MindFull - Issue 2 by mindfullmag

MindFull Magazine

Issue 2 - Spring 2022

A quarterly magazine published by POETRY FOR MENTAL HEALTH www.poetryformentalhealth.org

www.MindFull-magazine.com

Supporting people with mental health challenges by motivating and inspiring them to write poetry.

"I suffer from both depression and anxiety, so find dumping those negative thoughts and feelings on the page works as a sort of coping mechanism for me."

"Poetry is a fabulous vehicle for working out how you feel, and good exercise for the brain too!"

Kieron P. Baird- SCOTLAND

Martin Pickard- ENGLAND

"I have said and done some awful things during my bipolar swings, but through writing poetry, I have made peace with some of those demons."

"I couldn't believe that from such a void, something could be created that other people identified with! "

Eva Marie Cagley- USA

Amanda Quail - SCOTLAND

Find out more at ...

www.PoetryForMentalHealth.org 2

IN THIS ISSUE POETRY BY: PAGE:

04. Kieron P. Baird - SCOTLAND 05/06. Martin Pickard - ENGLAND 07/08. Michael Lee Johnson - USA 08/09. Eduard Harents - ARMENIA 10. James Ripley - SCOTLAND 11. Clare Hatfield - BAHRAIN 11. James Aitchison - AUSTRALIA 12/13. Natascha Graham - ENGLAND 13. Bobby 'Z' - USA 14. Francis H Powell - ENGLAND 14. Aishwariya Laxmi - INDIA 15. D. R. James - USA 16. Hussein Habasch - GERMANY 16. Kathie Clarke - USA 17. Brian Langley - AUSTRALIA 18. Stephen Ferrett - SCOTLAND 19. Anna Banasiak - POLAND 19. Ivan de Monbrison - FRANCE 20. Peter Kiggin - ENGLAND 21/22. Susanne Newman - ENGLAND 23. Jenny Brown - ENGLAND 24. Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay - INDIA 25. Sultana Raza - LUXEMBOURG 26. Alicja Maria Kuberska - POLAND 27/28/29. Jack Ridl - USA 29. Edith Garma - HONG KONG 30. Zarraihaa of the DarkWaters - CANADA 31. Gabriela Docan - ENGLAND 32. Amanda Quail - SCOTLAND

PUBLISHER & COPYRIGHT: MINDFULL © Robin Barratt, POETRY FOR MENTAL HEALTH, and all the authors herein. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher at the address below. MINDFULL is published four times a year as a pdf emagazine, paperback and Kindle by Robin Barratt (www.RobinBarratt.co.uk) and POETRY FOR MENTAL HEALTH (www.PoetryForMentalHealth.org). Address: 14 Alysham Road, Norwich, Norfolk, NR3 3HG, England. T: +44 (0) 161 818 2364 (Skype) / M: +44 (0) 7508 833 433 / WhatsApp: +44 (0) 7508 833 433 E-mail: Info@MindFull-magazine.com Website: www.MindFull-magazine.com FB: @Mindfullmagazine

RECTANGLE EYES

LOST IN BIRDSONGS

Kieron P. Baird

On the now dimly lit mirror surface I see,

In nature it all fades away.

you again, ‘old friend’, gazing coldly back at me.

I forget, for just a moment.

Myself, but not, with judgmental rectangle eyes.

About all the things that make me ill:

Someone who knows all my weaknesses and my lies.

Money (or more accurately the lack of it). Corrupt politicians and viruses.

A reflection captured within a reflection,

Rolling death rates and disgusting crimes.

a pale image, the self, demanding inspection.

Crashing global stock markets.

That neutral expression hides the sharpest daggers;

Rising bills, squeezing the most vulnerable.

a tongue, in the mind, that cuts so deep, it staggers.

Insipid celebrities and their fake realities. Elitist, outdated, creepy ‘Royals’.

Oh yes, I see you, rectangle eyes, my ‘dear friend’.

All those depressing, unavoidable things.

When will all the contrasts between me and you end?

Shoved hard down my throat daily.

Why do you relish in withholding all my strength?

In exchange for technology and convenience.

You keep it out of my reach; always at arm’s length.

It’s feels so unimportant,

You’re that ‘thing’ that takes me when I’m at my highest and drags me down, hard, to my deepening lowest. You vent bile that would make my worst enemy cringe. Words that cripple the self and often bruise and singe.

for a little while at least. Lost in birdsongs. Breathing cleaner air. Floating in a sea of colours. Spying creatures living in the moment. I’m free from the madness.

How’s it that you can turn a win into a loss?

Until I have to return,

Aren’t I suppose to be the one in charge; the boss?

then the modern sickness slowly takes hold

If only I knew how to shift our dynamics

again...

but the human psyche can be like ceramics. I think I’ll leave the dark thoughts there, for it’s sunrise. Don’t worry, we’ll surely ‘talk’ soon rectangle eyes. After all, you aren’t going anywhere…are you? You will always be me, and I, you; mirror’s view. Originally published via Pendemic (website), 2020.

"I FIND WRITING POETRY, IN GENERAL, OR SPECIFICALLY ABOUT MENTAL HEALTH, HELPS KEEP MY NEGATIVE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS IN CHECK. I SUFFER FROM BOTH DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY, SO FIND DUMPING THOSE NEGATIVE THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ON THE PAGE WORKS AS A SORT OF COPING MECHANISM FOR ME. IN SOME WAYS, I SUPPOSE YOU COULD SAY, IT IS ALMOST LIKE A MINI-PURGE, FOR WHEN I’M AT MY LOWEST. THERE’S SOMETHING VERY UPLIFTING ABOUT BOTH WRITING AND READING. MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE OF THE PART OF THE BRAIN IT ENGAGES?" KIERON P. BAIRD

UNDER PRESSURE

THE ANCIENT ROSE

Martin Pickard

I’m chewing off much more than I can bite

There’s a great big hole where once the roses grew

A habit deep engrained for many years

That bloomed in this old garden many years

I know I didn’t get that first line right

It’s time for change and we must start anew

This brain disease reduces me to tears Rust, rot and canker, dead wood and mildew My working memory beyond repair

Their long dead planter would be left in tears

I really shouldn’t overload my day

There’s a great big hole where once the roses grew

I recognise I must take greater care For there are consequences I must pay

That gardener’s dreams of glory all came true With blooms of fame until they cried for shears

My concentration wanders in the breeze

It’s time for change and we must start anew

I dither and I dather in a daze I need to pace not race along at speed

For nothing lasts for ever, flowers too

Through life the way I did in former days

All things must pass before regrowth appears There’s a great big hole where once the roses grew

Degenerating neurons in my head Are why I mustn’t thin myself too spread

each new shoot needs its own space to break through for exhumation always follows fears

Previously published in the Ariel Chart Literary Journal.

LAUGHTER Martin Pickard

Sometimes I wake and the cloud is not there, my mind is clear and bright as summer sky

It’s time for change and we must start anew In gardens there is always work to do As new life waits until the old ground clears There’s a great big hole where once the roses grew It’s time for change and we must start anew Previously published in the Ariel Chart Literary Journal.

and laughter floods my arid brain with delicious dopamine and soothing seratonin. Some days I do not wish to wake. Malodorous mists of my self loathing

MAKING MY MIND UP Martin Pickard

pin me to my bed with a blue nimbus mass.

Neurologically knackered; I’m Dopamine deprived.

This time the joke’s on me. The punchline’s in

My cognitive dysfunction an invisible reality.

my head.

