The Truth – Marc McCann

Lonely as a scarecrow

I began writing a few years ago as a hobby. I find writing poetry to be a positive, creative outlet for my thoughts and feelings. My work has never been previously published in books or journals. I do occasionally share poems on social media.

The Truth

More honest than winter
Night skies tell no lies
Judgement comes regardless
My lies are white

More deadly than ether
Lonely as a scarecrow
Nighttime leaves slowly
My heart is black

More promise than sunshine
Broken hearts, fractured minds
Older than enzymes
My hope is yellow

More real than children’s eyes
medicated, traumatized
Oceans swell with people lie’s
My blood is crimson

Marc McCann

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Left Behind – Jaydene Ming

Will he ever find his way back?

My name is Jaydene Ming. I am 17 year old college student currently studying English literature, law and sociology. I have aspirations to further study English at a university level. Hopefully you enjoy this poem as this is the first I have written.

Left behind
By Jaydene Ming

Happiness is a hopeful fantasy.
You can’t truly be happy.
If you can why doesn’t it last?
But to be sad it permeates throughout my life like a blanket of ice.

Disconnecting me from the world
I no longer belong for I am broken.

–
There were once ‘men’ I knew
Perhaps my father or my lover.
They both left me. Lonely.
There once profound presence haunts me In that translucent whiskey bottle.
In that smoke from that death machine. I can’t escape this sorrow.
For I am broken.

–
Once filled with light, filled with dark.
I am dim , no longer a spark.
For I am broken by the mischief
Which resided within there heart.
These deceivers have made me a receiver. Yes, indeed now I am a non-believer.
Can I be fixed?

–
I reminisce over the past and it’s unfulfilled promises.
My soul has been taken twice by them. The first time:
It went from Daddy’s little girl
To the girl with the daddy issues. Now A permanent residence of nothingness Tucks me under the covers.

–

Surrounded by this beckoning darkness,
Will he ever find his way back?
Arrived here is nighttime but no one to greet it with once favoured fairytales as that man is gone. Never to return.
Leaving me open to succumb to the reality and the nightmares of this world.
Death is the fate of my innocence for I am broken.

–
The second time:
Battered by the harsh reality of tragedy
An outlet of escape was what I was searching for. Now I can say my hearts mission was completed.
That void was now temporarily filled by a sense of security through his big arms.
He was my healer. Never to last.
Slowly but surely unwrapping me of his
Protection I became poorly.
I didn’t realise but
I was getting replaced by another.
Will I recover for now I always wear a cover.
A facade of sorts I carry to bare a shield
Of indestructible concealed emotions.
Defeated. Now I am truly broken.

Jaydene Ming

Cognitive Conflict – Aleena Romaji

To have loved or lost

My name is Aleena Romaji and I am a final year dental student. I enjoy writing in my spare time and have gotten prizes for coming first, second for poetry competitions at my University in previous years. This, however is a first, I haven’t entered online before and I hope this will be the first of many entries.

Cognitive Conflict

Bickering in my mind these two

Was one good and the other not?

–

Stepping stones hazy with contempt

Broken bridging cleverly amend

–

Forfeit, elusive bare to first

Perfumed ploughs curtly immersed

–

Flickering adornment, a right of passage

Cursing gently towards grand perish

–

To have loved or lost, which on verge brought

Hands instinctively to fiery thought.

Aleena Romaji

Venture – Jan McGeachie

Love and affection grows in every way

Born in North London, lived in Suffolk, Scotland and Yorkshire, I have always loved writing and was first told about Maggies by my husband’s Uncle when the first one opened in Scotland, thinking how I would have welcomed it when I lost both parents within weeks of each other. I submit articles to magazines hoping they will be published but aim one day see my vast array of poetry in print and move closer to volunteer at Newark Air Museum.

Dedicated to my sister Sarah Jane Dalton 8.6.1959 – 11.8.2019

VENTURE

Credit to Maggie’s, that defence we seek

Engaging solace to assist the weak

Consolation awaiting the all clear

There for the very person we hold dear

–

Shock, anger, lets battle, all in the mind

Resenting invasion of the mean kind

That encounter, all having to endure

Mutually live through, waiting for the cure

–

Love and affection grows in every way

Respect, watching endurance every day

Calm, warmth and comfort by showing the light

Supporting those needy, keeping it bright

–

All here united can walk tall with pride

In the knowledge, Maggie’s is on their side

Each journey alone, somehow together

Successful conclusion the endeavour.

(18^th September 2019)

Jan McGeachie

Autumn – Becky Bishop

Vibrant reds and oranges, browns and golden yellows too

I have been writing poetry for about 5 years and have self published a book of ww1/2 themed poems and recently self published a book of over 50 poems for all occasions.

