MindFull - Issue 4 by mindfullmag

MindFull

A quarterly magazine published by POETRY FOR MENTAL HEALTH

Issue 4 - Autumn 2022

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

www.PoetryForMentalHealth.org

IN THIS ISSUE POETRY BY: PAGE:

04. Billie Ashfield - ENGLAND 05. Ian Cognitō - CANADA 06. Robbi Nester - USA 07. Brandon Oliver - ENGLAND 08. Lisa Anderson - CANADA 09/10. Joan Mazza - USA 11/12. Ana M. Fores Tamayo – CUBA / USA 12. James Aitchison – AUSTRALIA 13. Tricia Waller - ENGLAND 13. Eshaal Asim - PAKISTAN 14/15. Caroline Johnson - USA 15. Jason Kirk Bartley - USA 16. Tim Little & Jill Sharon Kimmelman - USA 17. Bill Matthews - CANADA 18. Nigel Edwards - ENGLAND 19. Jane H. Fitzgerald - USA 20. Luke Lenacio - TASMANIA 20. Gary Shulman - USA 21. Margarita Dimitrova - BULGARIA 21. Sanda Ristić Stojanović - SERBIA 21/22. Dominique Clinckemaillie - SOUTH AFRICA 23. Jay Rose Ana - ENGLAND 24. Douglas Colston - USA 25. Theresa Rose Jertson – USA 26. Denise Mand - CANADA

SPONSORSHIP: Please contact us to sponsor MindFull magazine and POETRY FOR MENATL HEALTH.

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: Robin@PoetryForMentalHealth.org Website: www.PoetryForMentalHealth.org

AFTERNOON IN A BAR

THIS IS SHE

Billie Ashfield

Beaten down by

Chord progressions

This is she,

Mortality contemplation.

Inspire the poison.

Ex-whore and

Resuscitated with

She's at it again

Carrier of

Pop nostalgia.

And sinks another.

Multiple disorders.

As the white flag flutters Ancient perspectives

Too does the heart.

This is she,

Crawl from the depths

the unlearned.

As she clings to

She cannot stop.

Unheard as the well-spoken

The comforts of sadness.

She struggles to

Mean-wellers impose their

Tolerate an

Two pence.

Sod the millionaires

hours absence.

Flogging self-help.

She needs help.

This is she,

As others wilfully declare:

She needs help.

Failed child sensation,

Lose your heart and You'll lose your head.

Force fed on telly, Treat yourself kind.

Thirty years on and

This is not your fault.

Still vomiting.

Songs bleed soul

You are not weak,

And nudge her own.

You are not stupid,

This is she,

She feels alive,

You are not crazy.

Calling out all

She feels identity,

You are on a journey

Poseurs feigning pain.

She feels something

And it's a rough, rough sea.

Your theatrics stink

for once.

Storms will happen and

And are clogging up the stage.

Madness,

Storms will pass.

So she's told.

Find the support

This is she

You need.

And blessed is this bastard, Who spews gratitude To those who

HERE'S WHAT YOU

Skin her alive, For she remains naked.

COULD HAVE WON Billie Ashfield

I should have Offered myself at the podium, Expired in combustion A Martyr. But all that remains: A cripple in cowards skin.

Below the Gods

But I howl no more.

I'd have bellowed,

Just crawling and creeping

One last lament

These days.

Would surely have

Hurray for holding on.

Got me in.

ABOUT THE POEMS: "'Afternoon in a Bar' was written, unsurprisingly, in a pub one afternoon. I'd relapsed that day. I decided to write something in the pub to try to ease the shame of the relapse. A lot of it was influenced by a very loud jukebox. I wrote 'This is She' as a kind of lashing out and re-introduction of myself to people who've upset me in the past. It's quite raw and honest, as are most of my poems. There's themes of childhood trauma, guilt and shame. 'Here's What You Could Have Won' was written in bed during a depressive episode. I was thinking about the past and my days as a performer. I can no longer perform due to mental health reasons and was feeling very low about this. It has a sarcastic tone."

PIN CUSHION Ian Cognitō

every time

in your place

you know all those aches and pains

you criticize me

I would simply burst

you have ascribed to aging

I bear it in silence

or perish slowly

to the general wear and tear of life?

while mentally sticking

fizzling down to a pale

another pin into

deflated replica

well, guess again

the voodoo doll in my mind

of myself

my sweet Porcupine

an effigy to personify

dying a slow death

guess again

all the things

from a slow leak

I do not like about you

but you?

(sometimes I pinch you

you can withstand each

while you’re sleeping)

your shadow-self likeness is

accumulating pinprick

getting to be one very lively

with a stoic

pin cushion, up there

nonchalance

in the voodoo lounge

as if anesthetized

surprisingly resilient as it bears all those fresh puncture wounds

but guess what

this prickly, dolly doppelganger

my connubial Kewpie-doll

this, human hedgehog

pin-up boy

in the making

there ‘s this one little thing you may have missed as you marched on, oblivious:

EXPONENTIAL Ian Cognitō

Anxiety is a hungry monster

Trouble is

greedy for those moments of crisis

no one will believe her

and consternation

when the time arrives because

yet to manifest

she has talked about it too often

It sees danger that can’t yet be seen

Don’t they understand?

Looks over its shoulder furtively, panic-stricken

She has always, always, been preparing

for sabre-tooth tigers

for this moment

and their modern-day proxies

Always at-the-ready

The anxious person will know

And now

the sky is falling at the very first sign

she has gotten herself to safety

before anyone else can cotton on While the rest of us, grasshoppers are still at play

ABOUT THE POEMS: "'Pin Cushion', a record of the mental gymnastics of a passive aggressive person still determined to have the last word (if only internally). 'Exponential' is a poem dedicated to my friend, Carolyn, whose poem was included in the last issue of MindFull."