Concentration is an effort; Attention will not stand. Another of the symptoms only I can see

"POETRY IS A FABULOUS VEHICLE FOR WORKING OUT HOW YOU FEEL, AND

I ebb and flow; To and fro; Confidence diminished. My noodle is fried and I don’t know where to go. I hesitate, vacillate; My faculties are finished. I’m in two minds and both are working far too slow Anxiety, stress and tiredness; Their Impact is immense.

GOOD EXERCISE FOR

Decisions have become a chore. I’m sitting on the fence.

THE BRAIN TOO!"

As every day I doubt me more; Wavering, I hem and haw.

MARTIN PICKARD

I hear a host of inner voices; A menu with too many choices. Indecision is my new superpower or maybe it isn’t

AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING Martin Pickard

Why did the nightmares begin? The ones where the acid’s dissolving my skin. Where razor sharp needles rain down from the skies and spiders and weevils crawl out of my eyes, the cats and the rats are devouring my feet and the flames burn my back as I run from the heat and I leap from the bed with its snake covered sheet. Oh, why did the nightmares begin? So, what has become of the night? The time between working and waking’s not right. What should be a rest time just leaves me distressed, I’m exhausted and frightened, anxiety heightened. This whole situation increases the stress, so I lose concentration my mind is a mess and in sheer desperation I sleep even less Oh, what has become of the night? Is something attacking my brain? Is it something I’ve done? Am I going insane? I’m frightened of sleeping but too tired to think. My wife says it’s down to the drugs and the drink that I used in my youth when I should have been learning. Now I’m banned from our bed for my tossing and turning and she’s booked me a date with the doctor concerning the thing that’s attacking my brain. When will this misery end? As doom and depression begin to descend. A sleeping disorder that’s blurring the border between day and night-time and nothing feels right, I’ve been told by the nurse that it’s going to get worse. What is wrong with my brain is disease not a curse and I’m starting to think this should be my last verse… Previously published in the Ariel Chart Literary Journal.

AUTHOR'S STORY: "'Like the actor Robin Wiliams, I was diagnosed with REM Sleep Behaviour Disorder. A condition in which restful sleep is replaced by violent, vivid dreams which are physically acted out during REM sleep often causing harm to oneself, or a sleeping partner. This condition commonly develops into a neurologically degenerative disease such as Parkinson’s. Before medication got this under control for me, I seriously contemplated ending my story by taking my life. Thankfully I chose an alternative ending, and now live happily (?) with Parkinson’s." MARTIN PICKARD.

SCHIZOPHRENIA NIGHT

BIPOLAR

Michael Lee Johnson

I am a chalkboard computer brain.

Awake night light

I have updated drawn raw

jungle twisted branches of thought.

images even the classroom

One character is linked to the

students cannot see, hear, or understand.

insane personality of the other.

They sit quietly in Disneyland,

Bipolar in a universe of singles, aces.

wondering about my eccentricities

The fear of aloneness hearing

I capture their stillness, and then I speak.

cracks in your walls; jumbling joy

I am the professor, special agent of the government

of jumping into the municipal pool

dream tracer of crossroad puzzles.

in Hillside, Illinois, at 3 a.m

Photographic memory in private rooms, did I hear a critic erase

Bipolar, bewitched, and alone.

destroy dissociate thoughts.

Late to work staring at your employer, dart split eyes.

I walk out unsteady in disbelief. Is there a shadow of storybooks following me?

Tattered with memories dancing

I am a genius; I know who I am.

slapped on the face with a teaspoon

on the tablecloth with glee just to feel the sadness leave.

I spend nights in formula construction

Bipolar, bewitched, and alone.

drawing full-colour images of my brain,

Seldom ever hear happiness

percentages of gray matter lost.

that doesn't sound like a fire

I stick my ego to the bird eagle of the sky.

that doesn't sound like a fire siren camping in your eardrums.

When on a high on an airplane, self-love,

Meds crank up and crank down

full bloom, I keep my enemies at bay.

moods follow the meds,

I shelter the skeletons of thought.

or do meds track the moods? Personal wars echo words in my ears.

I trust Jesus because His image is stable; Every group I have ever known says "The Lord's Prayer." Even then, new members leave, disappear, I hear what they say. I had an MRI to trace all my youthful abuses.

Even during silent times the night roars like street jungles. Bipolar, bewitched, and alone..

There were no images there but voices, I remember. I cast their shadows, audio, visuals for a show in the background. In time, they quiet their voices. I walk beyond their images. I passed on; they were still screenplays. You have to stretch lean, refer to sanity, drink Asian tea, smooth out, lime juice, hallucinated sounds before that stage, I took that Nobel prize, even before I forgave you. ABOUT THE POEM: Schizophrenia Night is devoted to John Nash, A Beautiful Mind movie, 2001. John

Nash has suffered most of his life with severe paranoid schizophrenia, and has become a celebrated American mathematician whose works in game theory and differential geometry are appreciated worldwide. The movie A Beautiful Mind portrays Nash's mathematical genius and his struggles with schizophrenia, and how he went on to win a Nobel Prize.

JOURNALING

I WORK MY MIND LIKE

Michael Lee Johnson

PLANET EARTH

Breaking news this just in,

Michael Lee Johnson

1:15 PM December 15, 2013, I found out labelling theory

I work my mind

has a personality,

inward into a corner of knots.

impact of its own.

Depressed beneath brain bone

I love today because I

I work my words; they overwork me.

found out I have a mental illness.

Fear is the spirit alone, away from God.

Formally diagnosed,

Hospital warriors shake pink pills,

now I am special.

rattle bottles of empty dreams.

Shrink, Dr. Pennypecker knows me well. We visit 15 minutes every 3 months.

I walk my ward down the daily highway;

I have known him for 9 months.

I work on the roadmap of spirit,

Simple sentences just make more sense.

weed out false religions.

Simple sentences make me feel more secure.

Only one God for so many

After 9 months, he says, "I've sort of figured

Twelve-Step programs.

you out; you are a manic depressive, stage 2

I wrap myself around support groups,

hypomania." I ask my shrink, "can I cast my vote?"

look for dependency within their problems.

In this PM news, I gave him permission.

I publish my poems, life works,

Life is a pilgrimage of pills.

concerns on floor five, psych ward

I cast out my net to catch myself,

I edit my redemption,

save me.

escape from the laundry room;

Life is a pilgrimage of prayers.

run around in circles like planet earth,

Note: it could end here.

looking for my therapist

He does not know the difference

to seal my comfort.

between manias verses six shots of vodka. I suffer from a B-12 deficiency. I need extra thiamine symptoms of psychosis. I place my lid down on the forsaken table, the foreskin, I forgive. A dead shrink, middle of the road. I crack my knuckles, pass sleep two next night. Creativity flows fragmented. I kick gravesites, up then down.

LOVE Eduard Harents Trough the 30 dawns of my life,

And I

It turned out 33 was too many…

from flower to flower,

laughed the words

leaving all my sins aside,

inwards until yesterday

by the time I arrived,

she had already left,

psychotropic fish …

leaving the Supper table behind.

Translated from Armenian by Anna Talalyan.

YEARNING

UNTITLED

Eduard Harents

The shadow of colour

I am plucking now

is scaling

the eyelashes of silence one by one

the scars of day;

to mend my prayer,

walking the serenity of an encountered dream ...

which has been torn by nuances of word ... Now the nuance is more than the voice ... And now I enter

The flower is the secret

the church of Hope barefooted,

of pain;

so that my steps will not paint voices on my fortune.

an introspective smile.

How many footprints have been split apart by whispers…

The scion names the sin.

