Bright Soaring Jays

Compilation issue: 2023-2024

Dear readers – Welcome

We – service users and staff alike from the Creative Writing Group at the Becklin Centre, invite you to read this compilation issue of Bright Soaring Jays as a taster of the four magazines to date. Previous issues are available on hospital wards across the NHS Leeds/York Partnership Foundation Trust (LYPFT).   

We are proud to share with you that, one year after forming, the Creative Writing Group was Highly Commended in The National Positive Practice in Mental Health Awards in spring 2024. 

We would like to thank the support of Arts and Minds for a grant during autumn 2023 which enabled James McGrath of Leeds Beckett University to run the group. 

Bright Soaring Jays 

Sticks and Stones

by T.C.

Crazy as a box of frogs,
Outcast like a dog,
Nutty as a fruitcake,
Or a Cadbury’s fruit and nut,
Demented, delusional, deranged.
These are the words that cut.

But I have a story tell.

Bonkers, doolally, touched, and insane,
Are the words they use to describe my pain
Bat shit crazy.
They call me lazy.
In the haven of my bed
When I am tired, and sleep is hazy.

But I Have a story to tell.

Mad as a badger
Or the mad hatter
From wonderland.
The men in white coats
Are coming to take you away.
A crisis plan and goals for today
But I have a story to tell.

Have a bath, a walk, a cup of tea.
Avoid the hurt, you pretend not to see.
Refuse to hear, throw away the key.
But I’m still I, and me still me.

The funny farm, nut house, Becklin, bedlam
Can’t accept me as I am.

But I have a story to tell.

It is the last taboo,
For you.
Don’t worry, you won’t catch it
Unless, perhaps your symptoms match it.
They call me names, sticks and stones.
Locked up in jail far from home.

But I have story to tell.

If I trust you with my feelings
Will I start believing
Who I am?
When you stay quiet and you stay near,
And witness the twisting knife of fear.
Only when I start to heal.
And jump off the hamster wheel.
That turns round and round.
When you hold my words with out a sound.

And hear the story I have to tell.

COMPLICATED

By C. L. S. (Issue 4)

Can’t concentrate
On that note I’ve got ADHD
My goal in life is to become successful
People misjudge me,
Leave me out
I am brave,
Conquered my struggles
Achieving everything possible
Taking my time in recovery
Everyone please understand
Don’t judge me, please reach out your hand

The Big Jump

by P. H. (Issue 1)

That’s the bell ringing. One, two, three.  Three rings for hometime. Miss Watson tells us to put our things away. Quietly. Then to put our chairs upside down on our desks. Our desks are small, almost toy size. They’re for small people. Small people, like us, in year one of school. My brother has a larger desk. He’s bigger than me and is now in year 4.  I can’t wait to grow as big as my brother.  Our teacher, Miss Watson, has blonde hair, blue eyes and a big smile.  A smile as big as the sky. Some of her teeth are brown.  You don’t want to, but you can’t help gazing at them. She says she was hit in the face with a hockey stick when she was playing hockey. Some of her teeth were knocked out. She was told to pick them up off the floor, then they were cleaned in milk, then she put them back in her mouth. She’s very brave.

Miss Watson helps us to do many things. Some of my favorite things are learning to paint houses in gardens with trees and flowers. She helps us to count the number of ducks on a page. Then add the number of ducks together on two pages. Sometimes she lets us sit on the floor in front of her while she reads a story. Today she read a story about three bears. My mum read the same one only last week. I told my mum that the girl and baby bear could have been friends if she hadn’t run away so quickly.  My mum pointed out that I would have run away if talking bears had woken me up. I laughed at that.  My mum always makes me laugh and happy. Except after school on Wednesdays. Miss Watson had taught us that today was the 14th May.  A Wednesday.