DRIVING LESSON Robbi Nester

Every Sunday afternoon for years

But if the car itself were not enough,

I’d face the hour that I dreaded

there was my father—grim gargoyle,

all week long: a driving lesson

full of fury, grabbing fistfuls of my hair

with my father.

or stomping on my feet, as others

Like all fifteen-year-olds,

sped by, windows up, faces

I wanted to grow up,

averted, pretending not to see.

and driving was the proof

In winter we would glide down snowy

that I was grown.

hills by Tookany to visit cousins, or stop

I longed to get into the car

at the aquarium. My father made me

and go, no more asking

strip off boots and socks and drive

for a ride or taking buses.

barefooted, toes frozen to the pedal, body stiff with fear.

My father’s car, a dowdy Chevy, poked like a pontoon

The lesson always ended the same way,

along cracked streets

when dad would reach his rigid arm

where neighbors sat outside

across the seat, open the door,

brick bungalows on lawn chairs,

motion me out, two miles from home.

sneering as we rolled slowly by.

Pulling on my shoes and socks,

And truthfully, it must have been a sight.

I’d muse on the ineffable, full of sorrow

My feet hardly reached the pedals,

at what could not be said,

however augmented with blocks

watched the nascent moon,

or phone books. If I slid down,

translucent blot on the pink sky,

I couldn’t see the street.

rise slowly as I walked.

No power steering either: I had to fight the car to make it turn

We wouldn’t talk

and backing up was hopeless.

from one week to the next, but when next Sunday came around, I’d hope things might be different,

AYE-AYE ENCOUNTER

climb into the car, attempt a starchy smile, and try again.

Robbi Nester

I’m driving on an unfamiliar road at night when the aye-aye, that deranged marsupial, emerges, tapping at my forehead with his freakishly long middle-finger, evoking visions of the wrong turns I might take, blundering up onto hidden freeway ramps, baffled by the crazy yellow lines, sudden exits, tractor trailers lurching out like pachyderms into my path. Panic eclipses all my hard-won reason. The aye-aye rises, his sideways ears

ABOUT

THE

POEMS:

"The

poems references my father's mental illness and abusive behaviour stemming from it, but also the genesis of my own PTSD. I still have panic attacks while driving under

each swiveling to catch the smallest sound,

some circumstances, such as

red eyes the picture of paralysis. The night’s

freeways. I avoid them."

alive, fixes me with all its many eyes. All I can do is drive.

MACHINE-MADE 5

MACHINE-MADE 6

Anonymous: using the Brandon-

Oliver-machine

The moon

All I hear

has taken control

is sleep said Wilton

a blockade of the library

if the light is on

like a winter scarf

my legs

round a lego castle

rattle like firewood

has made me forget my shoes

come on get up now

it might have been deliberate but for the whispers

dawn hammers

outside the cinema

its cushion to the misty hills

and the ribbon at the foot of my bed

and in the lazy grove of my pocket

MACHINE-MADE 7

systems of stillness

Anonymous: using the Brandon-

float

Oliver-machine

in a wave of rain

delicate and nubile

The trees sleep the bridge is tucked up

MACHINE-MADE 8

over a mystery

Anonymous: using the Brandon-

of animals

Oliver-machine

Hum says Finn

Get off the counter

how memories eat me

until I can’t breathe

a serial of gibberish

and tell me if this will end

a beach without a bucket and

with a love-letter

spade a knowing smile

an empire of wolves

flickers like a splinter in the how they sneak up

skyline

dear Ballet

oh oh enough for one night

get me a beer

my shoulder aches all over the

and I’ll talk about it

house

ABOUT

THE

POEMS:

The

above

four

a nostalgia of bones

poems were made with a word-machine

then nothing

devised by Brandon Oliver, an attendee at Leicester

Glenfield

Hospital’s

Bradgate

Mental Health Unit writing group. 7

TWO LIVES LOST

UNTITLED

Lisa Anderson

Dad died

She is awoken by the word

Within a week

"Medication", she hopes the

Molestation

Coffee is strong

Depression followed Without hesitation

Some days there are a lot of tears While trying to cope

I was drowning

With overwhelming fears

In a ocean of secrets I tried to catch a breath

She makes a point

Amidst the waves under cold clouds

Of going to groups Of her peers

Sinful secrets

That ease her mind

Bravely endured

While trying to cope

Hard to make peers

With overwhelming fears

While fighting back tears She swims and battles Highschool was

Demons with each stroke

Full of heartache

It is a physical outlet

And pain

While trying to cope

I never fit in

With overwhelming fears

Oh! If only they knew

She does crosswords

About my inner anguish

To keep her mind busy

Which took over

2hile trying to cope with overwhelming fears

As I tried to keep sane She listens to music It didn't take much to set

To lesson the voices

Me off

While trying to cope with overwhelming fears

My tears came quickly The day has ended I went to my closet

A new one has begun

Curled up like a ball

She is awoken by the word

Holding my

"Medication"

Father's picture frame She hopes the coffee is Strong ABOUT THE POEMS: "The first poem has to deal with the subject of sexual abuse that happened during a week of sadness; my dad dying. I can't say it enough; the trauma severely altered my brain when I was twelve. The second poem is about my daily routine of having to take medication, the importance of peer groups that empathize and support, such as my writing group which I have been a member of for at least four years."

UNDONE Joan Mazza

With so few years remaining, I ask myself

who’d dived deep into a bottle with his guns?

what is left undone, unfinished, unresolved,

A partner can deepen loneliness more

and circle back to old regrets I can’t undo.

than solitude in a years’ long quarantine.

