DEAR RIVER

By Roo Newsome

I step barefooted over roots and tufts to reach the rivers edge.

Dappled light filters through overhanging branches and plays upon the sweep and glide of the water.

I tentatively dip a toe into the icy flow, my breath snatches as I wade deeper into the water's pull.

Lured in further by the sparkle and babble, my body is gently wrapped in a soft, velvet blanket.

A flash of blue catches my eye, a kingfisher, but it is gone in an instant.

Snatches of conversation, bird chatter, and distant hum skim over the swell and curl of the river. 

I drift and float, weightless in the river drag, work forgotten, aches and worries eased and my mind soothed.

I climb out, my skin now buzzing and tingling.

A hot drink calms the after drop and I stand laughing, my waterlogged spirits lifted.

The river chuckles...and as I leave, it rushes past begging me to join again in its endless weaving dance.

ABOUT THE POEM: "This poem has been written from a more positive perspective. After my illness, and for a number of years now, I swim (or dip) regularly in my local river. I am surrounded by nature and find it peaceful, healing and exhilarating too. It helps so much. I have a constant longing to be in the lake, the sea or the river."

I REMEMBER NOT SLEEPING

By Sherri Levine

I remember lying on a squeaky cot, in a room full of Czech women, 

listening to them breathe like lung machines.

I remember steam hissing from radiators, heels clicking down halls.

I remember, on the psychiatric ward, thinking that the patients were doctors

who were there to save me because I was dying.

A flashlight shone in my eyes every two hours during the night,

a needle poked my arm.

Someone always watched me in the shower with a flashlight.

I remember waking up at night to use the bathroom

and seeing Czech nurses watching porn on TV.

I remember having sex with men, multiple men, and women, 

but I don’t remember feeling anything except sore. 

I was never tired. And never hungry.

I got a day pass from the hospital and snuck into a man’s car.

We smoked unfiltered Camels and listened to Metallica. 

I hated heavy metal, but it felt good to be held.

I remember the doctor asking me if I had been breastfed, 

and what it meant to throw stones in glass houses.

I was afraid if I didn’t get the answers right, something bad would happen to me.

One doctor said sleep deprivation causes mania.

My roommate swallowed a crushed light bulb.

I remember the bitter taste of pills I hid under my tongue.

I remember how good it was to come home—to stretch my legs across my bed, wrap myself 

in clean, cotton sheets and listen to the rain.

Snow fell the last night in Prague before I got on a plane to the States.

I wasn’t sure I would come back, but I wasn’t thinking about that. I’d have to be up for 20 hours or more to get home.

ABOUT SHERRI: Sherri Levine is a poet who lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poem, “Facedown,” won the Lois Cranston Memorial Prize (Calyx). She won First Prize (Poet’s Choice) in the Oregon Poetry Association Biannual Contest in 2017. Her work has been published in Prairie Schooner, The Timberline Review, CALYX, Driftwood Press, Poet Lore, The Opiate, Verseweavers, CIRQUE, Clackamas River Review, The Sun Magazine, and others. Sherri served as Poetry Editor for VoiceCatcher Journal. Her chapbook, In These Voices, was published by Poetry Box in 2018. She escaped the long harsh winters of upstate New York and has ever since been happily soaking in the Oregon rain. Sherri is the creator and host of Head for the Hills, a poetry series and open mic sponsored by the Hillsdale Library and now is hosted by Dale Champlin. Her first full-length poetry collection, Stealing Flowers from the Neighbors, is published by Kelsay Press. Sherri recently published A Joy to See (Just a Lark Books, 2023) an ekphrastic poetry book of 27 prominent poets of her mother, Kay Levine’s artwork. She and the poets read the book at Powell’s in June of 2023. Her next illustrated poetry book, I Remember Not Sleeping will be published in 2024.

W: www.sherrilevine.com

A LETTER WITHOUT AN ADDRESS

By Kathleen Chamberlin

My dear baby brother, 

Three long years have passed

Since you drew your final breath,

Alone and far away,

Without me there to hold your hand

And ease your passage.

But even if I could have made it there, 

I don’t know if I could have borne the reality:

 You were forever leaving me,

Moving so much farther away than the miles that separated us,

To a place I could not reach.

Forgive me for my cowardice.

 I could not bear to see you struck down; 

A shell of who you were,

Mind shattered by a sudden devastating stroke. 