We are now taken, in single file, to the cloakroom. We have to change from our indoor shoes to our outdoor shoes. My indoor shoes are black pumps.  My outdoor shoes are black leather.  Both indoor and outdoor shoes are slip-on. No laces. I can’t tie laces yet.  Miss Watson says you’re not allowed to have lace up shoes if you can’t tie them yourself. She says it would take her far too long to tie up twenty five pairs of shoes.  That’s fifty shoes in total.  I keep trying to tie my laces.  I’m able to make the first loop but then when I attempt to put the other end of the lace round the bottom of the loop, everything falls apart. My friend Jack can tie his laces. He has lace-up indoor shoes. He tells me that only babies can’t tie their laces. That makes me feel sad. He’s mean. I’m going to call him Meany.  “Practice makes perfect ”. That’s what my mum always says. I’m supposed to keep practicing, which is fine, but I’d much rather play with my train set.

Part 2 – The arrival

We are now in the car.  I have a special chair-on-a-chair.  It’s called a booster seat.  It helps me to see out of the windows of the car as we travel along.  Sometimes mum and I play games like ‘count the red buses’. I usually win by counting more buses than my mum. I sometimes cheat, but I don’t tell my mum that. We didn’t play a game on this journey.  Not today. Today is Wednesday. I’m getting butterflies in my stomach. Wish today was Tuesday or Thursday. Better it was Thursday because Wednesday would have been and gone. I wouldn’t have to do Wednesday again.

The sky is clear blue. No clouds. I can see the white smoke trails kicked out by aircraft flying lucky people on holiday. They look a little like clouds.  Long, white, fluffy, straight clouds. Mum flicked a switch next to the steering wheel. A light started to flick on and off in tandem with the sound of “tick-tock, tick-tock”.  The car started to slow. My butterflies were getting more angry in my tummy. They were darting from one side to the other.  I wish today was Thursday.

As mum started to turn the car into the car park I could see we had arrived. There is a large, white rectangular sign displaying three blue wavy lines across the bottom, from left to right. Then a blue shape of someone swimming. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl.  But they are wearing a blue swimming cap like the kind I wear. Only mine is white. Mum said she bought the white cap so she could make out it was me from the distance of the seating area in the swimming pool. Only problem with that is that everyone else wears white swimming caps for the same reason.

We drove into the car park. It wasn’t full but nor was it empty. There are usually several different groups in the swimming pool on a Wednesday. The group I’m in is for beginners.  I’m one of usually three of four other children about my age. Mum found a parking spot. She likes to find one away from other cars if possible. It stops others from putting a dent in the doors of our car. She usually parks as far away from the other cars as possible because, as mum says,

“People are lazy and want to park as close to the entrance as possible.”

Which is true.  There are far more cars huddled together the closer you get to the swimming pool entrance.

During our swimming lesson last week we were practicing putting our faces in the water. I didn’t like it. It makes me feel like I want to breathe but can’t. If I try to breathe when my face is in the water I would breathe in water. Not air. I gulped some water by accident the other week and it made me cough. I coughed so much I couldn’t breath air in for what seemed ages. Why would they ask us to put our faces in water? Trevor, our swimming teacher, told us that this week we would be jumping in from the side. He said not to worry as he would be there to help us. Jumping in from the side is much worse than just putting your face in the water. Your whole body and head would be under water.  What if I jump in and try to breathe?  I would drown. Trevor told us “everything would be OK.”

I didn’t believe him.

Mum tried to reassure me.  “If you accidentally fall into a swimming pool you will be used to having your face under water.  You won’t panic. You’ll be able to swim safely to the side.”

I didn’t believe her.

Part 3 – The Jump

The car came to a standstill. Mum applied the handbrake and took it out of gear. I released my seatbelt, pulled the door lever and pushed the door as hard as I could to open it. The door flung all the way open. No other cars nearby to dent. Mum grabbed my swimming bag from the back seat and exited the car in a more tranquil way. “One of these days that door is going to fall off its hinges if you push any harder.” Mums always telling me to be more careful. I do try, I just forget.

The swimming pool building was single story but very tall. I guess it was to make room for the high diving boards. Mum has told me to never try to walk up the concrete steps to the high diving boards. “It’s very dangerous.” No need to tell me that. No way would I want to climb as high as that. I sometimes climb the small steps in the kitchen to get something off the worktop.  That’s high enough for me. There’s a row of windows just below the flat, asphalt roof of the swimming pool. The windows can be opened from the inside using rotary levers which can be reached from the ground.