The life I’d prepared for and planned

My plan was children, extended family

took a turn that wasn’t on my map. No,

gathered for abundant food and music,

I made a run and got off that track

not the quiet of a writer’s life amid red

with thoughts I could make it better,

and white oaks and sweet gum, lotus blooming

easier, expected I’d be done with settling

between the pond’s green scum. I wanted dogs

for crumbs of attention, meager income.

but ended up with four cats who chose me.

What did I expect the shrink to fix when I

Not focused on what I’ve not yet done, not

wasn’t broken, needed to be done with

on poor humans, ones who wanted me undone,

marriage, under the thumb of a husband

I’m undiminished, my art’s not quite finished.

IF I WRITE THE DETAILS Joan Mazza

of what I censored in my journals,

if I write what I wish I had said,

the full story of what he did and said

when I might have stood to end

while my compliance masked

a session where he directed me

my fear and dread

to sleep with my boss or marry a man I didn’t trust or love

if I write in scenes with dialogue

or even like

as I remember it, recall his scent of Aramis, the cylindrical tan pillow

if I write about the moments

under my neck on his

I could have walked out, not

analytic couch

returned or answered his calls, not responded to his diatribe

if I take these recurring scenes

of escalating diagnoses

and nail them down on paper, with their shame and regret,

if I put it all down on paper, using

as it happened

journal entries as memory devices and not complete truth

if I add my commentary with vocabulary I didn’t have then—

would I ditch the weight of that

boundaries, gaslighting—remind

trauma, startled still by gunshots

him of the ethics of psychiatry

in these woods, and the smell

and the law

of smoke, the stink of swamp rot?

CONSIDER THE ARC

SHELTER

OF THE STORY

Joan Mazza

To escape the storm, I thought I’d slip under his big umbrella, room for all

Command for any anecdote or epic. Readers

worthy of his good will. Surely, he would

want to cheer the underdog, see her leap

care for our welfare, cheer us on, want

barriers imposed by lovers and discover unknown strengths. The protagonist must

what we wanted for ourselves. What did I

endure and triumph, speak for others harmed,

know of greed as creed, or that his deeds

confess the truth of weaknesses, missteps,

were so self-serving? I trusted then,

the times she only followed orders.

had yet to learn to be more sceptical.

Don’t allow her to be rescued by a knight

Did he not say I was gullible? Good

or angel. Don’t say she found her faith

for him. He cautioned my trust

in magic or astrology or veganism. Who

in others. And you believed him?

are the villains? How was she an outlaw?

he often asked, except when I didn’t trust.

What choices broke the trance of her

Then, You’re paranoid. I could never

indoctrination? Did a deprogrammer help

get it right, could never trust myself.

to spring her from that cult? In the end,

Shelter was a cult where I was brainwashed,

is your protagonist stronger, clearer? Would

eager for indoctrination, chanting

the reader want to speak with her? What questions remain? Has she answered,

correct answers like a parrot. No shelter for the wounded, only salt

“What do you regret? What would you

for old wounds—the focus to keep me

tell those stuck like you?” and “What do

coming back as long as I could pay.

you miss most of your old life?” In memoir, the protagonist is you. No secrets allowed. "SINCE I WAS A TEEN, WRITING HAS ALWAYS BEEN A BALM AND A WAY TO SORT OUT MY THINKING. WRITING POETRY, I'VE FOUND A SAFE CONTAINER FOR STRONG EMOTIONS SUCH AS RAGE AND GRIEF. KNOWING OTHERS READ MY POEMS, I FEEL LESS ALONE AND MORE UNDERSTOOD. MY LIFE'S TRIALS AREN'T UNIQUE. I HOPE MY POEMS REACH OTHERS AND VALIDATE THEIR EXPERIENCES." JOAN MAZZA

ABOUT JOAN: Joan worked as a medical microbiologist, psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including ''Dreaming Your Real Self''.

MULTI-COLORED ROSES

VIRGINITY

Ana M. Fores Tamayo

Multi-colored roses

Insipid aphrodisiac

glistened in the antiquated bar stool

touched the wingéd tongue

of a local night.

of my bathing skin, as I sensed

Wild life incarcerated

a lingering notion

in a cellular biography

all would be over soon.

of endless photographs. Euphoria's passion exists in ecstasy The nightstand listens to the sun.

for only a short while, though timeless fingertips

The wild-feathered boys laugh and singsong

have been known to gather blooms

as he lies in a thorned mesh of

in only minutes' time.

fingernails crawling, Or is it that infinity breaking through his skin.

gathers nothing while I stay untouched,

Forlorn, he waits

thinking that my love will stay?

for butterflies as glaciers of time

The smell of warm milk urges

hasten to claim him,

dreams and drifting memories,

to smother him with frosty kisses,

reminds me of my childhood…

caressing his babied breath, icing his tender teardrops.

yet I turn my back on the crumpled pillow now,

I wail

not thinking of tomorrow,

asking for time

nor of crinoline and virtue,

but the heavenly toll has ceased

nor of my love,

to tick eternally.

who leaves my passion decaying

I sanction thought

like those wilted roses

but unbounded deaf notes

on my bedroom floor.

anticipate my emptied wings. The multi-colored roses have faded now

"I WRITE, AND THEREFORE I

and sweet smells rise

PURGE MYSELF: THOSE DEMONS

like the helium balloons

WITHIN ME ARE LET LOSE AND I CAN GO ON WITH MY LIFE."

on those wild spring days.

ANA M. FORES TAMAYO

They have all died now, though one remains, rising white and pure. For you, within my fiction I sing blue lullabies of a remembered yesterday. And those are heaven within my grasp... Multi-colored roses few can know, few might hear, few will ever see.

