How We Treat Mental Illness

The shooter in Charleston will probably not be hearing voices. Some of the shooters, or so few of them, Charsleston, McVey, Manson fit the Paranoid Schizophrenic pattern of loss of reason, voices in the wall. The mental illness they may suffer is often undetectable. We are told that these incidences are done by lone “crazies” and that it’s not the guns fault. By blaming the “crazies” we demonize those individuals who did not deserve their fate, aren’t possessed by demons, thank you! Most of them suffer more than we could ever imagine, their illness easily apparent to everyone around them. Some get medications, meds you wouldn’t want to take. Meds that make them twitch and look strange to others. If they take those meds, it is with courage, absolute courage.

USA Collage

usa collage
USA collage by David Michael Jackson

Artist Statement:
Recycled art
1. Painted a large painting during Gulf War 1, 36″ x 24″
2. Somewhere during Gulf War 2 it gets big hole in the middle of it.
2. So I cut pieces out of it and glued them onto a panel 16″ x 20″
3. One more Gulf War and we can get this painting down to 8″ x 11″

Make it go out of date.

Naked and Alone – A Poem by Ron Olsen

Naked and Alone

by Ron Olsen

When one’s only sin

Is driving while black

It demands of us all

A slight glancing back

Beyond Donald’s hair

The rhetoric

And flair

Is the past

Aghast

Smashed

Trashed

As though it never happened

Lessons forgotten

Lying there rotten

 

Rodney King

The L.A. Riots

The burning

The death

The fear

The push to move beyond where we were

To what we could be

A commission’s plea

A consent decree

A plan to get us there

Beyond the hair

The rhetoric and fear

The cloud of deceit

And self-interest

 

All of it washed away by time

As though it never happened

Leaving us here

Naked and alone

In our childlike simplicity

Doomed to repeat futility’s call

Refusing to see the future

In our past

 

headshot

Ron olsen is a Peabody and Emmy winning journalist and occasional poet who lives in Bel Air, Maryland.   More of his work can be found at http://workingreporter.com/poetry.html and at workingreporter.com

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I’m a Republican Now A Poem by Goosegrass

im-a-republican-now-poem

I’m a Republican Now

Why should I send your kids to socialist public school?
My kids have to pay for college.
Your kids should pay for grade school. Educate your own kids.

Why should I pay for your socialist police protection.
I live in a good neighborhood; we can afford our own.
The police aren’t here anyway, isn’t that why I need guns?
The police are in the black community making money.
Why should I pay for that?

Why should I pay for your socialist fire protection.
I can afford insurance for that.
If the poor neighborhoods burn, we can develop them.

Why should I pay for your socialist clean water.
I can install a filtration system.
Clean your own damn water,
hire your own damn policeman and fireman,
educate your own brats and
get off the socialist feedbag.

Every MAN for HIMself
You burn my flag and I’ll burn a cross in your yard.
I’m a Republican now.

Editor’s note:
This is satire. Goosegrass isn’t really a Republican. Please send no more KKK invitations.

An Idea Gone Wrong by Ron Olsen

golden-calf-paintings

An Idea Gone Wrong
by Ron Olsen

The green demon moves round and round
Nothing behind it
Just an idea
A medium of exchange
Separating the haves from the have-nots
Moving up and down
Mostly up
Transferred electronically
A whisper in the night

Impressions on a bitstream
X’s and O’s
The transfer of an idea
The impression of wealth changing hands
Happening so fast
You can’t see it coming
Or going
And when it runs out
There is credit
And when the credit runs out
We are done
And there is nothing
From an agreement that cash had value
When in fact, it had none at all
The only value was us
Our faith in one another
Not in Marx or Lenin or Keynesian flow
Or Neocon austerity
The simple truth was our trust
We were the value
The healing heart
Reason
Honesty
Giving power to money
Gone
Only when we abandoned faith in ourselves
And the demon came back
An idea gone wrong

The Victory Lap

Close game

Last second shot.

The losing team sits dejected on the bench.

The winners circle them,

poking fingers in their faces.

 

The winning crowd cheers,

taunts the losing crowd in the parking lot.

 

The losing team sits among

chants and laughing faces

poking into their space.

“We badass, you bad!

“We badass, you bad!

“We badass, you bad!

 

The losing team is

kicked and beaten

 

Their coach

smiles.