Autumn

After the long, hot days of summer, autumn blows in on the breeze
The leaves change colour, before falling from the trees

Vibrant reds and oranges, browns and golden yellows too
Bold against the greying sky, a spectacular sight to view

The leaves fall to the ground, rustling underfoot
Children splash and jump in puddles, wearing welly boots

Halloween beckons, a time for ghosts and ghouls
Of children collecting sweets, as if they’re precious jewels

A time of spicy aromas and pumpkins glowing bright
Of firework displays and guy fawkes, burned on bonfire night

Horse chestnut trees, make for conker fights
Squirrels bury nuts and acorns, ready for the long cold winter nights

A time for celebrating the harvest, the autumn equinox brings a harvest moon,
Until autumn fades away and crickets chirp their final tunes

©beckybishop

A Far Away Place – Arianne Jones

A trafficked slave, no longer fit to serve

I am Arianne Jones (16) from New Zealand but living in the UK for school. I moved over here on my own, and want to try new things. Here is my poem called “A Far Away Place”. It is about a human trafficking slave and their ‘escape’. This is my one of my first ever poem/writing competition.

A Far Away Place

Arianne Jones

A long journey stands in front of me,

Calling me forth, almost begging me;

Asking me to leave my home,

My life, my worth, my love, my dreams.

Things that were once a prominent part of me.

–

I join.

–

I prepare,

For the torturous conversations that lie ahead,

Everlasting speech,

Forever I will have them alone.

–

Alone.

–

For a single soul will

Never be blessed again with the sight

Of my disarray, my disorder, this imbroglio.

Never again, I promise.

–

I promise.

–

I will cross lava filled cities;

with diamonds that rain down and slice my cheeks,

with my feet dripping candle wax, and my hair ablaze.

I will keep that promise.

–

I will.

–

I will sink to the bottom of the ocean;

With a fired match as my light, and my skin turning 100 years old,

Crumbling, burnishing and face the monsters of the deep.

I will keep that promise.

–

Watch me.

–

I will go into hell, let the fire rush over me;

Slice Beelzebub’s horn off and have the demons

Bite at my feet, and claw me down

I will keep my promise.

–

I promise.

–

Trust me, I won’t break it,

I want it to keep, like in fire I do.

I will do it all to never be seen once more.

To be forgotten,

–

Finally.

–

To be flamed and forgotten.

Forgiven?

A worthy full life shall fall;

To the heavens as my soul is burnt.

This is where my journey is heading,

A heady, mighty descent.

–

One’s free fall.

–

A reduction of my body;

Into a worthless bundle,

No more a burden,

No talisman for the ages.

–

No angel or archangel will keep me

From my destination, my destiny,

And final resting place. It can close;

The door on my face and be happy –

–

That I will hurt no more.

–

Bury me hundred feet down,

Bury me a thousand,

Just burn me.

I beg you.

–

Light the fire and see me rise

from the flames to my rightful place,

and let the angels burst back,

to the heavens.

–

Forget me; Remember me not.

I was me.

An escapee of the torture, an escapee of life,

An escapee of misery and pain.

–

A trafficked slave, no longer fit to serve

–

To be in happiness, an eternity of one.

–

A joyous occasion it must be;

To set me off on this final journey.

To have it welcome me in open arms that wrap around me;

caressing, burning my skin.

–

The fourth degree.

The hider of my scars.

–

The giddy, nauseating smell that overwhelms me before I am welcomed on this journey.

Liquid petrol causes my everlasting delectation.

–

Was I ever sane?

–

One would say those that can keep fighting,

As the ocean pulls them to misery are insane.

–

Or when the words slit their throat,

They run around headless attempting to reattach are insane.

–

People who refuse to ‘give up’;

To the overall power are the insane ones.

I am sane.

It seems I am the only soul that has a body;

That has sanity running through their veins,

Pumping their heart.

–

A normal existence.

–

Rationality is key. Happiness is the lock.

–

So, I continue on my journey,

A hint of self-assurance in my falling soul.

The crackle pop of the journey the surrounds me is loud in my ear

As it drinks the liquid that had once engulfed me.

–

Walking nightmare I am,

or so I am told.

–

I walk my journey.

A journey towards happiness,

Away from my owners.

A timeless love will keep.

–

Forever.

–

And I walk off the edge of the world, never to be thought of again.

I am burnt from this planet.

A memory in ashes.

–

Destroyed.

–

Scattered.

–

Gone.

Arianne Jones

Windfall – Alice Cattley

I can keep seasons like secrets

Alice Cattley is a writer based in Cambridge, where she studied English at university. Her poetry has previously been published by The Cadaverine and read on BBC Radio 3. Since graduating, she has worked as a copywriter and journalist but is now a freelance writer while she works on her first novel.

Windfall

The apple tree has grown old early. Autumn arrives

like a migraine, blazing. I have known this shuddering,

this rain-quake of branches balancing fruit. Soon

the tree will give up its armful and I will gather

apples tender as fingertips, skinning them green

for the pan. It’s always an act of remembrance –

ceremony of cinnamon and ginger, Kilner jars opened

and closed. I can keep seasons like secrets. I have learnt

that hunger tastes of apple prised from pitted hearts.