SUICIDE Ana M. Fores Tamayo

Wound:

Burn:

Opened into gashes

the heart does break.

blinded with blood

Veined blood splattering

of sensuous denial

bullets the fingered

and love betrayed

layers of the brain. Mindless, her lips

Hurt:

do trickle red.

innocuous and sultry, shame stinging that open scar

Sadness:

dried chapped blood

Covering her satin skin

killing those tears of

purpled by a death of soul

salted grains in sand,

and putrid,

cruel crawling crevices bemoaned

her foot does swing

and passion crushed.

incessantly. Back and forth, Back and forth...

ABOUT ANA: Ana advocates for marginalized refugee families from Mexico and Central America. Working with asylum seekers has eased her own sense of displacement; being a child refugee, always trying to find home.

WHAT YOU SHOULD KNOW AFTER I'VE GONE James Aitchison

The black cloud is coming. So is the radiant light on the other side. It is time to be gone from amongst you. Know that I have loved you, Know that I will miss you, Know that I am sorry if I've ever hurt you. Know that I achieved all my goals in life. Know that I couldn't have asked for more. Know that I couldn't have done it without you. Know that you have given me comfort. Know that I have treasured our time together. Know that I have loved your laughter. Know that I will miss my grandchildren, and know that I will miss never seeing their children. Know that I am filled with sadness leaving you, Know that there was nothing else you could have done for me. Know that I am honoured to have known you.

TOO LATE TO BE SORRY Tricia Waller

Their insults bounce off of her

They are all here.

like raindrops from a mackintosh. She says they mean nothing to her.

They slice into her soul

She says she no longer hears them.

like a laser, like a scalpel. They singe her tender heart and

But she does!

turn it into molten wax.

At home, at school,

And they haunt her by day and by night.

in the shops, in the park. They never ever stop.

Until one Wednesday she can take no more.

She pretends not to hear them.

She piles them all up high. The insults reach right up to the top of the sky

But she does!

and she asks herself why?

She collects insults like stamps

But nothing matters anymore!

in an album, like beer mats from the Olde Worlde pub.

And yes they were desperately sorry;

She says she's chucked them in the bin.

brought armfuls of flowers, laid them gently down around the cedar tree.

But she has not!

Where she did it - where she ended it all.

The insults stack up on her desk,

But it was way too late to be sorry!

in her lavender scented underwear drawer. In the secret place where she hides her locked diary. She has kept every single one. ABOUT THE POEM: "The focus of the poem is the harm that social media can do to young impressionable minds and how important it is to 'fit in ' with your peer group and if you don't what it feels like to be constantly mocked and ostracized."

WHO AM I? Eshaal Asim

Am I the wind that blows before the storm? Or am I the sandstorm in the desert? Am I the waves that wash away the beach? Or am I the corals in the sea? Am I the North Star?

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is about the

Or am I the sun that’s meant to guide?

struggles of life, when you start guessing your

Am I the boulder that blocks the path?

own worth. It’s for people trying to find their

Or am I the shards of glass meant to cause harm?

place in the world, for people who consider

Am I the walking dead?

themselves misfits. The answer to this simple

0r am I a survivor?

question lies within oneself and can be found by

The question still remains,

tapping into the events that shaped one’s life."

Who am I? 13

BIPOLAR DREAM Caroline Johnson

This is a story of courage and survival, of how I killed an intruder who stole upon me one day while I was doing laundry. He had long, silky black hair and dark eyes, and smiled irresistibly with the look of the Devil and offered me coffee and oranges, and tried to help me fold my whites. He said he was a POW from the Japanese death march in Bataan, but didn’t look a day over 40. And when he took my bleach-dried hand and waltzed with me (as my sweaters did the gentle cycle) I didn’t mind the throb of the knife at my wrist, and I forgot the torn flowers from past hospital stays, or the words I would regret when shouted into yesterday, into my husband’s ear. As I listened to the stranger (my mistake—I wept later) he took over my mind and left me with: an overdrawn bank account, a hangover that would not leave, a delusion of freedom’s grandeur, a fantasy of escaping mundane reality. With just a kiss on the cheek he led me to destruction, and I willingly complied. I became his prisoner. I woke up outside on concrete pavement, and I knocked on clear glass for my husband to let me in. It seemed the Devil had retreated, and yet I didn’t remember stabbing him with my saw tooth comb— Would I ever see him again? Dare we set another date? I looked out on the horizon, yearning like Catherine Heathcliff, to see a ghost that might ravish me once more. I bent down and swept up the pieces of a broken window with a broom called Love. My husband locked the door and I said, “Good knight.”

ABOUT THE POEM: "The first, 'Bipolar Dream,' was previously published in an anthology about mental illness ('Kind of a Hurricane Press'). It is a metaphor/personification for what bipolar disorder feels like. I was diagnosed with Bipolar I disorder when I was 27, and spent 15 years battling the illness until I became somewhat stable. Today I can say with confidence that the illness is only a small part of my life, thanks to the right medication and the strong relationships I have built."

DEPRESSION Caroline Johnson

Depression is waking up with body buried beneath

Depression sticks like a black leach in a

a blanket, with mouth muffled without sound,

shallow pond.

speaking to someone in a foreign language that you don’t understand.

Depression screams at you when you’re deaf and dumb and you can’t say anything in reply.

Depression is sending someone a postcard that is returned, destination unknown.

Depression is muted and hollow, colors faded and pale, not quite touching true madness.

Depression is color blind, petting a cat who doesn’t love you, getting bit by a dog,

Depression, I’m black and blue, like an avalanche

raindrops on a sunny day.

of despair in a mountain of glue.

