Story idea free to good home: The Empathic Bone

This is an idea for the premise of a story. I am not a fiction writer, so will probably not develop it. If you write fiction and are interested by the premise, please feel free to adopt it. Just let me know.

A psychotherapist is in a car accident and suffers some injuries, including broken bones. After recovery, he notices intermittent pain at the fracture sites, and at first attributes it to weather changes, but soon realizes that it seems to correlate with emotional pain experienced by his patients.

From this premise several directions could be taken. A few thoughts: Obviously, there is the question of whether the correlation is real. The pain itself could also be real or psychosomatic. Would this phenomenon be useful, or a burden? Could he treat patients experiencing extreme pain, or would he be forced to drop them? How empathic was the therapist before the accident? Is this pain somehow reflective of his own process of becoming more empathic, or the result of denying connection with his patients? Is this a story of the supernatural, or of psychology?

That's all I have for now. Might add more later if anything occurs to me.

When You Coast In

When you coast in to the calm,
slowing, your momentum gladly checked at last
by shallow water,
you do not regard at all what storms may still
wreak havoc on the shore. No,
you are holding as you stop a memory
of what great tempest drove you, and your heart
is savoring a fragile peace, 
released from turbulence to quiet.
Soon enough you will disembark,
turn up the collar of your coat, and trudge
on to your next goal. For one more minute
as you loose the anchor let your resting place
be here, where no wind is your master.

April 28 2011

Benjamin Franklin, Dissatisfied

No, I can't honestly say I know what this one is about.

In my dream, Benjamin Franklin was dissatisfied.
The colonies were growing well, but there was no room to raise wheat.
All the minor crops--rye, barley, flax--were flourishing in their small plots,
but where were the wide expanses needed to support great waving fields?
Benjamin Franklin knew he wanted to move on,
but what of the colonists' thirst for independence?
He went up to a high place overlooking all the towns
and was amazed to see how quickly the land had been developed,
how houses and roads had filled in all the empty spaces.
In spite of his restlessness, he was pleased 
with what had been accomplished.
He lay down on the green sunny lawn
and pressed his body into the warm grass
and knew a moment of great happiness and fulfilment
before he woke.

April 19 2011

We Must Scrupulously Observe

We must scrupulously observe
this coming growing season
and make the summer full
not least because the lives we lost
deserve our best memorial.
Plant your seedlings from their plastic packs
respectfully, and drain the dregs of your ruby drinks
joyfully, being sure to ride your bicycle 
thoroughly, so that your winter lungs feel to their deepest part
the pang of life returning; and in the firefly evening 
distant weeks from now, listen
so that possibly you may hear the message of the insects
from the dark, saying that your gift has been received 
and found  acceptable.

April 15 2011

The Ocean Cannot Greet You

The ocean cannot greet you more gently
because you have never seen it.
It does not know you come from inland
and are only young.
It is up to you to bite its waves
and test its cold and salt.
Shake its seaweed like your prey
run here and there; defy, deny, ignore it
till you can decide
if you can treat this ocean like your playground
or must bark without effect against
its heedless, ancient roar.

April 14 2011

Let the Day End With the Dishes

Let the day end with the dishes.
Let the night so gently implode
along its usual lines of fracture:
pajamas, lunches, and ironing.
Let the last unraveling of evening be
into familiar threads whose ends can easily 
be gathered for tomorrow's weave
but not tonight, when our only remaining concerns
should be with letting go, a final chapter,
one more child to put to bed,
the turning out of a light, the kiss,
the whispered promise of return,
and last, the possible nearness of a quiet other
in a dark good night.

April 5 2011

Valedictory

I saw a conflagration.
I saw how every animate thing might be a flame
and in the general fire find its place.
I dreamed that all of us are falling upward
toward a vast and strong embrace
in a region unimaginable, yet undeniably home
where our candles rise to meet the greatest light;
and I am glad to think of you falling so high
so far above me waving you goodbye
not wishing to ever stop this conversation but
comforted to see you rise
and keep on rising
just flying 
till your cherished, reborn glow is out of sight.

March 30 2011

Another Spring Time

One step shows the earth's begun to give again.
The poet taught us to distrust that yield
and yes, the season's one for suicides;
it even kills itself, or tries.
But something always rolls that rock away
again, and when we look inside,
trembling to think of losing our precious doubt
nothing's there, and we are left to decide only
how long we will hesitate 
before we turn to face
what waits for us outside.

March 28 2011

It May Take a Little While

It may take a little while.
The habit of you is in everything;
ivy in my walls,
and you know how hard that is to kill.
It's hard to tolerate the weight of things I no longer have to do.
You're always waiting for me in the other room;
and it isn't just a matter of throwing out your unused food.
It's also about walking past the spot
where I used to have to stop to stroke your face.
You just don't need that anymore;
and it wouldn't be so damnable
except that I still do.

March 27 2011

She's Been Throwing Snow

She's been throwing snow at us
all day long. It's the kind of behavior you'd expect
from an infant season, and speaking as a parent, really,
there isn't a lot you can do; it's hardwired at this point:
Newborn, she has no settled paths; they
just aren't there yet. This is an exercise in patience;
clean up the mess and don't be angry:
Soon enough you'll be wishing she
hadn't grown up quite so fast and moved away.

March 21 2011

You're Everywhere These Days

You're everywhere these days. I can't
turn the TV on without seeing your face,
or being reminded of your spectacular life as a dog.
How did you get into the sky?
The next time I go into the yard
I expect I will see you there,
looking out at me from under last year's leaves.