I could not bear the reality that you were no longer there 

And never would be again. 

I hear your voice in my mind sometimes 

Accompanied by your jests and laughter 

And I miss you terribly 

But those visits show me that you are still with me, 

That our bond transcends this mortal plane,

And our love endures.

Rest in peace, beloved baby brother. 

Till we meet again,

Your sister.



PANIC

By Caroline Berry

One.

Heart is racing

Feet are pacing

Side to side

Side to side

Rapid breath taking

In, in, in.

My mouth is dry.

I’m going to die

I’m going to die.

Two.

Pace

Pace

Pace

Race

Race

Race

Three.

Can’t see clearly

Everything’s bleary

Feeling fearful

Anxious, tearful

Stomach is churning

Chest is burning 

Can’t catch my breath

Can’t catch my breath…

Four.

Teeth are chattering

Heart is battering

Pound

Pound

Pound

Fists clenching 

Body wrenching

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Five.

Chest is tightening

Everything’s frightening

Am I going to die?

What if I die?

Breathe, Breathe. Breathe.

Six.

Fingers are tingling

Senses intermingling

Shivering

Sweating

Shaking

Quaking

Feel like I’m breaking

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Seven.

Legs are trembling

My body dissembling

Where am I?

Who am I?

What can I do?

Hands over ears

Blocking out fears

Breathe. Breathe.

Eight.

Body swaying

Gradually fraying

This will pass.

This will pass.

This will pass.

Breathe.

Nine.

Breathing subsiding

Reason is guiding

Feeling calmer, clearer

My safe space is nearer

Breathe.

Ten.

Body exhausted

Mind overwrought

Utterly spent.

Another battle is fought.

ABOUT CAROLINE: "I am an unpublished poet who began writing poetry during the 2020 lockdown when I was experiencing some depression and anxiety."

FB: @Inside Out - Poetry for the Mind

THE AWFUL TRUTH

By Reno Mcgreggor Connelly

You said I was the toxic one, dragged my name in dirt;

You speak about me like I’m just another abusive ex.

It makes me wonder about those who came before,

The stories you told me, the desperation I saw in them-

Were they really that toxic? Was I? Or is it you?

Was it toxic of me to agree to take in your kid sister?

The one who threatened us and stole my stuff?

You said your parents would pay for everything-

We both worked in SAIP, we could handle anything,

All we had to do is get her through high school

But after a year, my life savings were gone

Along with our dreams of buying a house and farm.

Was I the toxic one when you hit me in front of her?

Screamed in my face while I hurried to gather

What little you left me with, what little was left of me?

Was I toxic when I wanted to foster an orphaned child

And you agreed, but pulled out in the middle of the process?

You broke our would-be daughters’ heart;

You said you were already jealous of her and that

Two minds with BPD couldn’t coexist in one house.

She was just a kid with nothing and no one

And you abandoned her after giving her hope.

You made me break her heart, then blamed me for it all;

I had already gotten her room ready, bought her clothes-

She had a pile of Christmas presents from my mother

That she had to open alone in the psych ward

After being told we (you) didn’t want her anymore.

You threatened me with divorce if I stayed out late

Or forgot to do the dishes or keep the house pristine.

If I was ever upset at you, you always upped the ante.

You’d bring up some issue from years ago and fume

Until you were the angry one and I was apologizing.

You trained me like a dog, you realize that?

Pavlovian conditioning from day one to year nine-

You only treated me well if I was happy and funny and stable. 

I was the rock so that you could be the storm

And over time, I eroded away into mud and sand.

You were always the hero and always the victim;

How many times did you say these words:

“I don’t do anything wrong, all our problems are on you”?

How many red flags did I ignore on account of your disorder?

The day you gave up on our couples counseling

Was the day our therapist made you be accountable

And the moment you saw yourself how you really are

You knew you had to leave, get away, escape (from what?)

I always loved you through your BPD cycles;

I weathered storm after storm after storm after storm

And when I told you I couldn’t and wouldn’t take any more-

When I said that I was going to leave-

You got real quiet, then reassured me over and over,

Wrote me a letter saying you wouldn’t leave or hurt me,

That you’d try to protect me from yourself…

And now I know that after you said all those things,

You went and met a rich, middle-aged man on Tinder

Fifteen years my senior but with a house and doctorate

And wealth to buy you anything you want.

