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Emerging Writer Member Profile

Bridie Breen

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Member Bio:

I am an Athlone born poet,matured in Manchester UK as a Mental Health Nurse. Now semi retired ,there is some time for scribing and fun. I have written since childhood. My interest is primarily poetry but I enjoy writing short stories, scripts,monologues and performance poetry in open mic sessions locally. A member of Poetry in the Park Athlone and Manchester Irish writers,I love the collaboration with writers of all genres. Published in small anthologies,I aim for a collection of my own. Interested in the migrant voice and those without a voice in the world. Just beginning to populate a website with the guru help of my great niece Ally.

Writing sample

Handle-less Door.

When eyes avert
to inwardly turn,
senses are blinded
by the truth that burns.

No shadow for shade
No safe place to hide,
all is upended,
left fragile inside.

Clarity and reason
not easily gleaned.
Inner soul lifeless
in a mist-filled field.

Where ground is not solid
Where the fear is real.
Immersed in emotions
too tangled to feel.

No iron clad protector to forge
a safe path ahead
No keeper of sorrow, to trample
down, a wish to be dead.

The smell of failure
Is the air that fills breath.
Impending doom
welcomes an untimely death.

Dismay and misfortune align
when self, is subsumed by sadness
Reeks an endogenous gloom
tempered with madness.

Doubt and guilt
cloud any comfort brought.
Belief that change can occur,
is an answer not sought.

When the grey is too grey
that it borders on black.
Depression stifles the will to want
to bring life back on track.

Suicide, a means to finalise
own exit of choice.
Through the handle-less door
at too high a price.

Bones in Srebrenica.

Twenty years later
The earth has churned up bones
My clothes devoured over time
Blood washed away in soil
My wounds never to be known
I laid there awaiting the light
Now, you stack me high in filing cabinets
Keep me cold in fridges
Samples for experimentation
Evidence I existed.

Identity disappeared
only teeth, hair,bones remain
The grimace of pain
when death came calling.
Now I lie among many
on metal shelves
waiting to be claimed.
Small packages wrapped
in a shapeless shroud.
Jigsaw pieces
of an ethnically cleansed generation.

Many mothers lost soul
on that day,11th July 1995
Those who took me away
Saw only my difference
Enough to permit murder
I was lined up
Bent to my knees
Hands tied behind my back
I knew gunshot
would shatter skull
take sight, voice, life away.
I was a powerless pawn in
a sordid game of war.

Mothers of Srebrenica
Proud ones still holding hope
I bow in awe of your fortitude
I long for my time to be recognised
Your son eternally waits
for justice to be done
and have your hands
clutch my bones to your breast.

I Like Eggs Again.

48 before, I tasted Eggs Benedict
The soft eggs, oozing on
salmon slivers and toasted bread.
I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
It electrified my taste buds.
I closed my eyes,
to savour the smooth texture,
as it blended.
But sadly, I ended
with egg on my chin.
I smiled to recall
a time when I was young
and had just begun,
to master
dipping sliced loaf
into soft shelled yellow.
Always favouring white,
over brown, unless speckled.
and even then,
managed to dot,
little spots down my front.
Soft egg
be it fried, poached or boiled
Is no respecter of age.

Sir Patrick Moore R.I.P.

Ashes to ashes.
A star dusted being.
A great man.
A mind free of constraint.
He believed in endless skies.
Embraced the sciences
of touch and feel.
Made it real for one and all.
Thoughts so expansive
He made space seem small.
Comet trails, lit
by ardour so fervent.
He could awaken
those deadened inside.
Inspire a wondrous
upwards gaze,
to think beyond
intricacies of explicable life.
Narration, so pure,
He brought planets alive.
Those eons past
that shape the reality of today,
captured a ray of light
in this great man’s frame.
Ashes to ashes
and the passage of time
leaves an emptier sky at night
to outlive the stargazers
who will still remember his name.
9.12.12

For Helena and All the others.

Click clack of fast footfall,
echoes on a tiled floor.
The call to prayer
a summons to assume piety
and a humble stance.
Children shepherded along
Silent neatly dressed pawns
Two perfectly drilled rows
Corralled by black and white
scapula’d servants of Christ.

Hindsight, a great science
in a changing world
Visionary in its exposure
of the evil veil that wiped out joy.
Stole childhoods away,
stoked fear of Hell's fire
in innocent hearts.
Choked disclosure.
Strangled hope of light
at the end of a long road.

While empty-souled
Perpetrators, obliterated
a sacred vow
by sadistic acts.
Now stripped naked
for all to see.
Paedophiles in predatory packs
have no place in this world.
Survivors shout out
Free at last, free at last.

Uisneach.

A call for the Goddess within
to roar as Lion
to breath fire
as Bealtaine stirs the spring heat,
in soil and bone.

Fertile givers of life,
Nurturers of nature,
stand side by side.
Indelible bonds from ages past,
fuse to ignite the spirit.

Seeps through the Earth
as feet planted on grass,
vibrate with the heartbeat
of those gone before.
A pulse, ripe with yearning.

Flames light up eyes
Eirú is given rebirth.
On this night of nights,
a song born rises in the soul
gives voice to sweetest harmony.
A sisterhood forged by time,
courage and blood.

Current project

I am involved with an Awakening the Goddess project, sharing energies of other women poets/writers in Ireland. I have been introduced to the wonderful history of Uisneach and project is gathering a great momentum.





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