With every footstep closing the distance between me and the swimming pool my butterflies are darting around even more aggressively. They almost hurt my tummy. Why would mum do this to me? She could see I wasn’t happy. That I was upset.  Mum’s can sense that kind of thing. She tried to reassure me.   “Everything would be OK. “

I didn’t believe her.

We were close to the two double doors. One set for entering, the other for exiting the building. The external walls were cladded in wood. It had been stained a dark brown and then varnished. The closer we got the more gross it looked. Some of the varnish was peeling.  It looked just like a man who had gotten sunburn when we were on holiday in Spain last summer. He had stayed in the sun far too long. This made his skin turn red.  The next day his skin had blistered and was peeling off. He must have been in agony. Maybe the wood cladding had gotten sunburn in just the same way and was now blistering and peeling like the man on holiday. I hope the cladding wasn’t in pain like the man on holiday.

The double doors were made of wood and painted and varnished the same as the wood cladding. Large glazed windows took up large areas of the top and bottom of the doors. I could see thin lines of green wire making small squares inside the glass.  Apparently it’s for security. The wire helps to stop anyone breaking into the swimming pool when it’s closed.  As we approached, the doors opened inwards automatically on their hinges. Sometimes I like to go back outside using the other double doors and come back in just to make the doors open up again. The lady behind the reception tells me to “STOP DOING THAT”, in her sternest voice. So I stop.

Mum paid the lady for the lesson and handed me a large, blue rubber band. I had to wear it on my ankle. Larger people wear them on their wrists. My hands are too small. It would fall off in the water. I can’t wait to be bigger so that I can wear the band on my wrist too.

It started to hit me again. I started to look for somewhere I could hide. Maybe I could run outside and hide behind the cars that were clustered closely together near the entrance. I can’t jump into the water.  Best case I could take in water and cough like I did last time. I couldn’t breathe. Mum could see me slowing down so she grabbed my hand. We went through the chrome turnstiles together. We had to wait a minute before the lady behind the reception was free to press the button. Once through the turnstile the realisation hit me.  It was too late to get out of this ordeal. I was locked inside the swimming pool building. Nowhere to hide or run. I could feel myself starting to sweat. Even though it was a cold winter’s day. My breathing was more rapid. I was feeling nausea and the angry butterflies in my tummy were continuing to get worse.

We went into the boys changing room. It was cold and damp. The floor and halfway up the walls were covered in brown ceramic tiles. Water puddled in places where I was supposed to get changed. A row of old benches were fixed to the walls with hooks for our clothes hanging too far off the ground for me to reach. A row of metal lockers took up the far wall. My mum had a pound coin to use to lock the door and take the key.

Mum helped me to get changed into my swimming trunks. It was a little embarrassing as other mums were in the changing room helping their children change. Mum bundled up my clothes, and placed them in an empty locker.  She then inserted the pound coin in the slot, locked the door and put the key in her coat pocket. I then put the blue rubber band over my foot and onto my ankle. Mum told me to go through the opening which led to the swimming pool. To get through to the pool a shallow foot pool had to be negotiated. This was full of cold water that would disinfect my feet. Not only that, but shower heads sprinkled water over your head and body at the same time. It too was cold. The only way to do this was fast. As quickly as possible. I need to count to three then dash through.

One.

Two. Ready!

Three.

I ran through the foot pool and shower as quickly as I could. I still ended up wet. It was no warmer in the main swimming pool.   Being wet made it much worse. Trevor was waiting for me and called me across. We were using the shallow end of the pool. The room smelt of bleach. It’s something they put in the water to make it clean. Mum tells me that some people even wee in the pool. I haven’t told her I have. I couldn’t help it. It’s cold in the water. Standing with Trevor was my friend Meany and a girl.  She was the same age as me but tall and lanky. She must be six inches taller than me. She has ginger, red hair and freckles all over her face, shoulders and arms.  I think I’ll call her Freckles.

Freckles, Meany and I stood next to Trevor.  Wet, cold, goose bumps over our bodies as we shivered. Trevor told us to get in the water to warm up. We had to put our faces in the water for the count of five. We all managed to do that.  Freckles was the best, keeping her face in the water for the count of ten. Meany was second with a count of seven. I only manage five. But that was what was asked for. That’s a win for me. The water was cold. We were not warming up in the water.