 

 

 

Escape. A Poem by M. A. Schaffner

 
 

Back to its roots the goose rambles

through the brambles to the golf course

and beyond. A green pond beckons

with an iridescent sheen it can smell.
 
 
It moves past. A twisting wooded road

goes up and down between the farms

that surround the camps and lodges

and empty lots where someone planned

to spend a life and then forgot.
 
 
Mottled with bottles the pond lies

forlorn between the secret parties

that every teen knows all about

and the goose waddles through, sensing

a river past barbed wire fencing

where the rest of the flock awaits —
 
 
the ghosts of a past predating

the clipped wings and special diets,

the tube between its liver and its mouth.

Its final dream is flying south.
 
 
 
 
MAS at the Furnace

 
 
M. A. Schaffner has had poems published in Shenandoah, Prairie Schooner, Agni, and elsewhere — most recently in Former People, Raintown Review, and Rock River Review. Long-ago-published books include the poetry collection The Good Opinion of Squirrels and the novel War Boys. Schaffner spends most days in Arlington, Virginia juggling a laptop, smart phone, percussion caps, pugs, and a Gillott 404.
 
 
 
 
 
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Transforming with Poetry. Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon

 
 
Transforming Finale with Owen Turner and Siobhan Mac Mahon at the Inkwell Arts Centre Leeds UK read their works in the final part of the evening November 12th 2016. https://www.facebook.com/siobhan.macmahon
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
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Announcement. The Poetic Bond 6 Release.

PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE PRESS RELEASE

POETRY THAT BINDS, POETRY THAT BONDS

THE POETIC BOND VI

ISBN-13: 978-1539334682 

The Only

ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL POETRY ANTHOLOGY

actively sought specifically from

New Media, Social and Professional Networking

 

Publication Date 5 November 2016

Making a Poetic Bond – the ethos behind putting together the anthology
 
 
Available at The Poetic Bond
&
Amazon.com The Poetic Bond VI
 
 
The process of selecting poems for publishing The Poetic Bond series is unlike any other in that there is no set plan as to what will be published. It depends on the themes which emerge from the pool of work submitted, or to put it another way, the poetic energy which comes together at this certain time and place. Where themes emerge, patterns of energy harmonize, form bonds, connections, and these in turn lead to interconnected chapters, and the creation of a holistic volume, deeply connected with humanity, nature, and the universe.

 

37 poets from 12 Countries

Canada, China, England, France, Greece, Hungary, Israel, Malaysia,

Netherlands, Scotland, Spain, USA, and Wales

“Poetry, both reveals and shares our humanity”

(Trevor Maynard, editor The Poetic Bond Series)

THE POETIC BOND VI

 

  1. Trevor Maynard, UK based poet and writer, manager of Poetry, Review and Discuss Group, a major poetry group on LinkedIn. His new poetry collection is GREY SUN, DARK MOON was published in 2015. He is also the author of several plays. Further information at http://www.trevormaynard.com

 

  1. The Poets of The POETIC BOND VI (2016) are; Amanda Eakin (Ohio, USA), Rebecca Behar (France), Belinda Dupret (West Sussex, England), Betty Bleen (Ohio, USA), Bonnie J. Flach (California, USA), Bonnie Roberts (Alabama, USA), Carey Link (Alabama, USA), Christine Anderes (New York, USA), Cigeng Zhang (Beijing, China), Diane Burrow (Oxfordshire, England), Diane Colette (Florida, USA), George Carter (London, England), George C. Robertson (Dundee, Scotland), GK Grieve (England), Greg Mooney (North Carolina), Hongvan Nguyen (Virginia, USA), Ian Colville (Bedfordshire, England), Jill Angel Langlois (Illinois, USA), Joseph J. Simmons (Maryland, USA), Jude Neale (British Columbia, Canada), Kwai Chee Low (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia), Lawrence W Lee (Arizona, USA), Linda Mills (Oregon, USA), Madalena Fine (West Sussex, England), Marli Merker Moreira (Sao Leopoldo, Brazil), Miklos Mezosi (Budapest, Hungary), Michael Melichov (Israel), Nana Tokatli (Greece), Neetu Malik (Pennsylvania, USA), Trevor Maynard (Surrey, England), Pushpita Awasthi (the Netherlands), Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK & Spain), Rowland Hughes (Bridgend, Wales), Swaizi Vaughan (Texas, USA), Wendy Joseph (Washington, USA), William DiBenedetto (Seattle, USA) , and Will Walsh (Florida, USA)

 
The Anniversary
 
The hand cocked at an effeminate angle
Holds the ashen tipped cigarette
This embering appears soft
It teases one to touch before it falls
Pompeii comes to mind
 
His hair is dirty white and cumulus grey
Accent Portuguese, hooded eyes
That famous olive skin bleached by
English pastures and pub lunches
“Zespezilly,” he intones “Thiz day!”
 