Alice Cattley

Tourist To The Sun – Virginia Betts

hurtling to the light fantastic

Virginia graduated from Essex University with a degree in Literature, and later gained a postgraduate degree in teaching English. She taught for 15 years, then set up her tuition business, Results Tutoring, where she indulges her passion for literary analysis whilst helping her students to achieve their potential. She is a passionate advocate for neuro-diversity, particularly as she is autistic herself. Alongside this, she writes poetry, articles and stories, making her publishing debut in The Weird and Whatnot, with her short story, The Rented Room. Following this, her poem, An Afternoon Walk, was published in the September 2019 volume of Acumen Literary Journal. The written word creates a visceralsensation in Virginia; poetry is her preferred method of emotional expression and stories often come to her in dreams.Her other obsessions are swimming and violin playing. Virginia is married, with one son, aged 18.

Tourist to the Sun.

Fired-up for take-off,

wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,

I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.

Wing walker without a rope,

hurtling to the light fantastic,

untethered.

First to sign up

to step off the map;

where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;

even the brightest star is already dead.

With outstretched arms I

surrender to the sun,

glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,

into the white-hot core;

white heat devouring sound,

eclipsing time,

searing conscience and

annihilating thought.

Not arrogance that brings me here,

but fear.

The elemental need to fly, unfettered,

to pilot my own craft;

to pierce reality,

and seek the truth behind it,

and, in seeking, half expect to find it.

And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,

negotiate safe water-landings

when at last I am earthbound;

within my hand,

a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story

when I return

scorched and burned.

Virginia Betts

Moonchild – Emily Ash

I’m a second year English student studying at the University of Nottingham. I use lots of music to inspire my poetry- this piece was inspired by Kim Namjoon, a South Korean rapper.

Moonchild

by Emily Ash

does it hurt, moonchild?

it doesn’t anymore, I’m defiled

with positivity and persuasion.

can you survive, my raven?

no, not without pain.

I stand here, sinking in the rain,

drowning in a glass pane,

confidently insane,

and yet for you I must remain.

will you fight, dark knight?

with trees and stars and kites.

I’ll fight with daffodil sprouts

and smiling at the sunshine.

I’ll rally around the lovely,

and wallow in the strange.

I’ll walk amongst the dancing lights,

rub my knuckles along a werewolf’s snout.

Smile at the soft and the serpentine-

what will be left, sweet sorrow?

myself

and the happiness I can ne’er find,

but must excavate slowly from the cracks in my mind.

Emily Ash, Nottingham

Breathe – Kirsten Smith

Life goes on, was what I was taught

My name is Kirsten and I’m currently a third year student studying English Literature at the University of Edinburgh. I’m currently attempting to get some of my work published to improve and put my name out there to benefit any future career after my studies.

Breathe

By Kirsten Smith

I sit and cry,

For I am weak.

My mind is a blizzard,

For I cannot sleep.

–

Left foot, right foot, inhale, exhale,

Left foot, inhale, right foot, exhale

Remember to breathe, remember to walk,

Life goes on, was what I was taught.

–

A shiver permanently elevates,

Along my anxious spine.

The memories that haunt me,

The flashbacks every time

–

I engage in intercourse. And in my sleep.

Still so vivid, still so real.

What I would do to change,

The things I would do to feel

–

Safe, when in close company with another.

The look of pity and anger, enrages on my mother’s face.

Judgemental comments from unsympathetic peers.

I knew deep down I was a disgrace.

–

I entered his cage, blind to the signs,

For I am gullible and naive.

But this man is my friend, right?

Or so I believed.

–

What friend strikes fear to the other’s heart?

Their mind, their soul, their body.

What friend strips all dignity from the other’s autonomy?

And all qualities that they embody.

–

A groping hand weighed down my neck,

Another caressing at my hip.

Conflicting between abuse and love,

Until I felt my jeans unzip.

–

I tell him no, and again and again.

He forces harder, shhh its just practice he said.

I sob to stop, and again and again.

Ignored and blinded, were the tears that I shed.

–

Further again, after slow painful minutes,

I inhaled a deep breath and cried out one last plea,

“Please stop, Im in pain,” though I was ignored,

He claimed that he was almost finished, but I could not see

–

For tears flooded my eyes, a lump chocking my throat.

Alas it was over, I collapsed to the floor.

Legless, I crawled my way up to the shower,

Where I sat drowning in water, numb yet sore.

–

Another deep breath, and up I stood.

I escaped from the cage and all of its terror,

As I walked aimlessly down the high-street,

In the summer’s day weather.

–

It appeared that outside of the cage,

The sun shone warm and bright.

No cloud in the sky, no rain pouring down.

Yet in attempting to breathe, my lungs closed in tight.

–

From here on, I mask a smile, I laugh to cover

The crackle in my voice, the tears slipping down

My cheek as I hold my smile.

I can not appear weak. I must not frown.

–

If only I were a starfish,

So easily mended at the loss of a limb.

Except the reality is, is that I was a child,

Forever cracked, because of him.

–

This inspiration, I questioned.

Who is she?

This inspiration, I questioned.

I realised is me.

As I continued to breathe.

Kirsten Smith – Edinburgh