Depression is running a red light and

Depression, when will you be through?

outshouting a cop. ABOUT THE POEM: "I experienced severe depression only for one year back in the early 2000s. That is when I wrote the poem, 'Depression.' Most of my illness centred on mania, not depression, but I did experience some melancholy days a long time ago."

YOU HOLD THE PEN Jason Kirk Bartley

When the voices take take center

In the midst of the pain be a shining star,

stage like they sometimes will,

created by God,

depressed, anxious, or beat down you will

you may dance to the beat of a

sometimes feel.

different drum,

Remember who is in control,

but not for man's applaud.

you hold the pen,

Remember you're special,

you write your own story

in God's way.

from beginning to end.

Into the hands of the illness

Are you writing an adventure?

do not play.

Are you in suspense, my friend?

It is important,

Or are you in a fairytale,

what you have to say.

a handsome prince you pretend?

Sometimes things will get you

Most of the time,

down,

time will tell,

from this fight learn to help someone come around.

It'll give you away.

In the midst of someone's dark clouds,

Are you doing well?

you be the sun's ray.

Think on the good things,

Be someone's light when their having a dark day.

not the things that

Be someone's jewel in the crown they may wear in their

put you through hell.

marvellous tale.

Do what you must to

Help them write their best story and help them do it well.

be who you are.

May they be that best seller that will surely sell.

PTSD, A CONVERSATION BEGINS Tim Little & Jill Sharon Kimmelman A low moaning rumble is grumbling and tumbling

Well hello thank you for coming

it's evil way to me

I'm Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

It's my bastard shadow again

PTSD is fine and shorter

Goddamn it, it’s PTSD! I'm a disease of the mind It started as a good day, a great day even I planned on talking with my wife soon

Hell, in order to get my attention

later today, sometime around noon

you gotta get hit with something tragic theres the magic

You see I really really need to hear her

that’s where I come in with my grab bag of

because I'm not allowed to see her

tricks things get really twisted, things get really sick

Here's the deal y'all

Yeah, that’s what I love, it’s how I get my kicks!

I'm in the hospital with a boatload of serious infections

Of course military duty can be nightmare

meanwhile hospitals across the nation

dramatic

have all but stopped visitations

car wrecks and crib deaths are old classics

to protect the population from the gruesome devastation

but mass showings, those have become my

of new killer bugs and their deadly mutations

fondest delight I take such joy in their survivor’s fright

Now that's all well and good they’re just doing what they should

Sex isn't always romantic magic

it was a pandemic, they’ve all but ended it

there is rape and assault, my God how fantastic

It appears we may even transcend it

I take the messages in your mind, then turn them to static

But back to the matter at hand PTSD has come today so that you can begin to

For your bones and your bleeding

understand

time can bring healing

his slight of hand, learn about his devilish scam

I work my scam by being misleading I get off on the drama

So let’s all gather together as we welcome to the

I dig causing pain

stage Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

So fight me, curse me, do all you please

and his band of demons, Paranoia

I'm never going away, I’m never going to leave

Thank you Tim for that kind introduction

What a lovely audience, you've been most kind!

You might not know this but Tim is one of my greatest productions

I hope we meet again some day when life rips everything

He was just a kid of twelve

you love away

his body burned up real fine

I will wait until time is right to send your mind

Half a century later he still dances to my tune

reeling

his brain my toy, still mine to enjoy

into eternal midnight

THE SADDEST SAD

M.S. ... B.S.

Bill Matthews

The saddest sad you have ever had,

It really feels like something is eating my soul.

I'm so sorry that it got that bad.

Not piece by piece, they are eating it whole. How about a helping, of only the facts.

I wish that I could be there for you,

My life overseen by a handful of hacks.

Explain there are other things you could do.

Hell of a business, just along for the ride. Do the math please, how many have died?

Your life is very important, this I strongly stress,

Prey on the weak, whose worlds may have

It really doesn't matter how bizarrely you may dress.

crashed. It's all about the money, why be so unabashed?

It may seem pretty unbearable right now,

My mental health is real, please do not sneer.

But please my dear be patient let me show you how.

You treat us like criminals, keep us in fear. You know how to hurt, you bleed the system.

To see your way through this terrible painful hell,

Some checked out early, mothers still miss them.

Like a boxers comeback victory, rising up before the

Not one more lost, by your greedy hand.

bell.

You tried it on me, but still mighty I stand.

I'll help you out with anything, all that you will need,

BROKEN SYSTEM

Illuminate the reasons, why you surely will succeed.

Bill Matthews

All of that love that you will miss,

Every day I must justify, life over death

Your forehead that I'll never kiss.

Probably will, until my last breath I'm sorry I'm fragile, I'm sorry I'm weak

You may not see it now, from there,

Anxiety, debilitating, it is help that I seek

but you'll find out your loved ones really care,

I always thought, I had control of my life Losing a battle, with a big shiny knife

much, much more than you'll ever know,

How to explain this, to all those I love

Remember, please when you're feeling low.

Just know that I'll love you, from heaven above As much as I think, about my own depart

The time you lose now, you can never get back,

It's lucky I'm just, a big coward at heart

Please, don't be remembered by your name on a

The system is broken and causing great pain

plaque.

Every day is a struggle, I hope not in vain How to bring attention, to the mental health

Because death is forever, a very long time,

plague

We will always love you, please together let's make the

When those that should help you, make it so

climb.

vague Never had sympathy, I had never been there

ABOUT

BILL:

Bill

has

been

Now all I feel, is pain and despair

writing poetry for fifty-plus years,

My head is exploding, my heart skips a beat

but

Into my dark place, my only retreat

has,

submitted

until any

now, writings

never for

Time will cure all of my woes, I am told

publication. Motivated by current

Wish I believed them, that statement sounds bold

events, he writes reactive poetry

Every day I must justify, life over death

from his heart.