You waited until your words set in and I felt safe

Then you divorced me via text, with a link to a song

(an anthem for the moment you abandoned me).

You made sure to tell me about the new man

And how it was my fault that you went to him

And how he also dreamed of a farm and homestead

The same dream we had been chasing for years.

You went to my family and my closest friends

Before I had a chance to talk to any of them.

You knew each member of my support system

Found them, lied to them, cried to them

And when I came to them for help I was met with

“I don’t want to pick sides, I don’t know who to believe”.

You isolated me and then went no-contact

Until you had my cat put down, then you called

But just to let me know she was going to die-

You wouldn’t even let me say goodbye.

It’s been months now and I’ve heard all the stories,

The ones you’ve been telling people and posting online.

People can believe what they want, I sleep fine at night

Knowing that you know the truth of it all deep down and

That you can’t run from yourself forever and 

That the truth will come like the dawn: 

All the lies you’ve told to yourself will burn away like mist

And you’ll be left alone with just yourself and

The awful truth.

ABOUT THE POEM: "I wrote this poem after a devastating post-divorce therapy session. I endured nearly a decade of emotional abuse from a woman who I believe is truly a good, kind-hearted soul. She had borderline personality disorder and wasn’t really working on coping with it. I didn’t know much about the disorder until after the divorce and after doing much research, everything made sense. It was a very difficult relationship but education and counseling could have made all the difference. I just didn’t know until it was too late. Consider it a cautionary tale." 

ABOUT RENO: Reno is 29 and works as an Autism Specialist in Portland, Oregon. He has previously worked in Secure Adolescent In-Patient (SAIP) and with some of the most traumatized kids in the state. He saw and experienced enough in SAIP to have been diagnosed with his own PTSD. He writes as a coping skill, and so he doesn't forget.

TUMBLING ON

By Martin Embree

I’m just a lost tumbling weed

A lonely tumbleweed

From neon lights, jackpots, and greed

Winds brought me to Oklahoma

Tulsa, Oklahoma

Seldom forcing a persona

Tulsa is where I found myself

I accepted myself

Stopped drinking from the bottom shelf

Not like other bushes, I burn

I learned to love the burn

Should probably show more concern

I’m still just a tumbling weed

A blazing tumbleweed

I’m happy, I cry, I still bleed

Once they see my flame, they fear me

Complete strangers fear me

Once they know they don’t come near me

To survive, I hide my fire

Do you fear my fire?

Am I a weed or barbed wire?

All I am is schizophrenic

Yeah, I’m schizophrenic

Living honest and authentic

Uh huh I’ll keep on tumbling

Through the mud tumbling

Getting dirty feels humbling

I told everyone my illness

I live with my illness

All words gone, an eerie stillness

Moments of silence are found few

The ones I trust are few

It would be hell if they all knew

Lost in fantasy and what’s real

Why is the stigma real?

I’m forced to be stronger than steel

My flowers made of fire bloom

I roll around in bloom

Warding away the lurking gloom

People say I shouldn’t have kids

For what I’ll give my kids

Thoughts like that lead me to the skids

Who can I find and call my own

I’m stranded on my own

As if destined to be alone

The world will never understand

How can they understand?

The struggle keeps my fire fanned.

I can be a ball of fire

I’m sage that found fire

A guiding light, not a pyre

Frightened, tortured, I denied it

At first I denied it

She died, then I couldn’t hide it

After my older sister died

My denial died

We pulled the plug, I barely cried

Her hands curled, my eyes blurred with tears

It’s been years I’ve shed tears

Only real feeling are my fears

I confess, I’m a tumbleweed

A bright traveling weed

Going wherever the winds lead

When you go tumbling around

You learn to get around

Every direction is homebound

When grief descends it’s dark at night

I burn with the stars at night

Don’t pity my plight

I’m here right where I need to be

Wherever that may be

Still burning, still hurting, still me

You know I’m just a tumbleweed

Strange for a tumbleweed

The dry desert is all I need

No chains on me, I’m freed

ABOUT THE POEM: "I’m was reading through a book on poetry forms and discovered the blues poetry format. For fun, I started writing blues about my experience with my mental illness."

ABOUT MARTIN: Martin works as a mental health technician in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He lives with schizophrenia and is a tech in the same facility he was in-patient years ago. He began writing poetry as a coping mechanism.