Mental Health: Workplace Stigma

A response to Sofia Tindall’s article, about the stigma of mental health. It’s a Friday morning and, keen to create a poem, I browse my news feed for some inspiration, only to be confronted with the revelation, courtesy of Sofia Tindall (journalist for Grazia) that the mental health stigma still exists! A revelation? Hardly! I read…

Misplaced Correction: A Savvy Poem

{Written out of respect for the best charity Shop Assistant in town – who gives his time and his smiles freely.} It’s a charity shop – helps people in need. And yet, he stands, with needs, chided, corrected. ‘Look!’ she scolds. ‘Four pounds down! You should have listened!’ I listen, and I see. As she…

Protest: A Savvy Poem

Rot. A lot of old rot. A lot of rotten old tests pushed at me by rotten old people. Old people and old tests. All rotten. And all best left to rot. A lot!   Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019   Image by F1 Digitals from Pixabay

Boomerang Buns: A Hot Friday Poem

Inspired by the hot-cross bun that made me cross earlier, when it left a sticky residue on my fingers, that demanded to be washed off. The unwanted interruption forced me to abandon my laptop for five minutes! How inconvenient! Be they hot, or be they cross, they all say the same to me: Pick us…

Stigmental

Mental. Social stigma. Be open, discuss and share. People will get it and you won’t regret it. When the powerful know they have you ensnared. You’ve been opened, read, pinned,  labelled and bookmarked. Stigmatised, stamped on, crushed, dried, composted, buried, rotated, and s  c  a  t  t  e  r  e  d … The many seeds…

Gaslit

Gas attempts to infiltrate via the gaps between flashes of my thoughts, gut the gaps, being gaps, are gapless. Gas, failing to infiltrate, instead up ……………… and I shine across ————————–>  borders. me lights Copyright owned by Jay Cool, April 2019 Image by calimiel from Pixabay

Intimidation

The years advance and she backtracks, shrinking and shrivelling, arthritic hips, knee-joints and feet, reducing her movements to the crunching of a shovel, scraping upon gritted concrete. She thinks that she is insignificant now, passing through middle age to a lesser existence, to an existence of otherness. Others, though, others see her in all of…