Trevor instructed us to get out of the water. Which we did. We didn’t use the steps. We put our arms on the side and lifted one leg onto the side then the other. Meany almost managed to jump out. Maybe I’ll try that next time. Trevor asked us to line up next to the pool. Then curl our toes over the edge of the pool. Careful not to fall in. We all did this. I looked up and saw mum. I waved but she had her face looking at her smartphone.  No surprise there.

Trevor climbed into the water. He explained that we were to jump into the water feet first. Take a deep breath and hold it before jumping in. Once in the water, kick our feet to come to the surface. Once there we should climb back onto the side.

I was shaking more now. Not because of the cold, but fear. I was feeling a little dizzy, disorientated. And of course the butterflies were getting worse. I stood at one end, then Freckles in the middle and Meany stood at the other end. Who was Travor going to ask to go first? Not me. Please not me. Anyone but me.

“Ok Jack. Are you ready to go first?”

Jack replied, “Yes please.”

“I’m going to count to three then jump in. Remember to hold your breath first.”

“ONE, TWO, THREE.”

Meany jumped into the water. I saw him take a deep breath first. His feet hit the water then it was like a hole had opened up on the surface of the water and he sank deeper and deeper until he was completely covered in water. His head was at least six inches from the surface although it was difficult to tell with the distortion the water creates and the waves and bubbles. He started to float to the surface.   His head broke free from the hole in the water first. Then his shoulders and then the rest of him. He climbed out and stood tall. Looking at Trevor, then Freckles , then me. He then looked over where his mum was sitting. She clapped her hands together. Meany was showing off. He had done it and lived to tell the tale.

Next it was Freckles’ turn. Trevor counted One, Two, Three.  As he did so Freckles bent her knees, took a deep breath and jumped.  Because she bent her knees, she flew higher.  She was in the air longer than Meany was. Her knees stayed together but her feet separated like a pair of scissors. Some girls do this when they run. They kick their feet out. It looks a little silly to me. She hit the water harder, making more of a splash than Meany had. A hole in the water opened up allowing her to sink to the bottom. She wasn’t wearing a bathing cap so her ginger, red hair floated to the surface and swayed around in the turbulent water like wheat growing in a farmers field during a storm. Her feet were touching the bottom of the pool. Partly because of the higher jump and partly because she’s tall.  She was able to kick off the bottom allowing her to rocket to the surface and propel herself into the air. She grabbed hold of the side and pulled herself out of the water. She stood up and waved at her mum who clapped and waved back.

Now it is my turn.

“Are you ready?” I was thinking no I’m not.  I’ll never be ready. Just because Meany and Freckles could do this it doesn’t mean I can. OK. Toes curled round the edge. Should I bend my knees as Freckles did?  I would go deeper but my feet would probably touch the floor so I could kick myself up. OK. Knees bent.

One.

Two.

Three Jump.

I couldn’t do it. I froze. Freckles looked at me and said, “Go on. You can do it”. Meany shouted across, “A baby can do this. Just jump”.

I looked across at my mum who had taken her face out of her phone and was now looking at me. Signaling, with a long arch made by her hand and arm, for me to jump in.

“OK this time”. Said Trevor. “I’ll count to three again. This time jump. You’ll be OK”. I have to jump this time. Meany will be mean to me again and probably tell our friends at school.

ONE.

TWO.

THREE.

Moon Tears

by T. (Issue 1)

You cry so loud I can hear you on the moon
He said with the wisdom of a child.
When the dark called my name
And the wind was wild.

I’m both with you
But I’ve gone away.
Your small, sweet presence
Pulls me back to today.

Hope burnt to ash
Sky turned to mud.
Still I fall back to earth
With a heavy thud.

The puppet masters strings
Are cut from above
At my centre he lives,
My nugget of love.

Haiku

by Rob (Issue 1)

It is no secret
Just search inside of yourself
Magic is within.

