Three poems by Henry Bladon

 

the demon on my back

the demon on my back
calls it a hug.

he says:
you don’t know me yet,
but you will.

we will be friends,
you and me.

 

(Image is Untitled, by Dutch artist, Marcel Herms.
marcelherms.nl)

 

Serotonin

Flood in, flood in, create the happy tide.
You expect me to believe.
But listen to this:
Over two hundred neurotransmitters
carrying messages, feelings and memories
yet nothing to measure them by.

Now try and tell me you know why
when all you have is theory

 

The ‘serotonin theory’ suggests that depression is caused by a lack of the neurochemical substance serotonin. Although widely quoted as fact, it remains a hypothesis, and one for which there is no direct evidence.

(Image is Homeboy, by Dutch artist, Marcel Herms. marcelherms.nl)

 

Psychobabble and Snake Oil (An ABBA Poem)

The medics think this is magical stuff
the secret of curing the brain
try one, try another and try again
because sometimes one’s not enough.

Psychotherapists talk and promise much
but don’t know which way to take
their words are deep but their promises fake
their ideas just straws they clutch.

..

Henry Bladon is based in Somerset in the UK. He is a writer of short fiction and poetry and teaches creative writing for therapeutic purposes. He has degrees in psychology and mental health policy, and a PhD in literature and creative writing. He frequently writes commentary about mental health issues and his literary work can be seen in O:JA&L, Tuck Magazine, Mercurial Stories, The Ekphrastic Review, and Spillwords Press, among other places.

Gangster Reality, by Rang-Zeb Rango Hussain

In the end,
After the cars and girls,
and the bling-a-bling bling,
..
Alone,
You gangsters always die alone,
Knifed or shot, souls draining into gutters,
..
Kingpin of nothing,
An empire of blood and bones,
A wasted life and dead dreams,
..
Knives and guns, sharps words too,
The tools of cheap cowards,
No honour, no dignity,
..
You worship a false crown,
The reality is you are a slave,
A slave of death,
..
In the end,
Death will tear apart your kingdom,
Make your choice before the hour grows cold.

A Prayer Before the Kiss of Night, by Rang-Zeb Rango Hussain

Talk to the children before the fall of night,
Inspire them to put away the blades,
..
Teach them the way of the ink,
Let them play with the paint of life,
..
These are your jewels,
Do not let them be consumed by darkness.

 

Holocaust Memorial Day collaborations by Sonja Benskin Mesher and Reuben Woolley

https://sonja-reuben.weebly.com/holocaust

.bom.2. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

bombs/

 

sounds rather current

 

except this guy got caught

before the damage

 

i have just been advised/

 

he had hoped to be interred at

coventry cathedral

 

except

he was not sure if it existed yet

 

then

 

it was decided to cut him up to kill him

put his head on a spike

up his neck/

 

that was bombed too

coventry cathedral/

 

bombs are nasty things/

seriously

.dead soldjer 4 – fusilier. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

.dead soldjer 3. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

.dead soldjer 2. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

.dead soldjer. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

.not for sale. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

critical.  some things are not for sale.

 

you see.

it is

not about money

nor gain.

 

critical. heard things

you disliked.     they

saved your life

didn’t                they?

 

critical and        difficult

on all sides.       it is not

a competition, we shall

not paint it white.   the

 

upper rooms.

 

.security. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

bless thee and paste the words.

literally.

oxblood does not offend me,                   unlike

your rantings, protestations.;  words continue.

 

sweat

beads.

 

bless thee, pray your maggots

leave.

 

while we pick out the remains.

 

days continue with                       blessings

while the thoughts that this is not personal

are failing.

 

so i will continue to raise tickets on your befalf

 

&

 

bless thee.

.the visit. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

blessings on your   house,

those who kill your sisters.

 

result.                cathedral.

broken.

 

repaired.

 

it is not as you would think, sir. it is

factual.

 

blessings on your house, those that

reside there.

 

ignore reality.

 

ignore the fact.

#shelteredlives

.tidy. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i use you.

blind you, hash tag

nagasaki.

 

you had a clean shirt

ready for after the bomb fell.

 

 

 

was pushed.

 

sbm.

.the war house. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

dug within for strength, without for vegetables.

 

tidy allotments  for food. primroses came by post; my father.

 

war was declared before me.

 

they said that some hid in outside toilets to avoid the bombs. there were hits in bournemouth.

 

some dads dug deep for shelter in the garden.  anderson, half buried.  flower beds planted with veg.

 

peace times, families stored their potatoes , rather than waste. rationing continued.

 

i remember the implications, was told the facts later.

 

much later.

 

the war house & after.

 

now

 

we dig within for solidity, solidarity, power to continue.  food is plenty.

 

in wales find they grew potatoes here. i have a          photograph.

 

I still hide under tables.

.white feathers. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i dream i dream of porcupines.

 

white feathers dipped in blood.

 

bloody mess  wars,

bodies rotting  there.             there

are   thoughts while stitching that

this could save the world.

 

a quiet thing. no injuries, the blood

comes small in useful            drops.

drops down,      meditative sound.

 

white feathers fall.

 

porcupines.

.grubby cars. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i did not know when you started.

 

talking.

 

about the socks,      how

they are not made to last.

 

about those you were wearing

for five years.    i did not wish

to see your leg    sir.

 

about the chamois leathers, how

we used to have more variety.

 

which brought him to talk

about hand car wash. by

foreigners. his words not

mine.

insisted that they deliberately

scratch the cars, then turn their guns,

these foreigners. his words not mine.

 

i left, i am not paid to listen to  your racist

remarks sir.

 

i am paid to weave and serve another day.

 

 

 

he left without buying.

.diagnosis. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

look at the actor,acting that the arms hurts

to help with self diagnosis.

 

it will be ok if we have paper to write

on.

 

wait for news of those that are dying, have died

of fire.

 

we may still have paper.

to draw on.

 

read the news and watch the radio, we can keep

up to date through the publications

if they have paper to print on.

 

numbers rise,

high rise.

For them all by Rang-Zeb Rango Hussain

For the Refugees who have lost their all,
For the Homeless who are abandoned,
For the Forsaken who have no one,
For the Voiceless who go unheard,
For the Loveless who grieve for trust,
For the Dead who perished in poverty’s fire,
For the Orphans who dream no more,
For the Betrayed who died far from home,
For Humanity in a time of mass poison.

. turk’s head lilies . by Sonja Benskin Mesher

grow naturally here. it is a wild garden

not as big as yours.          surrounds me.

 

i like the colour amongst the green, while

having no photo again.i say cut me quick

stab me clean.

 

there are no razors , only scissors.

 

here.  -}

#chestercathedral by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i come to you each month to leave a prayer to be said. i have no faith yet live in hope. #chestercathedral

 

look at mosaics, oh absalom, my son, my son.

wonder where the justice is. i come to think on things. each time i am challenged as to my reasons, & do i have a ticket?

#chestercathedral

it is enough to put some off from visiting at all. only the brave. thank you.

#chestercathedral

 

pray for them, all is in disorder.