strength
you mine repressed memories
and change your expression
as hope is released.
Privately, I wish for more of your story
but the struggle is deep and the thoughts are too heavy
to be quickly lightened with insight.
So with the group I patiently listen
and silently applaud your emergence.

Gladding, S. T. (1990). Secrets. Journal of Humanistic Education and Development, 28, 141. Copyright ACA.

Still life

I watch the children line up like ducks
all in a row, except one.
Noisily they ramble past concrete walls
follow-the-leader style
behind a blond-haired woman
in a light yellow dress
who quietly talks to them through her motions.
Today is picture day in the school
with a jolly old man who says: "Cheese"
tossing tidbit compliments before boys and girls
as they fix their smiles at him.
In just a flash roles are caught,
a moment recorded, and lines form again.
Straight and precise the children walk
all except one, who in dimly-lit halls,
rapidly steps in a zigzag manner
defying a rule and defining himself.
Gladding, S. T. (1975). Still life. North Carolina Personnel & Guidance Journal, 4, 28. Copyright Prentice Hall.

Journey

I am taken back by your words—
To your history and the mystery of being human
in an all-too-often robotic world.
I hear your pain
and see the pictures you paint
so cautiously and vividly.
The world you draw is a kaleidoscope
ever changing, ever new, encircling, and fragile.
Moving past the time and through the shadows
you look for hope beyond the groups you knew
as a child.
I want to say: "I'm here. Trust the process."
But the artwork is your own
so I withdraw and watch you work
while occasionally offering you colors
and images of the possible.

Gladding, S. T. (1990). Journey. Journal of Humanistic Education and Development, 28,
142, Copyright ACA.

Rainbow

With age she has learned
to forgive the groups
that mistreated her
   because of her color.
Each Saturday she now bakes bread
and takes it to the local mission
where she stays to cut and serve it
   with love and a main dish.
Her grace has overcome years of hatred
angry words and hours of sadness
her brightness exudes a subtle warmth
   everyone calls her “Rainbow.”

Gladding, S. T. (1997). Rainbow. Copyright Prentice Hall

Group Dynamics

Emotions ricochet around the group
fired by an act of self-disclosure
in an atmosphere of trust.
I, struck by the process,
watch as feelings penetrate the minds
of involved members
and touch off new reactions.
Change comes from many directions
triggered by simple words.

Gladding, S. T. (1989). Group dynamics. Copyright Prentice Hall.

Some Personal Poems
Some of the poems I have written over the years deal more with me as a person than as a professional counselor. Some of these poems are included here.

Beecher Road

I walk thoughtfully down Beecher Road
   at the end of a summer of too little growth,
     the autumn wind stirring around me
       orange remnants of once green leaves.
I am the son of a fourth grade teacher
   and a man who dabbled in business and roses,
      a descendant of Virginia farmers
and open-minded Baptists,
the husband of a Connecticut woman,
   the father of preschoolers.
Youngest of three, I am a trinity
counselor
teacher
writer.
Amid the cold, I approach home,
   midlife is full of surprises.

Gladding, S. T. (1993). Beecher Road. Copyright Prentice Hall.

Without Applause

At thirty-five, with wife and child
a Ph.D.
and hopes as bright as a full moon
on a warm August night,
He took a role as a healing man
blending it with imagination,
necessary change and common sense
To make more than an image on an eye lens
of a small figure running quickly up steps;
Quietly he traveled
like one who holds a candle to darkness
and questions its power
So that with heavy years, long walks,
shared love, and additional births
He became as a seasoned actor,
who, forgetting his lines in the silence,
stepped upstage and without prompting
lived them.

A Poem in Parting.

When you wake up one morning
and feel you've grown old
Take this poem down from your shelf
And slowly read its well-wrought lines
which fade like memories of our youth.
Those were the days on the knolls of Reynolda
when times were measured in looks not words,
Those were the moments we wrote in our memories
and now, like fine parchment, though faded they remain
clear impressions in the calmness of age,
bringing warmth and smiles to the chill of the season:
brightness in a world full of grey.

