I have a fear of faceless men
that haunt me in my sleep
I awake from all these nightmares
and I quietly start to weep.
Tho all is clear and vivid
in the scenes within the dreams
The faces are all missing
and it's more frightening than it seems.

The faceless men replay the past
of other frightening nights
When darkness was the incubus
and a child awakes with fright.

During the daylight hours
my only saving grace
Is that I still know many men
who also have no face.
They are filled with kind compassion
sweet words and gentle thoughts
not just for me but all mankind-≠
their friendship oft is sought.

They prove to me that faceless men
aren't always like my dreams
and any similarity
may not be what it seems.

I thank the faceless men of day
they serve their gender well
Tho they may never know it--
through them I'm saved from hell.

--Vicki Engelhardt's Faceless Men appeared in The Primal Feelings Newsletter

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one anotherís throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And donít have any kids yourself.

--Philip Larkin


by Jane Lewis



in, stretching
ribs lifting up and


out, she is pushing
air out
looking for pain
between moments
of emptiness
and air rushing in

filling spaces

she is pushing
down hard
searching my muscles
and bones, pressing
for memories
knotted in the tissues
of my body

they are as far
from her fingers
as the stars


she finds pain
scapular, secure
she pries it loose
from the muscle
and years
of holding

I find tears
making their way out
like a small spring
dampening the dry
earth skin on my face
I taste the salt
corner of my mouth

and drink
the tiny
of my body's


Jane Lewis' Sessions appeared in the Summer 2002, International Primal Association Newsletter.


by Henry Ebel

On my bed
flat I lie.


what to make
of die

Will the door shut?
Will it be open?

And that which lies beyond,

will it be dark?
Will it be light?
Will it be love?
Will it be fright?

Will it be bad and turn
its back on little me?

Or the very best Mom
of all, who smiling sets you free!

--A Question mark appeared in Henry Ebel's, Death and Birth, 2004

"'Susan Berthelot says when her dad, Col. Leo J. Martin Sr., retired Army Reserve officer and longtime Ethyl (Baton Rouge) employee, died recently, she recalled his words of wisdom, known as 'Leoisms.'

Here's one of the last Leoisms he shared with his wife and children:

"My mother taught me that it was OK for grown men to cry. Therefore, I cry easily.

OK To Cry

I cry happy; I cry sad;
I cry glad; I cry mad.

I cry happy at hello;
I cry sad at good-bye.

I cry happy at births;
I cry sad at deaths.

I cry happy at baptisms;
I cry sad at funerals.

I cry happy when my friend is well;
I cry sad when he is ill.

I cry happy at marriages;
I cry sad at divorce.

So, if when my time has come and I am gone,
You hear a voice from above saying,

I am so happy here, I could cry,
Don't be afraid; it is I"'

State-Times/Morning Advocate Newspaper - Baton Rouge, La --Smiley Anders Column - May 1, 2009

Susan shared with me how "OK to Cry" had come to be written.

While hospitalized and waiting for test results, her father, on separate occasions, asked she and her sister to get out paper and pencil.

Her father passed away the next day from a brain aneurysm less than 12 hours after dictating the poem to Susan.

One of his fears was that he would be forgotten. -- John of the PPP

I Measure Every Grief I Meet

by Emily Dickinson

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes-
I wonder if it weighs like Mine-
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long-
Or did it just begin-
I could not tell the Date of Mine-
It feels so old a pain-

I wonder if it hurts to live
and if they have to try
And whether-could They choose between-
It would not be-to die

(First part of poem. The U.S. poet's talents were unappreciated during her life. She died in 1886 at age 56)

(Harriet Geller, of the International Primal
Assn. saw in W. H. Auden's poem, an allusion
to the difficulty and pain of the primal process in
bringing one's early hurts to conscious awareness.)

The Climbers

By W. H. Auden, 1936

Fleeing the short-haired mad executives
The sad and useless faces round my home,
Upon the mountains of my fear I climb:
Above the breakneck scorching rock, the caves,
No col*, no water; with excuse concocted,
Soon on a lower alp I fall and pant,
Cooling my face there in the faults that flaunt
The life which they have stolen and perfected.

Climbing with you was easy as a vow:
We reached the top not hungry in the least,
But it was eyes we looked at, not the view,
Saw nothing but ourselves, left-handed, lost;
Returned to shore, the rich interior still
Unknown. Love gave the power, but took the will.

(*col is a pass in the mountains)

Also, on this website, see:
Primal Poetry by SueJo
Primal Poetry by Bradford Shank - from Fragments