While my footprint

Beyond personal bandages of prayer,

is my prayer of love, which never ends, as it never colours itself in words ...

the self-denial of a tree

And now

is as much bright

the main colour is the truth,

as warm are the hands

that love is the poem of the feeling ...

of night.

That muses don’t turn into women ...

I am freezing ... your name.

Translated from Armenian by Herminée Arshakyan.

Translated from Armenian by Harout Vartanian.

UNTITLED Eduard Harents In all my places of absence

Whenever you wish to translate

I sow my reticence

my bloods,

from you…

collect Job’s stones from my poems…

Yet who punctuated among the scents of my word?

Those are secret cells of your Son’s

Absolute scars,

round-scripted sorrow…

inside my forehead of a vigil dream … Translated from Armenian by Anna Talalyan.

AFFORDABLE PUBLISHING SERVICES BOOKS, MAGAZINES, NEWSLETTERS, EDITORIAL, WEBSITES. WWW.ROBINBARRATT.CO.UK

LOWING

EYEACHE

James Ripley

Heavily pregnant clouds

Eyeache day three once again

blue with udders full and lowing

contemplating the merits of cutting

foreshadow post-autumnal

Nails dig into my flesh

depression

for any distraction Paracetamol powerless — eight crescent welts adorn my brow

ABOUT THE POEM: Lowing was written on a

orbiting the sockets

very overcast autumn day, in consideration of the

ever

shortening

daylight

hours,

Caffeine pauses the pain

the

but insomnia awaits

inevitable cold wet weather on its way, and

Memories of childhood

the likely impact on my mental health.

migraines mitigate; lights off banging my head on the floor for relief

RUMINATING

The pirate option is worse panic attack imminent

Wet stoned & antibac’d don’t look in the spoon drawer

SWALLOWS James Ripley though my brain is unsure consider my failure disgorging a chokecherry

ABOUT

THE

POEM:

Eyeache

was

literally

conceived

distraction

from

day

three of an unrelenting

of anguish lodged not in

pain behind my eye as

my throat but in my brain

every option utilized had

chronic imaginary

failed to alleviate said

yet I can feel it now

burning

rehydrating somehow

knot.

The

temporary employment

swallows evermore wary

of alternate physical pain ultimately

proved

fleeting

and

Ruminating on swallows

further

is a Balassi Stanza, and

investigations

was

again not pursued.

ABOUT

THE

POEM:

written

attempt to visualize the impact

gastroesophageal reflux disease on my mental wellbeing

incessant

the

negative

effects of GERD reach beyond

its

physical

damage.

such

extreme were

QUESTIONS, MORE QUESTIONS Clare Hatfield Why why why?

Erasing his memory on each breath of wind.

No one answered her darkness.

She sat for a while in silence and grief. Maybe now it was time for tears of loss.

Why now? It’s not the time to grieve.

She felt the emotion and accepted it.

It’s a time of renewal. To move forward,

Her body shook with tears unshed.

Not dwell on what could have been.

Finally it was done.

Thoughts of him loomed large in her mind.

She painted on her smile.

He was just a shadow.

And went on with her day.

Gone as quickly as he had appeared. Blown across the sea as the sun went down.

Finally she had time to hear grief's siren cry.

STILL James Aitchison The honeyeater still greets

Still there are new games to play.

the red blooms every day.

Still my family treasures me.

The magpies still skitter on the roof

Still I am special in their eyes.

And still the kookaburras laugh.

Still my teacher is in touch.

Still my dog licks my nose to wake me.

Still I have friends who care.

Still my cat comes in for a cuddle.

Still I can joke and share.

Still I have great things to eat.

Still I am healthy.

Still I have a great place to live.

Still I am alive.

Still I have screen time just for me.

And most of all, Still I am me.

ABOUT THE POEM: 'Still' was written for Australian children, some of whom suffered the world's longest lockdown in Melbourne. It is intended to help them value the little things in life that make life still worth living, despite the isolation of lockdown, the physical absence of friends, and the endlessly depressing news broadcasts.

SHE’S CALLED GILLIAN Natascha Graham She’s got brown hair and eyes the colour of a

Gillian would be there in the evenings, too.

bleached winter sky.

I’d make my excuses and slip to the garage for

She’s about 5’5, but she’s tough.

another bottle of wine,

My girlfriend was a narcissist.

and Gillian was there,

She didn’t like me having friends, or seeing

back against the wall, picking at the fraying edge

family.

of her sleeve.

So, I didn’t really.

She’d tell me about her day, the sheep, the farm.

Gillian stuck around, though.

She’d hug me, properly, hold me until I’d stopped

In fact, that’s when I first met her

shaking,

A few months in

or near enough.

She was standing in a driveway nudging gravel with the toe of her Converse.

Once, on fireworks night,

I asked her if she’d lost something.

She had a party.

Her wedding ring, she said. Not that it mattered.

My girlfriend,

He was a cheating bastard.

the narcissist.

We walked to school together.

Everyone was there. All of her friends, family,

She wore dark jeans and a plaid shirt over a long-

neighbours.

sleeved top with four buttons at the neckline.

Her dad made the bonfire bigger than was safe.

She was self-destructive.

She poured everyone drinks and looked for me to

I liked that about her.

give me something to do.

She’d help me put the shopping away when the

I stood in the shadows with Gillian.

Tesco delivery arrived.

She was all nervy, jittery, bristling with energy,

It wasn’t my house,

possibility, magic ...

but I did everything in it.

She was wearing wellington boots.

She expected that of me.

Green ones, but they weren’t Hunter boots, and I

My girlfriend,

was glad of that.

The narcissist.

They were bog-standard boots from a garden

Once when my girlfriend went away,

centre.

we used her land to have a bonfire in the old

She had one hand in her pocket, I could hear the

metal drum that was full of weeds and earth and

clink of the keys to her Land Rover.

crap.

You need to get shot of her.

Gillian joked we should get all of her clothes and

She said, looking at the bonfire, into the flames.

stick them on the fire,

Her face was warm, golden, fire-lit and beautiful.

but burning her clothes wouldn’t do any good,

She’s going to kill you if you don’t.

we decided.

She looked at me then, Gillian did.

She had enough trouble keeping her clothes on,

One way or another you’ll end up dead.

having less of them would only add to the

She was right. I knew she was right.

problem. We cooked our lunch on the bonfire.

But Gillian only existed in my head.

Potatoes baked in tin foil. Their skins were black but we ate them anyway, and inside they were smoky and white and good.

I DO NOT BELONG Natascha Graham I do not belong here.

How the weeping willow would watch the river

I, do not belong

bed should I drown

Belly down against flat earth I,

belly up, this time

Splinter like sheet glass

Eyes like sea glass

beneath boots that crack my spine

Mouth like a fish

I Do not belong.

Try them all,

I, a feather bed to my own head

Try them all,

My Own, very particular kind of madness

These ways to sink a ship, to skin a cat, to catch a

Lying here, on the ground

mouse

Life in my teeth, my mouth, my tongue To break a heart But still, I breathe Still not choked after

Sink me, rock bottom,

All these

Drown me, slowly,

All these

Take the coins from my mind’s eye and sell my

All of these

universe for coal to burn the world

Moments.

Down

One, after the other, after the next, after the next

But still, I will breathe Because, I

Life. I see it now, stretched too thin with a punctured eye and I see it

Do not belong.

MASTER OF SORROW Bobby 'Z' Where have you been,

Annihilating their thoughts,

oh Master of Sorrow,

depriving them of giving,

searching for victims,

your the scourge of the earth,

ruining tomorrows.

responsible for those who want to stop living.