Bittersweet

In the cool grey dawn of early September,
I place the final suitcase into my Mustang
And silently say "good-bye"
to the quiet beauty of North Carolina.
Hesitantly, I head for the blue ocean-lined coast
of Connecticut.
Bound for a new position and the unknown.
Traveling with me are a sheltie named "Eli"
and the still fresh memories of our last counseling session.
You, who wrestled so long with fears
that I kiddingly started calling you "Jacob,"
are as much a part of me as my luggage.
Moving in life is bittersweetù
like giving up friends and fears.
The taste is like smooth, orange, fall persimmons,
deceptively delicious but tart.

Gladding, S. T. (1984). Bittersweet. Counseling and Values, 28, 146. copyright ACA.

Ancestral Thoughts

Nathaniel joined a band of rebels
and from that colonial action
a nation sprang and a government grew.
I, seven generations removed,
ponder the boldness of his group
wishing for such courage
in my deepest interactions
And knowing on some level at times
his resolve is mine.

Dance Street

Dance Street began before I was born
and I don't know where it will end
Could be it will trail on forever
perhaps it shall suddenly stop.
The street began in downtown Richmond
   made of bricks, entitled "Dance,"
      for a man who bore the burden
          of fighting for a dream and beliefs.
When war ended
    he built again
       cared for the "cause" but more its people,
Moving with courage in the midst of strife
     he left an ancestral legacy
        for the dance of life.
Gladding, S. T. (1967/1991). Dance street. Copyright ACA.

An Image of Timothy

In my mind there's a picture of Timothy
   and a vision of nonverbal memories.
Awakened to that awareness
   I walk lightly and with joy --
      a man having watch the birth of his son
        and vicariously experienced the labor.
White clouds blow in the cool March air
   but my sight is focused on a previous night
     when new movement came to life
          in the rhythmic cry of an infant.

November 13th

After giving birth to Nathaniel
   you asked for a Wendy's shake and fries.
I can still remember as if yesterday
   the words that broke the silence
     surrounding the miracle of new life:
"I'm hungry."
Walking from your room still dazed
   through the Sunday streets of Birmingham
      I brought you back your first request from labor.
That cold November morning is now a treasure in my mind
   as are you and the child that you delivered.

Milestone

My son, Benjamin, rolls over in his crib
   to the applause of his mother and delight of himself
       while I catch an afternoon flight to Saint Paul
to conduct a counseling seminar.
These are milestones in our lives
   marking steps in family development
      as we reach out to touch
and are changed through our behaviors.
At 33,000 feet, I drift in and out of sleep
   aware that in the process, but on a different level,
      my wife and child do the same.
In the construct of images and depth of thought
   we attempt in special ways
      to bridge the gap of distance.

Eli

As an old dog, he has survived
   the marriage of his master to a Nutmeg woman,
   the first clumsy steps of sandy-haired toddlers,
   and the crises of moves around eastern states.
So in the gentle first light of morning
   he rolls leisurely in piles of yesterday's clothes
   left over from last night's baths by little boys.
Then slowly, with a slight limp,
he enters his daily routine,
approaching the kitchen at the breakfast rush hour
to quietly consume spilled cereal
and dodge congested foot traffic.
Sure of his place in a system of change
   he lays down to sleep on an air vent.
A family grows around him.

In Lines Through Time

In the morning light I write of you
   as my dreams fade to memories
     in the midst of winter's chill
       and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee.
In the noonday rush I think of you
   as I log frail thoughts into a dog-eared journal
      during silence preceding the joining of friends
         for lunch and the taste of fresh insights.
At home, past dusk and after traffic, I read about you
   some words from my pen, some from more intimate admirers.
At bedtime as I lay down
   my head dances with plans and emerging feelings
In that knowledge which is your presence
    my life becomes more open
       like a book in progress
I live with you in lines through time.

Launching

Amid the cascade of thoughts
   reflections flow and like a river
     weave a path through changing vistas
where there is room and time for growth
      and opportunities to settle.
At dusk I ponder the journey's end
   and in the spirit of transformation
     I quietly launch forth frail ideas
into waters filled with hope and turmoil
Conscious I may never see their final form
   yet knowing inside, peacefully,
     that others will keep the best on course.

stg@wfu.edu