The cream does not always rise, It sinks and swims and struggles, Gurgling and gulping its juices, Straining to breathe and bathe, In the fresh air and light, But it will spoil still, In the stern staring judgement, A bumpy billowing feast, For slobbering flies to spit upon. The rejection arrives, With no words but only scorn, Passing silent without any praise, But mountains for those opposite, On the wall on the other side, Full of themselves and others, Preferring to adhere and promote, The established and accepted, At the cost of the world; The cream does not always rise.

At the dinner party, You look at me, As if you love me, But I don’t know you, Not anymore. Who is this woman, So ready to concede, To please and forfeit, To laugh on cue, To admire what she’d abhor? The dress is not hers, Bought with others in mind, To match and compare, But never out do, Never outshine nor offend. The stories are lies, The drinks are cheap, The tears are real, But she’s not sharing, To keep up and pretend.

Along dark rolling hills, Stained in battle kills, Stand men begging “stop”, As shadows swallow grain crop; A woman stares them down. They mockingly jeered before, She accepted their insulting chore, To spread a cloak upon the land, To take under her command, And shape her future town. These men beg her “cease”, Pleading for release, Promising a handsome bounty, To curtail this vast county; She relishes their screams.

It whispers, “It’s coming”, And everything goes, Everything turns. But we are here, Forced, To endure and be, Then nothing more. Crying, Cooing Coughing, Croaking. Fighting, Flirting, Feral, Finished. To be, And nothing more, Is to be, And nothing more. A life to you, A second to God, A parent to yours, No one to all. Thoughts occur, A way if formed, Some abhor, Some love. Pain rings, Rang again and again, Though the sweet, Is just the same.

An Entry Into The Hubert Butler Essay Prize 2023 “If you only have a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.” These words by psychologist Abraham Maslow summarises his Law of The Instrument; the overreliance on familiar methods for every issue, even when inappropriate. Often the irony is rich. Poverty…

I can not play with you like the others, I can not be rough and break you, Because dolls like you, Can only crack and shatter. You are made for babies, To teach them to play nice, To have tea parties and good manners, Important things that matter. But I do not want to play dolls, At least not with you, Because I can not get you dirty, Left on the floor. No; I have to tuck you into bed, And give you a sweet good night kiss, And leave the light on for you, Through the cold bedroom door.

Let me call for help, And never be heard, Roaring in my bed, Next to a sleeping spouse. I wish to enjoy the sound, Of silence tearing my throat, Rasping and wrecked, In a quiet house. Give me a dream, To do undisturbed, As I bawl out my eyes, And bash my fists. I need to scream, For a whole city to unhear, As though in agony, Pulsing from my wrists. Please do not phone, For anyone to come, I didn’t mean for you see, What I can’t keep in.

I wish I could scream on the page, And for you to hear the letters, As they are etched, Doused in sincerity, But drowning in insecurity. Numbed, stumbling fingers fumble, Emotions meant to be handled, With commanding roughness, Demanding respect and attention, Scared of being mocked. I have begun but regret, Urgent and immediate, Showing wounds and openings, So willingly and unashamedly, With confidence I don’t possess.

I am partially deaf, specifically I am what’s called tone-deaf. It can differ but for me it means I hear bassier, harder sounds more clearly in my right ear, and sharper, more high-pitched sounds in my left ear. I am also dyslexic. Not severe enough to be illiterate or unable…