I probably will, until my last breath.

BACKWARD

BAT SHIT CRAZY

Nigel Edwards

The way you do it is just no good, you are backward.

Stupid and lazy.

I can't relate, you can't even communicate.

When he talks about me, I wonder if he understands

What the hell is wrong with?

reality.

You don't have a clue.

Just don't know what to say, it's the same every day.

Every word you say makes me not want to stay.

Talks to me like I'm an animal, that stupid fool.

Is not how it should be, you will be nothing but a

He has no respect for people at all, it's just not cool.

bad memory.

The just sits there all day, with only negative stuff to say.

BEEN TELLING LIES

Such an unimportant man, I say be normal if you can.

Nigel Edwards

don't want him anywhere near me.

But he's bat shit crazy, hates everything he can see,

Can he read and write? THE

POEMS:

"This

Does he want to fight?

ABOUT

all

Just can't figure him out.

started when I was homeless. I

Want to knock him out for the count.

stayed in a homeless project in

He keeps on lying, I'll wait until he’s crying.

various churches and a synagogue.

What was the reason why?

The volunteers there kept on telling

Don't even try.

everyone to keep tame. I was a bit odd and annoying. Then I moved

COUCH POTATO

into a shared house. I told one of the guys I lived with about it. He

Nigel Edwards

went around telling everyone on the street that I wasn't tame. He

Might be something good on T.V. tonight,

also told people that I couldn't read

I have no life.

or write. People on the street kept

Don't even have a wife, wish I had a life.

on taking the piss out of me. So, I

Just sitting here all day,

decided to write a collection of

can't even give any of them hey. Trying to think of something to say,

poems titled 'The Untamed', taking

it always seems like the same day.

the piss out of him."

Got no friends to play with, don't know how to live.

LOST

NEVER LONELY

Jane H. Fitzgerald

That night my mind

I am sitting on the hard steps

Shot down a horrifying spiral

of our shabby old house

Swirling waves of colors crashed

Surrounded by my dolls

Dragging me under

whose softness caresses my skin

Down and down I tumbled

They are my companions

Sucked under by a forceful vortex

At night, I tuck them into bed

Spinning, unable to escape

all jumbled up around me

I struggled to resurface

My two big floppy dolls,

Hearing faint voices far away

Raggedy Ann and Andy,

My eyes opened

are extra special as they

Briefly recognizing my bedroom

were made by my grandmother

I kept uttering over and over

We often dance wildly together

Is this real

over the floor made of

Maybe it was only a nightmare

grass and rocks by the steps

My body went into

The dolls are real to me,

Uncontrollable convulsions

but not as strongly as

The twisting rivers carried me away

my imaginary friend, Yehudi

Strange undulating hues engulfed me

He lives in my head listening

My mind was lost

and responding, thinking up fun

My body was lost

things to do. He especially loves

All self control was lost

to put a doll on my tricycle

Total agony possessed me

and race speedily around the yard

Terror owned me

My dolls, Yehudi and I

Huge spasms wracked my torso

consider the steps our home

I frantically tried to swim upwards

A place where I’m alone,

A power kept forcing me lower

but never lonely

It was inescapable submersion I heard muffled talking, arguing

ABOUT THE POEMS: "'Lost' describes a time when a

Should they take me to the hospital

friend of mine gave me a drug because she thought

Inside I was screaming

it would help me relax. It was really a nightmare. I

Can't you see I'm dying

ended up in the Emergency Room. The drug

The convulsions gripped harder

interacted with medicine I take for a condition

The pain grew more intense

called Restless Legs. 'Never Lonely' is about my early

My legs were slamming against the bed My shoulders shook with electricity

childhood and how I coped with loneliness."

It was endless suffering A flash in a semi lucid moment Made it clear that the nightmare was real Someone was repeating, it's real, it's real I longed for it to be just a dream I was trapped, racing, circling Towards a cruel death There was no way out No end to this intense torture Would I ever be saved? Or was this my destiny? 19

THEY COME AT NIGHT Luke Lenacio Rap, rap, rap,

This is fear of another kind!

They’ve come to my window again.

I need to leave this all behind!

It happens every night.

There’s nothing I can do, so I might as well get blind.

It gives me such a fright.

Drunk, but on another level.

As my heart thumps and pumps all that life blood.

To make it go away.

Pritty soon I feel like it will escape in a flood,

But no, I myself I will betray.

as they cut me.

If I do, I will be without a clue.

I feel I want to flee,

No it’s true.

but they are outside.

It only makes it worse.

There’s nowhere to hide.

I’ll feel like I’ve been hit by a horse.

Could this be within my mind?

So this I must endure.

It continues, but help is hard to find.

As there is really no cure.

Am I starting to lose my mind? ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is about a bad time for me when my hallucinations were at their worst. I used to try to deal with the emotions that arose with alcohol and pot, but it only made things worse."

FOR MAURY

JUST BE YOU ...

Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.

WHEN YOU CAN Gary Shulman, MS. Ed.

Sometimes in life an angel appears So fragile yet profoundly strong

Easier said than done at times

So much to live for

Just be your genuine self

A bright light in the storm

Some folks choose to hide it away

So how could it go so wrong?

And store it away on that elusive top shelf

Contemplate as you will

Being who you were born to be

Of reasons, how comes, and whys

In a sea of bigotry and hate

It truly is all in vain

Not so very easy at times

You’ll never quite understand those whys

When you feel locked behind an impervious gate

Nor his never-ending pain

I know sometimes the dark scary forces

Let us just celebrate his peaceful legacy

Can overwhelm and stultify

His smile, his laughter his sweet gentility

But when the stars all align and you’re ready for YOU

And never let another lost soul

Your soul and spirit will surely fly!

