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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
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Forever Searching

Search the walls Scan the corridors Express the highs Scribble the lows Writing explores The state of my mind.   Judith  
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Let Me Play

Children at play filled with innocence, Trees in the playground where they hide. Running, shouting no cares in the world, Waves of freedom flows higher than the tide. In that playground stands a child all alone, Fraught with sadness, with nobody to play. His dejection surges as his tears threaten, Just wishing a shrill of a whistle would end the day. Being so alone is a solitary game, Thoughts of “what have I done” The shrills and screams of play, Ending a game for those that won. Standing all alone playtime is long, Children running all unaware, He stands still alone, Envy and sadness, he stands just to stare. Sheridan
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So Much Yellow

There’s gorse, of course and sometimes broom, the lichens yellow on the tomb and every churchyard has its fill of lovely yellow daffodils. There’s dandelions and celandine and yellow primrose, I suppose, and fluffy yellow chicks are born and yellow toads from slippery spawn. And green is seen on every lawn, at April’s end the woods turn blue and tulips bloom in pink and red with drooping leaves in every bed but yellow bellows all around: spring’s mating call, a joyful sound. Julia Duke
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Jungle Walk, Henstead Exotic Garden, Suffolk.

Broad-leaved trees, spreading palms, fingers outstretched, shield me from the sun’s heat. Beneath a green umbrella’s shade, the perfect spot on a blistering summer’s day, so cool, serene. Round, fluted lily pads rest flat on inky waters where golden fish glide, finding refuge in silence. A tiny oasis, place of shelter enfolding, embracing me within its safe circumference. Julia Duke
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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
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Oak Meadow

B anished by force are warmth and sunlight Where we scratch and hack in the undergrowth. Nature’s front line is well entrenched here, In-grown and wiry with brambles and brash. Ages running wild, seeding and shooting At will, snagging, choking and smothering Have toughened her. In self-strangling struggle She scrabbles and claws her resistance – A tortuous mesh of trip-lines, barbs for skin And slips for boots in the mush underfoot. Old, alone and confused, like a geriatric tramp She bristles in layers of shredded sacking. Let’s tease out her bits, put to the burning Barrow-loads of combings; rake up the mess On her breast, sticky with burrs and briars; Open her up to the sun, re-stitch her Seams in woven hedgerows, with patches of Flowers fight back the years. Waken Beauty, Give bees and butterflies her face to love And we too will grow young with the work. Julian Case
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Love Poem To Myself

Yes, I can, I surely can. Reminding myself that I always have and always will. No need to worry, no need to fret, no need to bite my nails, nor lie awake, nor forget, in clammy doubt wasting sleep-time on negative imaginings. I make positive probabilities more certain and real. I am calm, I am kind, I am fun, brave and generous too. Smiling more than most I see the good in everything you do. Deep breathing with a cheerful heart, I’ll fight your corner, feel your pain, make you laugh. I am a ‘doer’, a helper, a friend. I align my thoughts to health. I let go and I love, dancing in rain and on the edge of a cliff. Silence is better than to deliver a curse, I like to smile and to listen. Encouraging others to be the best that they can be. I am a mender, a maker of things and I am mindful of my consumption. I plant trees, sing songs, make tea and play simply and fairly. I will be as I am the intuitive, the sorter, the lover of life, the mender of minds, the ideas person, the performer, th...
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Hidden Behind Plastic Shields and Masks

Hidden behind plastic shields and masks they smile at me but only with their eyes, there is love in each iris, lash and wrinkle wink. Who silently steps in the space between being neither here nor there? He watches her laboured breathing as tubes that had filled her lungs with life are now removed. I’ve breathed in and out without a thought for sixty-seven years but not now, I needed a machine but not anymore. Alone now and strangely calm - this is how it ends, the final cut. He looked at her gravely and slides beside her under covers of night. I feel his presence as a chill - wintery, I’m not dressed for this journey. A lantern held aloft in the forest of firs underfoot pine needles and snow the smell of resin and the crack of footfalls on icy ground. He smiles and I find myself smiling back a new doctor without a mask, weary eyes that have seen this all before and see too much I am weightless as a white feather drifting skyward. Ian Hartley
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Tang Yellows and Sung Blues

Beneath the dome of autumnal beech amber hues and jasper green tang-yellow leaves. The sung blue-grey sky and speckled shade on the tender crisp-lined track. Egyptian buff-brown Vigorous and stout trunks Lengthening skyward. Stephanie
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