Patiently stalking,

To all the false prophets,

unsuspecting prey,

be definitely afraid,

most surrender meekly,

he'll haunt you forever,

a few getaway.

until your dues are paid.

Master Oh Master,

The only immunity,

I know what you seek,

from Oh Master Of Sorrow,

complete domination,

is to Excel today,

of minds that are weak.

and Achieve more tomorrow.

"I HAVE BEEN WRITING POETRY FOR THREE DECADES, AND HAVE SUCCESSFULLY USED IT TO COPE WITH TRAUMA EXPERIENCED FROM AN ABUSIVE CHILDHOOD." BOBBY Z

REDEMPTION Francis H Powell We are all prisoners of our own minds locked inside our dark thoughts known only to ourselves. Trapped in bedsits in our own cocoons as the same record turns dark Gothic tunes and mournful words day in, day out the same routine Curtains block out the light while the sun shines brightly luring us gently but we never venture out for the world is too brash and alarming with staring eyes upon us and conspiratorial whispers people cross over the road to the other side anything to ignore us With a deep set frown they mock our words this constant dialogue in our heads that resonates so loudly

that we can't shut it down make it go away Screaming out in the dead of night Fingers point and comments are made we have crossed the line of what is normality as porcelain pieces shatter against the wall and red wine meanders down like a marauding river We can't help ourselves control this angst that rages like a wildfire burning to oblivion Doctors try to unlock our minds dig deep into our souls We howl and wail hold our heads in our hands such torment and pain A life that has turned an unexpected direction Which has to be redirected on a more charted course The victim of this tragedy needs careful loving attention To be understood and brought back to the fold

AUTHOR'S STORY: "I wrote this, because I have a big interest in mental health, and my sister died from the consequences of anorexia. I often write about people who are considered outsiders, or who are shunned by society. People who are locked away in their own minds and totally isolated." FRANCIS H POWELL

DEMENTORS

MENTOR

Aishwariya Laxmi

The dementors are always waiting, watching

Words call out to me

For the slightest chink in my armor

They sing to me in my sleep

They are merciless and soul-sucking

And wake me from a reverie

I've been in their path before

I'm usually in a dream-like state

They reinforce my deepest fears

That's why I write poetry

And try to grab me in their 'dread' hold

However it may be

Cloaked in black, they prey on me

But I love expressing my thoughts

Much like the grim reaper would

And displaying my creativity

If he were at my threshold.

I'd like to learn from anyone

They turn my life essence to ash

Who has something to teach me

And my will to live to naught

All I ask is that you do it sensitively!

To overcome them takes a lot. 14

ASSISTED LIVING D.R.James My father had entered a realm

Which it was—and it shuddered

I would never know. Although

shock waves through my throat,

slumped in a chair

the distance between us

in that common room

collapsing like a telescope.

at the end of a dimly lit corridor—

My mother, seated as calmly

well beyond the other withered bodies,

as if my life would go on,

their wheelchairs lining

looked at me as if I were signaling

the bumpered walls, their

it wouldn’t, and before he would die

attendants glib, shouting directives—

two days later, my father narrated ancient

my father sat small

sales trips—Gary, Terre Haute, Fort Wayne—

like a seer, his web-thin hair

then turned only to my wife and ended,

roostered, whiskers grizzling

“What do you think about all this?”

his business chin. He was decoding some constellation located vaguely

When I was a teen he seemed mainly to care

above the bulletin board announcing

about the length of my hair, and in all

Thursday Bingo, muttering,

wrote me two letters, both advising

raising his wasted arms as if in warning

about life insurance. But now

the world was about to end.

my speech shivered, my chest compressed the universe of my heart, and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. First published in ISACOUSTIC* (May 29, 2020)

AUTHOR'S STORY: "My father's health had been failing for quite some time: gradual blindness, Parkinson's, and the increasingly limited strength and mobility they brought on. Nevertheless, he was always mentally sharp with his usual brand of humour. When I saw him for the first and only time in the nursing-home wing of my parents' 'retirement hotel' (as my wife and I sarcastically referred to it), his - to me - sudden mental fog and incapacitation stunned me; My real dad had disappeared. It turned out to be the last time I would see him, alive or dead, and his conversing only with my wife, brief as it was, rather than with me, was devastating, as if emblematic of our entire relationship. I know he meant no harm -couldn't have meant any harm - but the dementia had robbed us of any chance to set things right." D. R. JAMES

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A ROSE FOR THE

THE LAZY

HEALTH

HEART OF LIFE

PUPIL

Hussein Habasch

Translated by Muna Zinati

Our madness to draw Our madness to write Our madness to leave every day A rose for the heart of life Our madness won’t win, my love! Their madness to fight Their madness to kill Their madness to aim every day A bullet to the heart of life Their madness will win, my love! We will be defeated, my love. I know that. They will conquer, my love. You know that. But regardless, we will draw, Write and leave every day A rose for the heart of life.

Translated by Muna Zinati

In the early morning, the man runs

They told him, Draw a school; He drew an amusement park. Draw a teacher; He drew a rose. Draw a lake; He drew a swan.

to build his muscles and maintain his health. In the early morning, the woman runs for the flowers to bloom and to maintain nature’s health.

Draw autumn; He drew a green bud. Draw the sky; He drew his father. Draw the earth; He drew his mother. Each time, The lazy pupil Was drawing his heart.

RIDING TO RECOVERY Kathie Clarke The carousel of my mind rotates,

With each revolution, instead of decay,

So hard to get a grip,

I see fresh sealant and polished brass,

to climb aboard that shining horse and ride free.

new reins for steady hands to grasp.

The machinery of my psyche needs repair,

Undulating in a more steady sequence,

Blown lightbulbs and rusted springs,

I keep my seat and listen to the organ pipes sing,

damning me to be out of service.

knowing that my intention is well met.

Seeking to overhaul this attraction,

AUTHOR'S STORY: "Since childhood I have thought about my anxious mind as being like a Carousel ride, it is only as an adult that I am able to understand what that truly means, and how I might work towards something healthier. This poem is written with that experience in mind." KATHIE CLARKE

I turn to the few tools I still own, Time for stillness, Focus on facts, Movement to build strength, Sleep generating space.

MOTHER Brian Langley 'Bout twice each week I see her, she just sits in her chair She drifts away quite often, most times she's unaware That I've arrived to see her, but every now and then She talks of things remembered, when she was young and when She had a doll named Suzie, a puppy she called Spot And later on a husband she says she loved a lot She sometimes talks about her kids, she tells me there were three A pretty little daughter who died in infancy A son who got conscripted, was Viet-Nam where he died She says that she remembers, was weeks and weeks she cried The other one, she hasn't seen, for twenty years or so She wonders what he's up to, she thinks she'd like to know She doesn't know her neighbours, she can't recall the date I don't think that she's eating, she's lost a lot of weight She asks me what my name is, and why it is I've come And why I cry and hold her close, and why I call her Mum.

ABOUT THE POEM: Mother is partly

autobiographical, in that my motherin-law suffered Alzheimer's, and for the last ten years of her life she had no idea who any of her family were.

BLACK DOG DAYS Brian Langley When Black Dog days come visiting, she tries to hide away. I do my best to help her cope, to keep those thoughts at bay; But memories of times long past, refuse to be suppressed; They're memories that must be faced, that have to be addressed, Perhaps as pages from a book, a small book she has found About someone she used to be, whose life has turned around. The devils, in that book described, have all been gone for years, And taken with them all the hurt, and all those young girl's tears; And now, that many years have flown, a new book should be writ That tells of who she is today, achievements filling it. A book of pages large and bright, so many to be told; That pales to insignificance, that little book of old.