So deep in unrelenting pain

No pressure again to decide to be you

EVER leave this corporal world thinking his life was

Your reality of life is not mine

just in vain

Only a blessing to you I send with love

A life cut short is tragedy

And a wish that you’ll be just fine

A life cut short has no reason nor a rhyme From another dimension dear Maury lives In our hearts, minds and souls everlasting for all time ABOUT THE POEM: "'For Maury' poem is dedicated to a young person who committed suicide about two years ago."

WIN

A BANDIT OF HIS

Margarita Dimitrova

OWN TIME

Fear,

Sanda Ristić Stojanović

privacy,

I am a curve of reality,

stiffening

I take off on the slogans of freedom,

they tear the senses and the spirit. And it stops the race with time.

I give a speech clothed in four sides of the world,

The moaning blind discussion

I give a speech clothed in the intimacy of freedom

it is unnecessary for quiet calm.

and my blood,

But if you want to take the light

I give a speech in the prison unit of all injustices,

with your hands outstretched for joy,

I give a speech dressed in my life,

you will snatch the sincere whiteness of the innocent

I give a speech inside my and your freedom, I give a speech equalled to our lives and

with his soul from near worlds.

to our existence,

You will rediscover true tenderness

I give a speech which erupted from a volcano

and you will believe in this white light,

which was created by the sides of the world of

which they bestow on you with their kindness

courage,

again people with a bright aura now.

I give a speech which is

Take your locked soul with your hands

created by the blood of our presence.

and in response to others by yourself give a beautiful rose to the world!

Translation Sonja Asanović Todorović.

WRITER’S BLOCK Dominique Clinckemaillie Once again,

My heart would pour freely from my hand,

a cruel and painful silence.

a masterpiece would take form.

What words could I put down

From flow, not from a plan,

to describe the worlds behind my eyelids?

a true paragon of beauty would thus be born.

There’s love and there’s madness, from ecstasy to sadness.

Instead, here I am. Once again, in a cruel

Blank pages stare enticingly,

and painful silence.

they welcome my search for clarity.

Not sure of what words to put down

If my pen so dare to dance,

to describe the wars behind my eyelids.

beyond my reasons and excuses,

I grasp for love whilst drowning in madness.

and cease the incessant analyzing of the intricate pieces.

From whence do I express,

Of all that exists,

if not from ecstasy nor sadness?

the perceived terror, and the potent drug of bliss. ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote 'Writer's Block' in a desperate attempt to break out of my own writer's block after going through a very stressful period in my life. Writing has always been a form of release and a way to navigate my inner world and see myself as I am and not what I think I am at any given time - a sort of mirror as not to get entangled in any of the self-doubt or toxic thought patterns that often intrude and can get quite overwhelming. When I am in a position where I find myself unable to write or freely express myself (procrastination, busy work schedule, etc), my anxiety sky rockets and life seems a little less manageable. It is therefore imperative that I am able to get back into my creative flow, put pen to paper, and free up that much needed space in my head." 21

DAYDREAMER Dominique Clinckemaillie Purple rocks and silver sand,

Meadows of yellow flowers,

creating the perfect land.

a land free of towers.

Blue clouds and a white sky,

No money, no war,

watching as the ravens fly by.

but a whole lot more. Stars are a frequent sight,

Endless paths of pebbles,

and tell stories that no man could write.

that snake through forests of lost dreams. You could imagine anything it seems.

A land of thought and imagination, somewhere full of creation.

Rabbits with pocket watches,

Somewhere that has no law,

and caterpillars with pipes.

but opportunity at every door.

Cheshire cat smiles that fill the nights.

Where wishes come true,

A wonderland indeed,

and you can be you.

A wonderland free of greed. Why wait? Music fills the air,

Go now!

peace and happiness everywhere.

It really doesn’t matter how.

The drops of rain,

Don’t let reality stop you now,

slowly wash away the pain.

daydreamer.

ABOUT THE POEM: "'Daydreamer' was written in my teenage years, I often day dreamed about leaving my bland and often traumatic reality and going to a place where I could fully embody who I was as an individual and feel as though I was safe and belonged. I was a massive fan of Alice in Wonderland as a young girl, and fell in love with the idea of a world where anything is possible. I also deeply admired the courage and resilience that Alice possessed and saw her as a bit of a role model. This poem was inspired by my experiences of being bullied throughout my school career because of my uniqueness in physical appearance (I was a brown-skinned child with a very white, European mother), family culture ( my mother's family is Belgian, my father's is Brazilian) , home language (I spoke French in a Zulu nation), heritage, and accent ( I am what they call a 'coconut'). My mother was an alcoholic with a severe personality disorder and as a child I found myself constantly having to save her from herself. She had, an still has countless self-destructive tendencies that unfortunately effected everybody around her, including and especially me. Once I was old enough, and after my grandmother's passing, I left my mother to live my own life, and become the hero of my own story as Alice was in hers. The poem was therefore also greatly inspired by Lewis Carroll's masterpiece."

GRIPPING TIGHTLY

SOMETHING MISSING

Jay Rose Ana

I close my window late at night.

I want to tell you about something really specific.

Pull up the bedsheet way too tight.

Distinct, individual. Something precious I am missing.

Portent surrounds my everywhere.

A particular little thing.

Crowding my thoughts yet over there.

A love, you might say, of my life.

Breathing shallow lest they detect.

I would like to impart to you, if I may, how much I miss it.

And gripping tightly I forget. A simple old trinket. Some historical find.

