This is the circus  of despairing clowns
Where manic comics hang themselves  at dawn
This is the place where hearts are always down.

This is the place where love cannot be found
Despite the sunshine on the fine green lawn
This is the circus  of despairing clowns

This is the place where tarts wear wedding gowns
This is  the  Camp where  Jews were  oven thrown
This is a place where hearts must cease or drown.

This is a place where evil black dogs frown
This is the place where love  is  rarely found
This is the circus  of despairing clowns

This is the place where evil seems to win
This is the place where rooks  foretell in caws
This is the place where  good was  overthrown.

From this place all mercy has  long gone
With  rulers  strident on their  standing stones.
This is the place where love hides underground
In  the  detritus of despairing clowns

Writing is good for the soul.
Writing well makes me feel whole.
The structure and form
Soothe us and calm
When life exacts too big a toll

Fat from the madding rowdy crowds
with you I long to be.
Away from noise and music loud
My soul desires to pray.

As palms were waved  and smiles blazed free
Jesus came to town.
Yet soon a different sight they’d see…
And hear the deathly groans.

From joy to woe we humans pass
From one hour to  the next.
For sins and troubles do harass…
And our dear hearts are vexed…

Yet we are told that in the end
Love will outdo death..
And so we beg for grace to lend
To us the strength to last.

No wind,no sun,no storm,just   foolish grey
The clouds are shaded  with a yellowish tone
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay

Our  blind leaders  with white sticks  go stray.
And in  the  darkness I hear human groans.
No  truth,no sight,no mercy,  dull and grey

Where fools decide what motives to display
And hide  like   insects under  heavy stones
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay.

We   make-believe our souls  in heaven will play
Yet, round  Belsen, ghosts still   sieve  Jews’ bones
No  thoughts no angst,no  worry,just   cool grey

Can we buy our ethics on E bay?
Can we tell if we are never shown?
Is this  the   sunless solstice  of dismay?

When we rise our faces are still drawn.
In  depressive winters,  there’s no dawn
No saviour,sun,no spirit ,just  this grey
This is  the  winter solstice  of dismay.

I have doubts about whether writing poetry is always therapeutic because it can draw up memories from the unconscious mind.So it depends on how bad your memories are.

http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2015/01/19/the-power-of-writing-3-types-of-therapeutic-writing/

Pen poetry. “Poetry is a natural medicine; it is like a homeopathic tincture derived from the stuff of life itself ––your experience,” writes John Fox in Poetic Medicine: The Healing Art of Poem-Making.

But it also can be intimidating. Here’s an exercise from Fox’s book to ease into writing poetry:

• Make a list of images from your childhood. Pick the ones that have positive memories. “Treat them like snapshots you might look through after many years,” Fox writes. Recall the sensations you experienced — what you saw, smelled, heard, felt and tasted. “Absorb the image into your body — feel as if you are reliving the remembered image.” Describe your experience quickly.
• Write down the emotions associated with these images, such as “wonder about flight” or “love and sadness for the hurt of a creature.”
• Write a poem using the details you’ve collected. “Stay in touch with your senses as you focus on your image; listen for the voice of the image; and then express the feeling drawn from your primary image.” Show the feeling in your poem instead of labeling it as ha

In a memoir about  her lusty twins, she exclaims,
that her husband  sought  cruelty  as a   Christian
and  willed masochism  for  people who  disdained to be happy
or  who desired happiness  in love or other  irritations of life .
which made  many men sadistic
His  gross interference  was the undesirable rendition
of the untried prisoners in the Bay windows of the suburbs
It is easy to  forsake  all   presumptions ;
Why a person would not  sell you happy sentences is now history
Why we   misread   when it is  seriously important to get it right
Flight must  be seen as a genuine alternative to happiness;
For must we think that it was seriousness
that made human  brains chilling  ?
Or rollling stones to wither more moss?
One of the replays in which happiness
is  paid to seem like an inclusive misrule
–she says,
In a  word to the bland,
is  our asserting that by  cooperation
the flings that shatter most  of us
must make us more  unhappy,
That is how we show  we got laid
Too many looks……
It’s as though one bird could  imagined to  be the owl of the moral perception.