THE CYCLE Stephen Ferrett I am tarnished I am stained I am damaged goods I need to be cleansed, wiped clean of the darkness that envelops my body and mind The daily cycle starts Anytime night or day, as I close my eyes, praying for the shortest respite I am drowning in a putrid mix of misfiring chemicals Two separate entities harbouring different agendas My body wants to shut down, slip away peacefully - It wants to sail a boat towards Tranquillity Bay My brain is full of manic thoughts, as it races up and down Psychosis Boulevard Accelerating, uncontrollably in a maddening incoherent state - it has no intention of slowing down This is my ambivalent, degenerate existence people Welcome to the cycle!!! Welcome to the lives of the millions of silent ones amongst us, paralysed by the cycle and suffering in silence The drum roll slows its beat It stops The cycle has ended – For now I am not cleansed, clean or refreshed I am blooded I am stained Bruised, battered, drowned Please help me!! Cut the power Silence the drum Show me how to break the cycle and let sail again

AUTHOR'S STORY: "I suffer from on-going depression, anxiety and PTSD. I am a volunteer for several suicide prevention charities, and use my poetry as a platform in webinars and training for Mental Health awareness and suicide prevention." STEPHEN FERRETT.

MUSIC THERAPY

THE STAIRS

Anna Banasiak

You are a bird

My time is listening

sparrow of Paris

to the steps under the door

released into freedom

they are growing everywhere

Play

they approach and move away for a while I'm afraid I don't want to be alone

love

I'm once again a little girl

joy

standing by the window and preview life

suffering

I see everything through the fog

anger

there was always this curtain

death

between me and the world

rocking horse life actors without props

"I'M OCCUPATIONAL THERAPIST AND

lost in thoughts

AM INTERESTED IN ART AND OTHER

learn themselves

FORMS OF CREATIVE THERAPY, AND

they remove masks

DIFFERENT WAYS OF IMPROVING

throw pillows

MENTAL HEALTH."

emotions float

ANNA BANASIAK

like soap bubbles on the pass from life I change their world into music

UNTITLED

Ivan de Monbrison

A blind man is walking in the street,

The face is removed from the portrait.

a handless dog follows him.

There is a hole in the picture.

A cadaver in a car says hello to lost time.

On the other side my body is bleeding.

You hand me a look,

An animal with the severed head

I give you back a thought,

Keeps on singing a song,

which was lying on the table.

It drinks the wind, it eats the sky.

Your watch is running backwards.

I put the world in a box.

I hear the cry of a baby being born.

I leave it on the table.

or the one of a running dead man.

I close the door, I leave the room, I leave the house. And I throw the key into the night.

AUTHOR'S STORY: "I am a poet, writer and artist. I have autistic and schizophrenic tendencies that I have been trying to cop with through art, for the past twenty years of my life." IVAN DE MONBRISON.

THOUGHTS

ANIMALS IN THE DARK

Peter Kiggin

Translucent shoes

Animals in the dark, A smell of slight regard,

happy dogs with smiling faces,

tainted like our hearts.

in the sunshine in the heat. hands together electric spark, yellow mushroom-coloured houses,

savage from the start,

that you live in while you sleep.

emotional and physical yet apart.

black horses running naked,

the night comes,

across the green fields on the heath.

feast, animals in the dark.

purple flowers at your window, dancing to my every beat. old people wearing pink pyjamas, as you talk to me so sweet. the rain that dances down your cheeks, as the weather closes in deep. orange flowers on your pillow case, as I dream away the week. my rainbow of happiness is your love, as we sleep always touching feet.

CLINICAL Peter Kiggin I'm not clinical,

genetically factual,

anything is possible,

analytical colourful,

nursing is radical,

difficult and terminal,

it blows my mind.

phenomenally logical, patient and kind.

magical and mystical, references unimaginable, physical, majestical, anatomically possible, must be categorical, we must find.

CRASHING CLOUDS Peter Kiggin Crashing clouds come to surrender your sorrows, We are here but yet we are gone in all our tomorrows, Are we just passing through time or are we the sweetest endeavour of a peace lily in a conquering night that swallows.

CHAINS THAT BIND US Peter Kiggin Chains that bind us. A chain separated only by the links that keep them together, we are forever linked with our pasts like a pool of water becoming ever fuller, we cannot ever see the bottom of this pool as a chain's links can only ever react when separated by time and endeavour, I engross myself with these thoughts and know that life is however complicated can only end in a natural conclusion forever and ever and ever.

DEPRESSION’S DRIPPING TAP Suzanne Newman Depression’s like a dripping tap,

Depression’s like a dripping tap,

It’s irritating - keeps seeping back,

Holds the mind in midnight and wants to look back,

Its inky liquid is sneaky and cold,

It dwells on misery, feasts on pain,

And threatens to sink down and wither my soul.

Drowns out my peace and leaves happiness slain.

Depression’s like a dripping tap,

It’s nagging, persistent, uncaring and black,

And I wonder if it’ll stay like that,

The level is rising - it wants to consume,

Or maybe the head will turn around more,

My future and thoughts with its impending doom.

To allow the cold ebony tide to just pour?

Depression’s like a dripping tap,

Tears happy thoughts, cruelly re-fills the gaps,

And can’t be repaired if you haven’t the knack,

It tells me such lies and steals my hope,

But The Lord provides the way and all means,

Says that no-one loves me.. it’s just a sad joke.

To fix the leak and weld shut broken seams.

Depression’s like a dripping tap,

The Lord’s hope and strength can push back the black,

Knocks my confidence by oozing into every crack,

His truth and love can fill the foggy, cold gaps,

It keeps me mute… silent… and just wants to hide,

He shows my faith is not in vain,

As slowly it gnaws, numbing the darkness inside.

For in his compassion, he shares my pain.

Depression’s like a dripping tap,

God’s always there to have my back,

Tries to swallow me up in its mouth of black,

When I’m lagging and down, he picks up the slack,

It tells me that I have no future,

He’s right alongside me so then I can cope,

Cuts at my hope and spits out every suture.

He helps me to fight-on … gives purpose and hope.

FEELING USELESS Suzanne Newman I’m a burnt-out, falling, cold, dead star,

Maybe then I won’t feel quite so useless and tired?

A wild animal caged behind thick, steel bars,

Like an old, wounded soldier, who’s forced to retire,

I’m a parrot pulling out feathers in her frustration,

Maybe then my bent wings will unbuckle and fly,

A cow who can’t stomach her own mastication.

And I won’t start my days with an ungrateful sigh?

I’m an old, fractured cobweb, drooped, gathering dust,

Maybe then, when depression has taken a break,

A vampire bat with no teeth and no bloodlust,

My mind won’t seem like it’s been turned with a rake,

I’m a bear in a trap chewing off her own leg,

Maybe then I won’t feel like my brain’s in a hearse?

For depression’s oppression causes hell in my head.

But like life is a blessing, ‘stead of this messed-up curse.

It’s hard to imagine and hard to explain, How the black, icy misery smothers the brain, But I’ll still hang on, like a leaf on a tree, Trying not to blow off in the stiff Autumn breeze. For, past times have shown me, the blackness WILL pass, In God’s grace and mercy, depression won’t last, So, I’ll wait in hope and faith, struggle, but fight, Praying for that blessed day that depression takes flight. 21

IN THE COMPARTMENTS OF MY MIND Suzanne Newman My mind’s full of compartments,

For God has not forsaken me,

Walls, shut doors and labyrinths,

Nor let my light fade out,

Each way’s a dead-end ally

And He will resurrect me,

Veiled by dark fog’s swirling hints.

With His mighty power and Holy clout.