Forget

A well-written novel. I draw my curtains every night.

A hand-me-down object.

My head is spinning, heart at fright.

No particular kind.

Closing in, malicious intent? I clasp my hands and beg repent.

But I have a little problem with my memory these days.

A whispered prayer, a bead of sweat.

It seems to have gained a life of itself and wants to break

Crows abandon and I forget.

free. And journey outwards on its own. Free of barriers, any confines.

Forget

That held it back, kept it contained, held it safe, inside of me. Into my bedroom every night. Searching for ravens out of sight.

It is headed out west.

Hope for tomorrow, place my bet.

Seeking an adventure.

And I forget that I forget.

Leaving me half undressed. Staring in the mirror.

Forget

Dispossessed, unexpressed.

I dread my stairway every night.

Professionals tell me short term memory will not return.

Pass by the mirrors dreadful sight.

A ticket for one. Any journey back is a two-way burn.

Try to remember my regret.

So, all the best, I wish it well.

Every step I forget. Forget.

I carry on and fare thee well. Along the lost highway to a dusty one-room motel.

Forget And lay upon the bed. I played my hand and lost my bet.

Thoughts fading from my head.

Lost deep in thought, my mind beset.

Was it an old trinket?

I sit so still deep in my chair.

Or novel that I lost?

The reasons why, I did forget. I know there was a cost. Forget.

I want to tell you.

Forget.

Something precious ...

Remember.

ABOUT THE POEMS: "'Gripping Tightly' and 'Something Missing' were written during the height of my blackouts, and were formed from notes I made in my notebook, and conversations with family members, upon the onset of each episode."

THE MYRIAD, MISCELLANEOUS AND MITIGATING Douglas Colston Cross-generational trauma visited upon young

and losing an inheritance to a swindling relative

children,

aided-and-abetted by corrupt lawyers and

being smothered in bed by a father unable to calm

accountants.

a toddler, finding that rifle – broken down – in the crawl space

Maybe losing half-a-million here and half-a-million

under the home’s flooring,

there

vilification and harassment (for the ‘sins of the

need not have mattered –

father’) at every level of education,

and the same could be said for fruitlessly seeking

good grades never enough for a flawed patriarch,

help for a child

joyful playing of music met by disapproving silence

sliding into childhood and adolescent mental illness

and withdrawal,

while tangle of Family Court and Child & Youth

discovering grandmother overdosed in the spare

Mental Health services

bedroom,

and the loss of one’s own career, employment, social

defending mother during violence from father and

support and physical health …

conforting her afterwards and

and who’s to say that it did?

repeated exposure to porn throughout childhood … a strong mind and body – and no drinking or drugs

Somewhere along the way, however,

– seemed to be protective factors

the joie de vivre can disappear from everyday life

until that was no longer the case.

to be replaced by a melancholy, sadness and neutrality

Without noticing – at first – things unravelled

that mimics exhaustion incarnate.

in concert with increasing exposure to violence and other existential threats,

What helps will depend on the individual –

the breakdown of social supports and relationships

and for some, nothing will really work …

and

but there is still ‘doing the best that can be done in

terminal diagnoses confirmed for both parents.

the moment’, being present and supportive for any children or

The first signs might emerge as an increasingly

partner that remain in contact

brittle response to stress,

and seeking to stop the rot of generational trauma.

restless sleep punctuated by deeply disturbing nightmares and involuntary shaking. Perhaps training in Psychology could also mitigate against decline – after all, functioning (of a sort) may continue through contributing to the palliation of both parents, holding their hands as they died after having previously explained to them what “There’s no other options for treatment” meant when spoken by their specialists, trying to protect a child from sexual and physical abuse perpetrated by the other parent after a contentious breakup.

COME IN PEACE OR LEAVE IN PIECES Terri Rose Jertson I used to think that no one wanted to hear what I had to say birthed by years of my parents telling me to shut up and be quiet I used to think that the last thing anyone wanted to hear was my voice pointing out any flaws in the system... the system that systematically dismantled our entire family I can’t remember a time when my parents seemed happy the fighting was endless, and it was crazy it drove me out of there searching for my own sanity searching for my dream. I thought I knew what I wanted but all I wanted was peace and love. I didn’t realize that those two things would never be found outside of myself until 59 years later praying for another go round running out of time frantically searching for another quarter to win lighting up this pinball machine life.

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem is a recollection and a revelation of my formative years growing up with parents that were constantly battling. It was the journey of learning to find my own voice amidst the screaming. It's about finding peace within myself, as an adult, overcoming the feelings of helplessness as a child, and coming to terms with my own mortality."

MY NEW REALITY Denise Mand I had to turn the light switch on and off three times and change my outfit twice to prevent something horrible from happening that I knew would never come true. But odder still, I woke up one day and found myself in a world that was strange and new ... My emotions have gone numb; everything looks so surreal, I'm starting to question if I am even real. This new place that I am in, it feels me with fear, I'm starting to worry I may disappear. Yes, I know I am still here, I know I am still real, but what does it matter when you forgot how to feel? OCD and Depersonalization is what I have been told it is called. OCD and Depersonalization, it has a high cost...my life, my identity, my everything I lost.

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem was written about the onset of my OCD at the age of 13, which surfaced in the form of intrusive thoughts resulting in my having to perform daily rituals, later to be followed by Depersonalization, at the age of 16; a disorder in which those inflicted experience an overwhelming and persistent sense of detachment from reality and oneself, as well as emotional numbness, that leaves you to feel as though you are living your life in a dream-like state. What I hope is that for anyone who reads this, and feels the same way, to know that though it changes you as a person, with time it does get better, and as isolated as you may feel, to know you are not alone."

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