My Dog Trevor

By P. H. (Issue 1)

Trevor, my German Shepherd, who’s black and tan.
Has big black paws and long shiny hair, just like the perfect friend.
But he can see you!
Why can’t you see him?
That’s a deep, long woof.
The bark resonated by a large K9.
Yes, made by Trevor.
He makes a noise.
Why can’t you hear him?
Telling my BFF that he should push the door too.
Wouldn’t want Trevor to run away.
But Trevor’s not here, he’s in your head.
BFF say’s, maybe it’s time to take your meds and go to bed.
Yes. Stomach churning and thoughts a mess.
Ideas and feelings, like clinging to the ceiling.
Loss of hope, feelings of pain, are they set for eternity?
Please let Trevor be here and not disappear.

Absurd Reality

by Divine (Issue 1)

I walk past myself
Fall into my shadow
‘The abyss of my mind has dried up,
Look where I left off.
Am I making a point?
A full stop as I go into brain freeze

Melt my heart right now
And tell me that this is an absurd reality

A Medallion’s Prize

by Divine (Issue 1)

A medallion’s prize
A loser’s despise
Despite the end of the finishing line
Look up where the sun shines

Will you still stay on the track
If it rains?

Showers of justice prevail
In the abyss of tales

A winner’s fable
I know you are able to win
A medallion’s prize

Grace

By R. F. (Issue 2)

I didn’t expect to expect it
But I once saw Grace Jones
Being brilliant in Boots

I had this vision she’d be
James Bond tall
But she was Kylie size

She sang a song from a box
With a bottle of water and
made a fast fountain in Brixton

Oh Elton just shut up you’re doing my head in

By BSJ (Issue 2)

I used to meet the Queen
when she hung out in Birmingham

at the Ace of Clubs in Leeds
where my mother worked

Waterfoot

By P.M. (Issue 2)

The place where I go to be at peace,
With beach and views and outside lights.
A peaceful spot to pitch a tent,
Shelter from large trees from costal winds.

An expanse of sands to the foot of hills,
A stones throw away from Cushendall.
With tourists, coaches + panache.

On summer days, bustling with day trippers,
While in spring + autumn days peaceful + quiet.

Equestrians take their horses for a stroll along the beach, while
Dog walkers allow their pets free to steal sausages taken from my pan twice.

The place I stayed after deaths + separation, a haven for recovery.
An experience of total freedom, I was never alone.

Voices

By C.S. (Issue 2)

You say the voices
Are in my head
But I believe
they’re real instead

They talk to me
About my day
They help me navigate
When I’ve lost my way

They tell me I’m brilliant
They say I can fly
That I’m superhuman
That there’s no way I’ll die

They compliment me
And tell me I’m great
They build me up
Like my best mate

When I do what they’re asking
They say that they’re proud
But sometimes they’re scary
And incredibly loud

Mostly they’re fun
But sometimes they’re not
And dealing with them
Feels like quite a lot

But what can I do?
They won’t go away
No matter what I do
They’re here to stay

So yes, you may say
that they’re all in my head
But for me,
I know that they’re real instead

The Arts of Storytelling in the Gambia

By E. J. (Issue 2)

The art of storytelling has been an integral part of most African culture for generations and Gambia is not an exception. In the Gambia, after a hard day’s work villagers would gather at night time under the moonlight and listen to stories told by elders. At twilight in our town, one of our elders would gather the kids and start telling us stories before going to bed. I grew up listening to these amazing tales in our, what was then a village. The legends in the stories, myths, tales, riddles, songs, and proverbs rocked my early childhood inspired me to want more, and instilled in me lifelong values and a love for storytelling.

Storytelling takes you on a journey that inspires you to learn about yourself and the world around you. It reflects social values in a culture that motivates people in their pursuit of a meaningful life. The oral tradition of storytelling makes it possible for a culture to pass knowledge, history, and experiences from one generation to the next.

Also, traditional storytelling in Africa reveals ideas, themes, beliefs, and facts that are widely spread. It discloses conceptions that are unique to a tribe, village, or region. It has been manifested in many ways and was used to serve many purposes. It was used to interpret the universe, resolve natural and physical phenomena, teach morals, maintain cultural values, pass on methods of survival, and praise God.