Anxiety’s the minotaur,

And He will clean the sticky black,

That charges round in stress,

Regrow hope, peace and joy,

Throughout the rooms in my head,

Shrink back these troubled waters,

Which lay just a blackened mess.

And be harbour and lifebuoy.

Depression, like a tidal wave,

And God provides the sunrise,

Has sloshed across my brain,

Which glows with such pleasant haze,

Turned everything to ebony,

This brightens up the darkness,

And dripping black that doesn’t drain.

In my mind’s black numbing maze.

It’s washed away my happiness,

God is the loving beacon,

All joy and hope and peace,

Shining warmly in the night,

And left a sticky residue,

And in His grace and care I know,

With icy touch that doesn’t cease.

That everything will be alright.

My mind is like a shipwreck –

AUTHOR'S STORY: "I’ve always loved poetry, but only started writing it in earnest around four years ago, following a harrowing cancer journey and consequent PTSD and clinical depression. I suffered with anxiety for several years prior to this, which sadly seems to have intensified in recent months. I find poetry extremely cathartic and it helps to get the dark and difficult thoughts sorted/out of my head by putting them onto the page. Three years ago I joined Facebook as a way of sharing my poems, with a view to encouraging others going through similar experiences to me. I have had much positive response in this sense, which is very touching. I have been a born-again Christian since the age of nineteen (I am now 47) and my faith has definitely kept me going through the bleakest of times." SUZANNE NEWMAN.

And the carcass ‘neath the waves, Is eroded by the currents, Of depression’s stare each day. But, in these dark compartments Of a brain that’s in a muddle, They’re remnants of my happiness Faint light in pools and puddles.

WALKING ON EGG

MESSAGE YOU WILL

SHELLS

NOT UNDERSTAND

Jenny Brown

Yesterday’s hand crushed the egg shells,

Run down into the ground.

Shattered the silence,

One option only – delete and carry on.

Spoke from deep truth.

Myself is all gone.

Leading to compromise, Through eyes rejecting wrath.

Tears to hold back,

Today’s eyes see two beings in fear,

Screams boxed in,

Living with Autism.

Restrict feeling.

She knew before children were born and grown,

This is me now,

Challenges faced, would be without expert

Not half a person,

assessments for labels.

More like nothing at all.

Music beat the rhythm dancing forward. Treasured love lasting through tremendous stress,

Myself is all gone.

Accepting some barriers are impenetrable.

One option only – delete and carry on.

As seven decades of life pass, fear arises,

Run down into the ground.

Living with Autism undisclosed within his and my old age.

ABOUT THE POEM: Message You Will Not Understand was written recently when a cycle of ill health, tests, awaiting results, adapting – became central in my husband life and therefore in mine. All through our long relationship, poems have helped me communicate how I am feeling at times of depression/anxiety that he goes through. This poem changed our interaction; by enabling him to see that I was almost loosing myself as I battled to support him. It helped him to see that I needed support from him too, no matter how low he felt."

The physical act of pen marks on paper, Emotions expressing. Mentally engaged in seeing pattern, With a sprinkling of spirituality, Welding egg shells whole again. The smooth oval shell fits the palm against my belly. A half thought is born, sensing a poem might emit.

ABOUT THE POEM: Walking On Egg Shells was written during the adaptation to ill health and tests that my husband has been involved in since February 2021. It is an attempt to take older age issues into account, along with the autistic tendency to obsess/fixate/over-think, and to have a range of needs that sometimes feel like I need to 'walk on egg shells' in order to accommodate his needs. This is the first time I have written a poem addressing autism and, as we grow older, challenges become deeper rather than more manageable"

"I TRY TO SHOW HOW POETRY IS A COPING STRATEGY FOR ME, AND I AM GLAD THAT MORE PEOPLE NOW WRITE ABOUT HOW CONNECTED BOTH PHYSICAL AND MENTAL HEALTH ARE." JENNY BROWN

IMMORTAL

SWORN ENEMIES

Shakti Pada Mukhopadhyay

Friends scorn me as I wither away.

Had slept at noon and dreamt

Time had pilfered hair and turned me grey.

the Seven Sins swearing as kins.

Lost youth and vigor have rolled over glory of form. Viagra, beauty pills

Pride claimed his fame

and workouts couldn’t save me from

to sit on the lip of a doyenne,

teeth of time. Cycle of life and seasons

making her Goddess of pride

have made time finite. Then I dreamt

with elegance.

in sleep some ageless mob. Priceless elixir made them immortal.

Covetousness argued his actions as the acts of adoration.

But eternal youth were they lacking and ailments made them sad.

Wrath explained his manners

Kiths and kins died before them.

as conducive to survivors.

Afraid I was and prayed to God to let me die in time,

Envy termed his gestures,

since mortality is a gift of God.

as a toy to attract others,

But a jerk from the clock

to fulfill his own desires.

woke me up to see, “The Mortal Immortal”*, read last night.

Gluttony grinned for his ability to enjoy his moment of viability.

ABOUT THE POEM: The short story The Mortal Immortal by Mary Shelley gave me mental strength at the time of my aging. This story inspired me to write this poem.

Sloth had called himself efficient than others and felt proud to be patient. Lechery justified his actions in tune with the law of natural selections. All on a sudden, God had emerged with brilliance and cursed everyone for his cozening contrivance. Leaving me awake, they had fled and I felt Godly blessed.

ABOUT THE POEM: In our life we meet people with all the seven sins in abundance. But the poem Sworn Enemies gives me a pristine mind with a crystal-clear heart to ignore such vices and to rejuvenate my mental health.

WHISPERING Sultana Raza Wavy, thin green reeds,

breezes blowing soft all are whispering to us…

frothy elegant ferns, bubbly, tumbling foam, all are whispering to us …

new-born birdie’s chirps,

ducklings floating past blue-birds swooping down wind caressing arms all are whispering to us…

tiny blue-bell’s calls, leaves breathing in and out,

gold-fish gliding by

all are whispering to us…

bubbles bursting up

daisies growing tall

pebbles creamily round all are whispering to us…

grasses rustling calm branches swaying down all are whispering to us…

flowers smiling wide

gently sloping curve mosses sprouting forth greenly flowing stream all are whispering to us…

sunlight shining bright dew-drops fading fast all are whispering to us…

apples falling down

their secrets throughout time their rises and their falls their happiness inside

pigeons cooing on

are we listening to them?

POOL OF MEMORIES Sultana Raza Don’t worry, dear, your mummy is safe Through the surface of a special pool She can glimpse her dearest waifs; Proud you’re doing so well at school. As she wanders, chatting with fronds She’s so content that you still care To visit her favourite garden and pond

As soon as you feel some peace inside She gets much calmer in her garden bright. In dreams, unicorns can give you a ride If you call for their help, day or night. Waving and smiling, mum wishes you well, In her heart, forever you’ll dwell.

With your siblings. Don’t despair.

ABOUT THE POEM: Pool of Memories is meant to comfort children who have lost a parent, and perhaps it can provide some consolation to older grieving relatives too. I lost a family member at a young age, and this type of poem would have provided some relief then. Therefore, I’ve written it now. AUTHOR'S STORY: "I find walking or sitting in nature to be calming after the stresses of the day. Walking by any body of water, specially the sea can be quite refreshing and therapeutic. We just have to let nature do its work. It’s a mysterious process, because we don’t know why we feel better when we’ve been out in nature. Being outdoors helps to put problems into perspective. But it’s more than just decompressing. Perhaps human beings were meant to live in nature, and not to be stuck in front of computer or TV screens all day long. Perhaps we need to empty our heads, and stop worrying about time, chores, goals etc. Bird song also helps to release tension. It can be a good idea to just imagine life as a bird, or a tree, and all restrictions of time seem to melt away after a while. Perhaps we need to just go with the flow, like a free bird flying wherever the air currents take her, with a clear mind." SULTANA RAZA 25

BORDER

A CHILD WITH AUTISM

Alicja Maria Kuberska

The wide open window invites

We are in the same room,

fresh air and the inquisitive eyes of passers-by

but we are staying in two different worlds.

into the apartment

An invisible border separates us

A warm wind threw inside

- the eyes do not get through it

handful of petals torn from an apple tree.

and words turn into silence.