Another paper on the table, Shag available
His companion lilts ole Suffolk
“Truth is, I’s bored…”
He cusses, in that way that twists words
When they are not your Mother Tongue
“Every ******* day now”
 
She twirls her wedding band
He wears none; no tan marks either
“Do you agree?” He asks, leaning,
His shoulders rise and fall, ash burns her skin
“Does any of it matter?”
 
Vesuvius looms in their memory
Their betrothal, their wedding
But their emotions remained frozen in ash
Inevitably to drop like old skin
Fine idea it was, however familiarity bred
 
The hand cocked
The accents devilishly hinted passion
Loving not wisely but too well
Thirty years to the day
The innocence of youth left
 
“Can we remain friends?”
Sympathy undermines her sincerity
They both know this is so
But he is the more hurt, meaner
“Damn you and your English reserve!”
 
You see, it had simmered
Their intolerance of each other
Their mutual exoticism, passion
But in the end, hate is easier
It needs fewer syllables, less imagination
 
The last cigarette drops
They go to the hotel to fuck
Splitting up sex, divorce. He signs
The papers and leaves her sleeping
Too well in death and paper cuts
 
© 2009 GK Grieve. Published in The Poetic Bond III © 2013
 
 
 
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Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk

 

 

 

AMRITA SHERGILL MARG, DELHI & Poems by Deepanshi Balooni

I.
Laburnum blooms whisk sanity
away from the wind; past
is a shifting
cloud.

summer
is pastel yellow-green,
picking purples from jamuns
shedding over the jaded footpath.

II.

Colours descend at
night,
fragrance is a whore.

III.

Moon becomes all the words,
where there is no language.

You are the silence I seek.

IV.

Memories drizzle
in times of drought,

monsoon is still far away.

V.

There is no walking on this street.

Minds float like lighted lamps in the
river that desires,
transposing myths and reality.

VI.

The quest is for eternity,
yet time throws things
either changed or hewed,

for instance, that

proud, naked-branched tree
which used to be the muse
of our conversations;

a year is a testimony enough

MEDITATION

A bird circumambulates a cloud
in the distant sky,
like a solemn pilgrim
with obscure prayers
Noises become limpid, like those of
the vehicles clattering on the road, or
the air swooshing between flimsy curtains
and the adjacent window pane
I put my high-heeled shoes back
into the drawer,
withdrawing myself from becoming
and repose into being
The mind marvels at the flawlessness
of the blank page-
unblemished by the words and
sketches of past or future
Noises grow into a pious silence
May be, every moment is an epiphany,
if lived in the present

RAINS

Outside,
it rained all night.
Inside,
there remained a desert
of breaths and voices
and their sentiments, thereof.
The distance to the window
becomes irreconcilable;
some rains can’t get you
drenched.

HOW TO BUILD SANDCASTLES

The sand should be slightly moist,
like the remnants of the innocence
in your heart
and every touch of your hand
maneuvering between grip and tenderness,
just as those words that become
whispers in the acts of love
Do not care for the weather,
care for what you can do;
weather only loves to play
Pray for mind to imbibe endurance,
the task loses track of time
and toil; as for I can tell you
not all sandcastles are built on the beach
Some gets built in the dreams,
while others on the claimed or
unclaimed bodies of the people

 

jpg-file-deepanshi

 

 

Deepanshi Balooni is a development professional from New Delhi. She runs a poetry blog-https://unacquaintedsilhouettes.wordpress.com

 
 
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Key of Mist. Guadalupe Grande.Translated.Amparo Arróspide.Robin Ouzman Hislop
 
goodreads.com/author/show/Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
http://www.amazon.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
www.lulu.com. All the Babble of the Souk. Robin Ouzman Hislop
https://www.amazon.com/author/robinouzmanhislop
http://www.innerchildpress.com/robin-ouzman-hislop.All the Babble of the Souk