In addition, storytelling in Africa provides entertainment, satisfies the curiosities of the young African people, and teaches important lessons about everyday life. It is essentially a communal participatory experience. In a storytelling setting, both the storyteller and the audience interact and both parties have rights and obligations. Storytelling is a shared event with people sitting together, listening, and participating in accounts of past deeds, beliefs, taboos, and myths. The use of repetition makes the stories easy to understand and recall from memory. When the audience is familiar with the stories, they actively participate as they learn important aspects of their culture.

However, storytelling words, expressions, and traditions are gradually ebbing away amidst the constant infiltration and dominance of the Western world through changes in media consumption habits. In times past, the vehicle for shaping morals, preserving historical achievements, and crucial part of the instruction was through storytelling and oral tradition. Today, paradigms have shifted and gravitated towards modern proclivities. This poses a very real threat to the preservation of indigenous traditions for Gambia and Africa as a continent.

Without a doubt, the Gambia for example, has faced a lot of challenges which has caused many people to question the origin of the changes to the fabric of our morality and indeed our own humanity. Societal ills have been on the increase in the Gambia as moral and morality continues to degenerate with the advent of each new generation. The crime rate has been on the increase and has caused us to think about the possibility of these issues coming at the heels of a broken moral compass. This begs questions to which the use of cultural markers, especially storytelling in instruction and guardianship of the young generation can be vital to the preservation of cultural identities and traditions.

Creating A Poem

By P. H. (Issue 2)

“Write a poem about Creative writing”, he said.
“What is Creative writing”? I said.
It’s art: There’s no right way, just wrong ways..
It’s thoughts: Sandy beaches… Raining frogs… Tatoos.
It’s emotions: Passing tests… Weddings… Pregnancies… Christmas days… Funerals.
It’s the power of words: Bash, she hit him. Bang, he kissed her.
It’s freedom of choice: She loves him. She loves him not. Yes, she loves him.
He said.
“Write a story about swimming”, he said.
I remember memories of when I went swimming.
Memories when I was a child, with my brother, my mother.
When on holiday with blue skys and warm sandy beaches.
When my children had swimming lessons, just as I did as a child.
Cold, scary, fun, wet, the coach.
“Jump in”, he said.
“Write a piece containing defamiliarization”, he said.
“What is it”? I said.
Describe something that’s familiar so it seems unfamiliar or strange.
Wow! This is new to me. Seems too difficult. For me.
A man wears a heavy, very expensive, metal hat and he rules a country.
The hat doesn’t keep the rain off his balding head.
“That’s it. You got it”, he said.
“Join our creative writing group”. He said
Have fun.
Create your own stories and poems.
Share them with others sitting around the table.
Listen to others who share their stories and poems.
The group might even clap to show their appreciation.
Help each other with their problems.
Trevor the dog will be there.
“See you next week”. he said,
“Thank you so very much”. We said, to the sound of applause.

Christmas Day

By S. G. (Issue 3)

Christmas was different back in my day
Neighbours would make egg nog
And mince pie recipes, guarded then passed
Between generations, each one believing
Theirs was the best
And each willing to share with strangers
And friends alike on Christmas eve.

Christmas Day was a more private affair
With Christmas lunch being the main
Meal of the day with the largest turkey
One could buy. Families would sit
Round their tables, all having their fill with plum
For afters with the lucky one
Finding the silver sixpence then everyone
Fall to sleep in the afternoon
Full of food and fit to burst.

Agugu

J. (Issue 3)

We cook blend of pudding
We blend the milk and rice together,
Blend the baoba juice

We give this out, around
to all neighbours
in the Gambian late rain

boats blend into lanterns,
strangers, friends.

We blend the heavy bowls
of Jollof rice
we blend the traditions
from religions, weathers, neighbourhoods

We blend into a disco drink
wine tapped from palm tree
almost free for everybody

All through Mandinko, Kairabee,

Drums blend and rise between houses
Talking drums beat blends.

And this brother is a Christian
And this brother is a Muslim
We blend and bring together
All the quarters of December.

Pippin Tree

By P.H. (Issue 3)

Hello I’m a seed, from the Pippin fruit family.
The fruit I produce are large, green apples
I’m being blown from one field to the next.
It’s high up here.
Flying over fields of corn, fields of potatoes and many more.
Finding myself further and further away from where I started.
Further away from what others like me see.
Further away from what others like me feel.
I’m a seed, from the Pippin fruit family.