It brought in the aroma of blooming flowers in the backyard garden..

Your look penetrates objects,

In the room can be heard

goes far beyond the room.

a joyful chirping

Every image is blurred in your thoughts.

and the loud laughter of children

I disappear and become transparent like air

playing with a colourful ball

I hope you guess, that I'm sitting next to you.

They call you - an autistic child and you are here alone

You are looking intensely at the whirling bug and waving nervously with your hands,

You live in a closed cube block,

as you would like to fly over

in an always empty and quiet space.

the rainbow bridge of fantasy.

In your world

There you try to find a shelter

touch hurts and sounds are audible.

on your lonely island

A soundproof glass separates you

where all your mind’s entrusted secrets

from the voice of another human being

are guarded.

You paint on it with your fingers and leave a trace. It is your way of trying to contact.

I smile again and give you a colorful toy, You avoid my touch

It is difficult to escape

and with a cry retract your hand quickly

from the sealed trap of one’s own mind.

I want to penetrate the barrier of our mutual pain, free you from a dimension filled with loneliness, in which there is no place for another human being.

AFTER THE THIRTEENTH

SOME OF WHAT WAS

SHOCK TREATMENT

LEFT AFTER THERAPY

Jack Ridl

I asked for two fried egg sandwiches

The sky staying open to its stars and

and a blueberry milkshake. I got soup.

the paradigm of ever-changing clouds.

And it was raining, so instead of trying again to read “Middlemarch,”

Watching three boys playing catch in a mown field of winter wheat.

I lay on my side and watched the rain glide down the window. I used to love

Having the choice to sit on the porch

to go outside. My sister was a high school

or deadhead the wilting blooms.

cheerleader, someone everyone loved

And, of course adding one more perennial, this time maybe coral bells.

to be around—if anything was good, it was great. I needed to know. My God

To know:

spoke only in doubt. The nerves at the ends

The monks are asleep.

of my fingers never slept, and when my fists

The monks are awake. The monks are in prayer.

bloodied my forehead, only the comfort

The monks may be walking their dogs.

of bandages let me look out across the parking lot, out over the vans, Audis,

A woman in a mini-van stopping

and pick-ups into the trees where I could

as I was walking my dog. "I lost my dog last week.

see how the leaves held to the limbs.

May I pet him? Her?”

At home my father stayed alone in his

Letting her pet him.

gardens. My mother carried her knitting to a neighbour’s and talked about dinner.

Xylem rises. Phloem falls.

First published in Talking River. Subsequently published in Saint

Still no answer for the ocean.

Peter and the Goldfinch.

Somewhere a man is buying a hat.

ABOUT THE POEM: After the Thirteenth Shock Treatment takes us into the utter deprivation of choice when one is living in a psychiatric ward.

Somewhere a woman is buying a hat. First published in The Colorado Review (2015), subsequently in Saint Peter and the Goldfinch.

ABOUT THE POEM: Some of What Was Left after Therapy lists the kinds of disassociated, disconnected experiences the mind carries during attempted recovery.

THE HEALERS

AFTER FOUR WEEKS

Jack Ridl

My father guessed at work.

Reduced to veins and nourishment

He gave me things to do.

I stare until I’ve memorized

We strangled weeds from the flower bed.

The cracks that web the ceiling

Washed the car.

Into meanings abstract artists

Walked the dog.

Slice their minds to paint.

My mother guessed at a mother’s love.

Each day they come at me with pills.

She went back to tucking sheets

My nerves numbed, I smile

Around me as I lay in bed.

At Christ the ballerina

She pulled her fingers through my hair.

Nailed above the flowers

She turned away. She held me.

Sent to let my parents know That others understand.

My good friend guessed at leaving town. So we lugged gravel, grinding gears

My mind like a hungry gull

Up and down the western Pennsylvania hills.

Hovers over my thoughts.

We’d raise the bed and listen

The blood diked at my wrists

To the gravel rush into a silent pile.

Brings my blue hands flapping At the window when you leave.

My preacher guessed at God. First published in Salmagundi. Subsequently published in The Same

He knew my answer, spread my sin,

Ghost.

Prayed, asked me to pray, Sprinkled oil on my head,

ABOUT THE POEM: After Four Weeks simply creates what it’s like to experience a mental illness, implying that when the patient first enters the ward, he/she is expected to be “out in no time.” However . . .

Pronounced me of this world. My doctor guessed at shock. Strapped me down. Hooked electrodes to my head. Baptized me with volts. I guessed at empty space And all the breath That I could spill to fill it up. First published in Three Rivers Poetry Review, subsequently published in The Same Ghost.

ABOUT THE POEM: The Healers lists the various ways people connect with the one who is ill, trying to be helpful in the most well-meant and common of ways.

WITHIN WHAT YOU ENDURE Jack Ridl

Beneath the quilt you lie

beside him, he handing you

rise within the quiet landscape

still in the chronic morning

his trowel and a seedling,

of a stagger of pines higher

light, eyes on the ceiling’s blank

as if to say, “You plant this one.”

than the roof. The sun is halfway

canvas. You paint your father

And you imagine you do. Then

up. You put down your brush,

in a dark blue shirt kneeling

you paint your own house

the day spreading out into its

in his garden, you sitting small

half-built at the foot of a gentle

question.

First published in Third Wednesday, then in Poet Lore, subsequently in Saint Peter and the Goldfinch.

AUTHOR'S STORY: "These poems were composed as explorations of my 20-some years under psychiatric care: from 1964-1984. After a major breakthrough, I recovered and have been well since. Fifteen years ago I underwent EMDR theory for PTSD which had developed from the many traumas leading up to therapy, and five extended stays in four different psychiatric hospitals. When I first met my EMDR therapist, she sent me home with a form to fill out listing and describing any traumas I could recall. When I returned for my second visit, she looked at the sheet and said that in her 30-some years of therapy, she had never seen so many listed and some were the worst she had come across. We went to work, painful work, and were able, over many weeks, to de-traumatize each of them." JACK RIDL.

YOU'LL FIND YOUR HERO Edith Garma When the world is against you

When everybody failed you

When friends turned their back

The beacon's is there, don't lose hope

Just continue paddling your canoe

He'll illuminate the logic and construe

Fierce hope steers you in the riverbank

When and how to climb the steep lope

When they betrayed your trust

When you thought you're alone

And condemned you without fair trial

He bestowed you the spirit of audacity

Like a blade that thrust in chest

To be a warrior in the tempest zone

Note, God's beckoning you at the aisle

To be sagacious in your way to liberty

When you're drowned in life's billow

For He's there in your toughest battle

Or in the labyrinth there's no scape

Giving you grit and determination

Have guts, you'll find your hero

To overcome your greatest obstacle

He's always ready, your Agape!

