McGinnis Counseling

According to the website:

"Dedicated to Enhancing the Quality of L...

Poet's Statement:

With playful encouragement, anyone is capable of being creative.

I have learned this through developing my own creativity, and participating in writing groups, as well as from my many wonderful counseling clients. My knowledge and experience in the creative process has been a valuable resource when helping creatives, couples, and people with disabilities to better navigate the challenges they encounter.

Both art and counseling...

Couple Inside 

Could it be he is racked with feeling when

on his face there is no expression? She

utters logic in her dreams when it

pleases her and he

languishes in despair, never hearing it.

Every day he longs for gratitude

instead of "no." She longs for "yes."

New separation gives them breathing room but they miss

sighs for each other

intended for the purple night. Go ahead,

dig into your heart...

Listen while I work birch bark into bowls;

Listen to the corn soup boiling on the stove.

I live out of breath; hence no juice tonight;

Listening to others all day,

Their sound locks us in together, sand, snow.

Draw me out with long fingers.

Ask me what I think, ask me for a song.

If you listen, visit in October.

Draw me out with your uh-uhns and uh-ohs.

Transform it into the shape of a church with hands—

Give me a way to sweep big spaces of silence

Into my reply.

I found the bag of flower petals

Meant for the memorial—

I went in a different direction, and there they were.

Next time I meet with a couple,

I’ll sprinkle the lap of each with dried petals,

And we’ll breathe in time to their dry music.

Playful, tender, silly;

I didn’t think it would be fun but it was. I

Longed for San Francisco, New York,

Lots of movies, readings, a week of

Gluttony in each city,

While you wanted us to throw pillows back and

Forth, talk

In sleepy voices,

Going into reverie,

Hands lightly

Touching or not . . .

Harmony

How we learned to tell the truth

Alive but not bristling on tongues; made

Requests without needles in them,

Made bandages for

Our oldest wounds, and sprinkled them with

Night music borrowed from forgotten dreams,

Yelled, made up, ran through dry leaves.

I Can't Tell The Real Story

Inside myself I ponder: how did we

cry out, laugh, and try to avoid each other,

all the years of my childhood,

yet managed to survive with and without each other.

I can't tell how we loved and hated each other without

literally killing one another or numbing out on

lollipops or cigarettes; somehow we

tipped back and forth on that mother-daughter see-saw of

...

Learning To Talk To Each Other

We set the alarm for six a.m.

sitting up in bed to practice while it’s still dark;

we keep our voices low,

our words halting at first:

“I notice,” “I assume this means,”

“I hurt,” “I regret,” “I hope,”

“I real...