Three poems by Henry Bladon

Bladon 2


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.

Homeboy - Bladon



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.


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,
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.

Gangster Reality

.bom.2. by Sonja Benskin Mesher



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



he was not sure if it existed yet




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/



.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.


oxblood does not offend me,                   unlike

your rantings, protestations.;  words continue.





bless thee, pray your maggots



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.





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



blessings on your house, those that

reside there.


ignore reality.


ignore the fact.



.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.




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.

war house

.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.



white feathers

.grubby cars. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

i did not know when you started.




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


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.

grubby cars

.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



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.

for them all

#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.


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?

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


pray for them, all is in disorder.