In the journey towards your destination

FREE ME Edith Garma tormented in the deafening darkness heart's bleeding struggling to be freed from the incubus zone cross too heavy

wailing and pleading

unquenchable thirst

let me stay

where's God?

was subsided

if you are the Rapha

hands were bound

body felt so light

heal the big hole

soul is crushed

if this is a dream

in my heart

forlorn hope's blown

let me not wake up

if you are the Shalom

then I closed my eyes

from this elixir

give me peace

Woke up to another realm

if this is Nirvana

free me

THE COMFORT OF AN OCEAN OF SHADOWS AND DOUBT Zarraihaa of the DarkWaters The shadows were like a blanket.

Once again enveloped in nostalgia,

Enveloping all of who they were,

Of that familiar shadow,

Caressing the deepest part of their void,

Only now recognizing the feeling

Devouring all the light that was left.

Of the suffocating void.

It was their shield and protector,

The pleasurable burning,

Like an oasis in the desert.

That let them know they were alive,

The relief that they craved for,

Turned into an exploding pressure,

Was emptier than they had thought.

That held the promise of no relief.

The waters tasted of sand,

The void was thick, greedy, and dark

And the trees produced no shadows.

Devouring all sense but touch.

It became apparent to them

Their arms frantically searching,

That this oasis was a mirage.

For the way out of the void.

They looked down at the shadow,

Lungs past their limit,

That had once whispered so sweetly,

They let out that precious breath,

To find it too was an illusion,

The voids nature a vacuum,

Just as the false oasis.

It pulled out all that was left.

They began to sink deep,

And they continued drowning,

Into that bittersweet shadow.

It was not at all like what they had thought.

Hoping to drown,

There was no peace to be had,

Hoping for that long sleep.

Only pain and unbelievable fear.

But the deeper they sunk,

And when they believed that it would all end,

The more they panicked,

Their light finally ripped out,

And the more they panicked,

The void turned into an ocean,

The deeper they sunk.

Of shadows and doubt.

As the shadows climbed higher

They adapted to survive

They suck in one last breath

And there is where they live,

Pushing their lungs to the limits

Them who searches for the light.

Revelling in the burning pain.

AUTHOR'S STORY: "I have been having a rough time with my mental health lately. I constantly have to pretend that everything’s okay, even when it's not. This poem is about someone searching for a light that seems to be always illusive. Its about my life-long goal to feel mentally healthy, and in my poem I refer to this as the light. I hope that my poem reaches someone else out there who is going through something similar. I want them to know that they are not alone; that even though I don’t know them, and we are both swimming in our separate oceans of shadows and doubt - that we are swimming together, and that when they finally stop swimming it's because they have found the place that allows them the breath of relief that I have been always searching for. I those people the best, and care about them in the deepest part of my being." ZARRAIHAA OF THE DARKWATERS

BLISSFUL MOMENT

THE MIND’S KNOTS

Gabriela Docan

I close my eyes, breathe in and out with calm,

I anticipate everything before it begins,

Silence the world, in search for a soul balm.

Imagine worst scenarios when the mind spins,

Time and space dissolve. I relax, unwind,

I become sick with worry, doubt, countless fears,

Tame all worries, instating peace of mind.

The inner peace then eventually disappears.

I clean the grime spoiling days with dirt,

Being in the spotlight is something I dread,

Exorcize demons that make me get inert,

I struggle to concentrate on what’s being said.

Conquer struggles that make me distraught,

I get nervous, shaky, stumble upon words,

Lingering often in body, soul and thought.

As my attention is focused deeply inwards.

I breathe in slowly, stop and search within,

I want to do many things, but I am held back,

Wrap myself with calm, stop the mental spin.

Immobilized by tentacles of the anxiety attack;

To surrounding beauty, I open my soul wide,

I am feeling light-headed and about to faint;

For rivers of tranquillity to flow inside.

I freeze when all I want is to live without restraint.

I drown worries before starting to crowd,

Hope gets often shattered during this fight,

Unearth my spirit: powerful, unbowed!

But I know calm follows after each high tide.

There is nothing now that I need or miss:

I breathe in and out, silence unhelpful thoughts,

This moment is so peaceful, simply a bliss!

Try to untie the mind’s overwhelming knots.

First published by Clarendon House Publications in the poetry anthology

First published in The Poet's ADVERSITY, VOL.2, (2021), and by Writer’s Egg

POETICA #2, (2020).

Magazine, issue #12, theme on mental health, (2021).

ON THE RUN Gabriela Docan Worry hunts him like a lioness,

Sometimes he stops running,

waiting for a moment of weakness

to seek a brief moment of peace,

when she can strike

when he can heal his wounds,

and feast on his brain.

while keeping a close eye on the lioness.

She lets him regain strength for a while,

He looks for threats from his watchtower

before attacking ferociously.

with unnecessary vigilance,

Every day he is on the run:

patrolling like a sergeant

taken down imminently and eaten alive.

in defense of the inner peace.

Her teeth dig into his flesh,

Deploying incommensurable forces

rip out his inner peace

against an army of worries

and crush it under her strong jaws,

is his never-ending bloodless fight,

leaving him totally drained.

most times invisible to the eye.

Most plans of the day get slashed

First published in The Poet's ADVERSITY, VOL.2, (2021), and by Writer’s Egg

by grueling dark anticipations,

Magazine, issue #12, theme on mental health, (2021).

making him sweat and breathe fast, until he chokes with anxiety.

TUESDAY

GHOST

Amanda Quail

Be my moon and illuminate the dark,

The day lies ahead

So I can fall into the light.

And unfolds.

Be my Tuesday, make it a date,

A bucket to fill

So Monday leaves no mark.

With the delicate bubbles of memory.

Be my spiral, on a path close to home,

Their spherical surface spiralling,

Infinite, eternal, blood of the bone.

Jupiter's eye of the storm,

Be my water and clear the mud,

Determined and fragile.

Purify my aching skin.

Expectant hopes for tomorrow

Be my diary, hear my voice,

No longer on the outside

Let a new page begin.

Of the circle. A spectre, translucent, paper-thin skin The day lies ahead

ROCKS

Live in its folds! It's time, I say, to give up

Amanda Quail

The Ghost.

A mum, a daughter Dipping toes in the water. A learner, a teacher

VACANT

Someone come free her.

Amanda Quail

An odd sock wearer, Trying to be braver.

It's cold in here,

Long fingers, soft heart.

In the vacancy.

Rock collector,

I 'do' and don't 'be'

Care giver, word writer,

This cold, psychedelic snow

Someone protect her.

with no connect to the colour of the soul It's a white, black hole.

FEAR Amanda Quail

I'M VERY MUCH IN ADMIRATION OF THOSE WHO ARE ABLE TO CAPTURE SOMETHING WITH A COLLECTION OF

Fail Enormously At Reality.

WORDS THAT CREATE AN IMAGE, AND

Feel Engulfed, Always Reaching.

ILLUMINATE A RESPONSE WITHIN THE

Falsely Expecting Appalling Results.

READER."

Forever Emotions Are Relentless, Finding Elaborate Absolutes Readily. For Each A Road. Face Einstein And Rejoice. Finding Enhancement, Absolute Readiness. Full Energy And Recuperate. Focus Everyday, Ascent Rapidly. Friends Enhance Angel Rhetoric. Face Every Act Readily. Finding Emotive Artistic Respite. FEAR Ends At Repeat...

AUTHOR'S STORY: "In January 2021, I suffered some very bad health. It was so unexpected; the experience literally floored me. I became very depressed and experienced emotions and a disconnect from life that I had never experienced, and realised how much the physical body and mental state are connected. Having never written any poems before, I started to write some to help ease my mind and release some of the fear. It did. I couldn't believe that from such a void, something could be created that other people identified with!" AMANDA QUAIL