I’m a small spout from the Pippin family.
I finally came to rest in a field of young barley seedlings.
The wind and rain helps the soil to cover me. To germinate me.
I start to grow, I’m pushing through the soil.
Feel the sun on my tiny little trunk, on my tiny little branches, on my tiny little leaves.
As I grow the barley grows too.
Taller than me.
The wind pushes on the barley. It sways, gives way to the forces pushing it from side to side.
Barley is fluid in the wind. It doesn’t crack or break, just bends to the wishes of the wind.
I’m a small spout from the Pippin family.

I’m a sapling from the Pippin fruit family
My trunk is more sturdy than barley storks.
Without the protection of my kind I start to bend.
Eventually I stay bent. Like a bow that takes an arrow.
I’m taller than the barley.
The farmer drives his tractor towards me.
He’s going to run me down.
My roots are pulled down deap into the soil.
I can’t move, I really can’t move, no way for me to jump out of the way.
I’m a sapling from the Pippin fruit family.

I’m a rotting log from the Pippin fruit family.
Laying in the field my trunk broken away from my roots.
Now a rotting log.
I remember flying through the sky.
So much excitement.
So many opportunities.
If only I’d landed two metres that way.
My branches would now be full of fruit. Pippin apples.
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’m a rotting log from the Pippin fruit family.

Blow off my leaves, break my branches.

Scribe

J. (Issue 4)

Creative writing can be like exhaling after
you’ve held your breath.
An outlet, be it happy or sad.

How creative writing helps me:
How much of the day do you actually remember?
How many moments in the day can you recount?
Was it the type of day you would write about?

Aristotle said memory is the scribe of the soul.
One day I’ll write a book – but what if I don’t?
Who’s going to know about my exploits
And adventures, happiness and heartbreak?
Who cares?
I care.
You should care about yours too.

Scribe for your soul
Make your story known
Use creative writing for the skills to hone
Because with your written memories
You’ll never be alone

At the Check in

S and G (Issue 4)

Do you see people who aren’t actually there?
How would I know?
S and G

Reasons

By T. H. (Issue 4)

To stay awake
Escape. Pills work
But kill your thoughts.
Write to feel
Write to feel real
And answer the riddle in your head.
To write those words that cannot be said.

A.D.H.D

By C. (Issue 4)

Animals don’t have dandruff.
Apples deliberately have donors.
A day has disability.
Another day has distraction.
A donor has determination.
Ability doesn’t have deliberation
after dinner, hectic discussion.

All day, high density
Appealing dreams, half days.

Anger doesn’t help disorder.
Adverse detention doesn’t help.

Meander

By E. (Issue 4)

A time of year when weather changes
in between the winter and summer seasons
the days stretch longer and nights shrink shorter
the temperature is warmer
and tulips bloom

There is warm wind in the air.
It brings in happiness and joy ensures
spring celebration occurs across
and out of doors as activities bloom
with colourful butterflies
to meander round

RACHEL’S TABLE

All are able
at a seat
at Rachel’s table.

Claret, cheese, real ale,
a treat, a herbal tart.
Let’s taste a tete-a-tete
as teachers reach,
as reachers research searches,
Rachel shares her seashell heart.

Recreate here. Rest
at Rachel’s hearth.
Reset, resettle here.
Relate a tale to salt.
Ease tears.

Lets beat R. Barthes,
let’s tease
at Sartre, tell a theatre,
chase at art.

Let’s all hear a cheer
at Rachel’s table.
Let’s eat!
Here, start.

Problematic

By C. (Issue 4)

Philosophically robust, orderly bias, lost eagles, mystical arts, time is coming

Coda

B.S.J. (Issue 4)

A bright shining jay
Flew into a hospital
And built a nest here
Which was loved
By all who saw it

A view from a window

Describe what you see.

What do you see straight ahead of you? What is on the left? Something is different today – What is it?

What else can you see?

Mention the five senses in your writing i.e. what you can see, smell, touch, taste and hear.

What time of day is it?

Look Harder: Mention two more details one of them in the distance that you can hardly see.

Describe the scenery in Autumn and Winter. Observe the seasonal changes and write about them in detail.