Last night, I dreamed I saw you charging around the yard
like a mad dog. The way you planted your feet 
like a bull, then ran, tongue out, ears wild,
like fourteen years ago; it was so good at the end
to see you clear the fence with ease. In my dream
I figured out how to get you back, but you were so
scratched up, I think now the best thing would have been,
and yes, still is, just to let you keep on running away
until you can't see me and I can't see you anymore.

March 18 2011

I Felt the Palest Yellow Glow

I felt the palest yellow glow
come in at evening when the sun pried off
the cloud lid from the sky
with its final exhalation
and while it lightened me
I also feared a change had come to you
silent
while I cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
That is why I came to look at you
no food in my hands, 
just to see your liquid eyes
look back at me
again 
again 
again.

March 11 2011

Today My Wish for You

Today my wish for you is that
a warmer time will see you end.
Not in cold despair, but in a comforting sun
would I see you lie down at last,
feeling heat release the grasp of pain upon your bones
and small breeze stir your greying fur
and sleep, a friend, 
nuzzle close, sniff you softly,
and curl around you with a familiar dream
of open air, your owners,
and the happiness of the endless chase.

March 3 2011

At the End You May Find

Sorry this one's kind of a downer. It doesn't reflect any recent tragedy; it's just something I've been trying to write for a while.

At the end you may find
the path is longer than expected.
You delve the wood
and with each turn expect to see 
a termination: something final to untether you
from him or her with grace. But the way winds on,
and though that cord is also precious, 
more than you can bear to simply sever or unlace,
these old trees have held you both 
too long on a narrow trail,
no turning back, no stopping place,
and only God is limitless,
and He will not retrace.
It is not your fault if you secretly long
for a clearing or the sea to tell you
here you stop, no more to this race;
and when the end surprises you
as it may, in a hard and unsuspected space,
you will measure the depth of your loss and love
by the clangor of your solitude
and the bitter loneliness of freedom
burning on your face.

February 24 2010

First Earrings

Another minor milestone passed.
She clenched her teeth and saw it through.
You cried; you held your breath;
I gave you quarters in the mall
to turn your thoughts to plastic pigs
and bubblegum, which conquer all,
and then we stopped for cookies.

The shock is sharp, but fast.
For all of us, it lingers;
but this strong wisdom I have learned from her: 
Fear no future earrings, for in the aftermath,
though you are taken farther from your birth
and me, a person even more like you is born 
with greater grace, to walk a greater path.

February 24 2010

In a Dream of Family

In a dream of family made real
we passed the woods and streams reblanketed
beyond the windshield wall.
Slowly as we turned
the song rejoined us all
and the children in the back seat 
sang sweet hallelujah.

February 22 2011

After Last Christmas

That might have been the last time you believed
and if it was
about the only thing that I can say
through tears that you will never see I hope
is welcome 
to the life for which your life till now
was practice,
and may you find your new belief
sooner than I who had to wait
for you.

February 16 2011

It Is Possible to See

It is possible to see
in the sunlight on this yellow grass
a miniature of Spring.
The sight of sodden earth revives
an old anticipation.
Remembering Eliot and the date
we keep our expectations low,
but neither can nor will suppress
the thought that somehow sometime soon
something green may grow.

February 12 2010

The World Is Drawn on Paper

The world is drawn on paper;
things are the exception, not the rule.
Those few that remain are skeletal,
the hidden framework of the world revealed.
It is a flattened field in grey and black and white
stretched and speaking silent only of necessity.
Then from this second-story vantage point
I hear a silver bell redemption
see the clarity of its perfect note
filtered through the leafless trees across the street
carried swiftly on the crystal air past
the last few snowflakes made dimensional by
and dancing slowly down
the sudden yellow light from a sudden blinding sun.

February 4 2011

Straightening the Trees

We are straightening the trees
in a snowed-in wood.
It isn't hard to free
the burdened branches bowed:
A single touch will do
to let the needles leap.
But do they whisper thank you as they rise,
or would they sooner sleep?

January 29 2010

Summer Canned

Summer canned is winter, never doubt:
ardor must be eaten when it's picked;
abandon never lived inside a jar.

January 24 2010

Anniversary

We have made our home by a shifting shore
where tides and moons and seasons all revisit,
fractal nested, one inside another,
but every wave that washes leaves an altered strand
and every storm is different from the ones before.
Change in constancy, constancy in change:
Our lives turn on a spiral, not a ring,
and hard as it may be to see the difference,
every round we've made has found us farther up the spring.
You and I could walk this sand forever, 
always finding something new--and should;
which seems in some way fastened to the fact
that though we've walked so far, so long,
we still can somehow always see
where we began, and know that it is good.

January 21 2010

Your Four Old Limbs

In the complication of your four old limbs
you find sufficient challenge for an average day.
The simple art of rising's almost lost to you,
and stairs are flat impossible without my aid.
When we walk, I listen to your hesitance,
and we turn around, no matter where,
when you want home. This works for me:

Age is no detractor from a friendship;
friendship values friendship, not mobility.
Years add only comfort to your company;
I ask nothing of you but to be.

And I will take your snoring presence on the floor
as long as you can stay.

January 18 2011

Against

The snowstorm left
one side of that tree painted
white
against its black
against the darkened
rose
of the nighttime clouds pushing
close
against the houses
as I let the dog in 
black
against the white
and lock the door
warm
against the night.

January 14 2011

Solo Crow

Solo 
crow so low
lights on the seawall
dances down to the sand.
His black makes him a harbinger
but he is surely caught up in this cold
with all of us. At least his black is definite
against all this weathered ambiguity,
but when the white strikes out the world tonight,
guaranteed, he'll be gone 
like all the rest.

January 14 2011