Skip to main content

Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished,
a deceiving here-and-there fluidity
and the flat statement of stubborn water.
Occasionally trackside trees are stranded,
littered in swirling pools
that soundlessly disappear.
On the horizon,
tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum
neatly screened with its avenue of trees.
The people are hidden beyond the town,
their tears reaching as far as the railway lines.
The train navigates the flood’s edge
like logic escaping emotion,
trim engineering escaping danger,
holding firmly onto the rails.

(Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway)

Pat Jourdan

Currently Popular Poems:

Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess

Abbey Stones

Laboured stones Rough stones Stones of dismay Honest stones Pocketed stones Hidden stones Fractured stones Unstable stones Foundation stones Clumsy stones Ancient stones Split stones Abbey stones Stephanie

From one frog to humans, or 'Go dig a Pond'

Burnt summer, Another hot summer Without a drop of water I wait It’s only June. With ochre hives And forgotten tones Of emerald green Parched fields and thorny hegderows. A dead speckled wood I’d rather eat fresh Is on the menu today, tomorrow unknown. A bleak summer ahead, Our long forgotten cousins Creep steathily unseen Waiting silently for clouds. A buttercup-yellow Marsh marigold forest Croaked from Floating reeds and choked crispy chickweed. Andrew Toms

To Shed My Youthful Skin

To Survive Against at the odds of secure authorities And recognised establishments. I shed my youthful skin. I Thrive Against the odds I flourish and prosper Desolate and torn by institutions. The arrogance of the untouchables. Anon.

Wind Rush

With wind rushing through the reeds I close my eyes I feel the breeze on my cheeks and take a deep breath in. I hear the grebe calling across the water. I breathe out deeply; The warm day has brought spring birds whistling from their canopies. I open my eyes I smell the freshness through my nostrils. The swan glides past smoothly, unaware of myself. The comfort of nature surrounds me.  Melanie  

Lockdown My Gran

Behind the window, my gran she clasps onto life in the home with hugs unknown. I peer through the glass, inside she despairs the care assistant stares I think I swear. *****y covid-19 and plastic screens daily visits with my mask and wall of glass. Gran looks paler, the care home her jailor I can't say I love you but kisses I blew. I visited again, on Sunday morning until her death and last gasped breath. No chance to say goodbye, In the bed she did die Undignified end for gran my best friend. I think 'gran' every day, thoughts in my head It's helpful I find to write down my mind.  Susie

In Her Hands

April sunshine, river-watching: mud-mounds glisten, softness surrendering to shallow water’s imperceptible infiltration within the shifting world of tidal exchanges. Water slips, silent, deepening, bubbles rise from submerging places as if small creatures were emerging - mud and air in intimate conversation. Water seeps, creeps over lunar landscapes, silently leaks, sneaks under wooden jetties, a mud-bound world of weedy edges, ropes and fences. Dinghies up-turned old boats tethered in this liminal land, paint peeling, halyards tapping, tarpaulins flapping, dirty hulls ripple-patterned. Boats will float when waters rise, but when the vagaries of temperature and tide swell the river and take the land, the river will have the upper hand. Our ownership and human plans, the little boats upon the grassy strand, the places where we live and love and hope, will pass into history, become photographs of the past. The wheel is turning. As the neutral fingers of the river find their way through ...

Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke

The Pandemic

Unprecedented Unprecedented Unprecedented Present distress repeated, repeated recent disease breathed present unprecedented, sent in coughs. Cough, cough, cough. This disease sent on the air. Cough, cough, cough. Unprecedented present breathed in unprecedented disease breathed out unprecedented hand-washing unprecedented deaths dent the present. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe out. Dented breathing. Cough. Present deaths unprecedented. Enough. Too many deaths. Too many people. Too many families. This time Covid19. Another SARS disease present. Unprecedented but not unexpected 2020. Sue  Foster

Bones on the Shore

We walk the shoreline down in that dark dip at year’s end, while life’s still slumbering. The beach is a graveyard. We clamber, beneath ominous skies, through cathedrals of bones. Beached giants, prone on the sand, gaunt skeletons, arms uplifted, feet still reluctant to leave. In the lifetime of my children, these dinosaurs, these mighty oaks have fallen, their forms sculpted by time and weather, yet even in death they hold such power. They lie, steadfast as ever, awesome, majestic, statuesque, garlanded with gifts from the river: soft green fronds, little crabs, bladder wrack decorating their fingers. For centuries they stood strong, hearing the river’s song: ebb, flow, winter, spring, tide and moon rising, falling, curlew calling, calling. We will walk the shorelines at that bright time of new beginnings, now we are awakening. Jan Armstrong Photo by Daniel Lincoln via Unsplash