Welcome to the second of my four June Showcases. I’m Lisa Scully-O’Grady, a writer with an interest in writing for creativity and healing. I’m delighted to return to Write On! for the month of June to select pieces for the weekly Showcase. Our theme continues to be ‘Mindset’ something that, ideally, evolves with us over our lifetimes.

For this second Showcase, I’ve selected some diverse pieces demonstrating different perspectives on ‘Mindset.’

All of the pieces this week have taken the authors and me, the reader, on a journey of some kind. Whether bearing witness to the grief of another and holding space for discomfort, being influenced and changed by our surroundings and community, or bearing witness to our own emotions and allowing ourselves to be transformed.

First up,  a piece of flash fiction by James Marshall about how we never really know what another’s story is and, despite the discomfort we may feel when someone shares their loss or confusion, if we can hold space for them and refuse to ‘turn our face away’ as poet and philosopher David Whyte often says, both we and they can be transformed.

Deer John

I needed to remove the deer poo before I cut the grass: ten lumps of the solid matter were scattered across the lawn. I guessed it was deer poo because it was green inside and odourless; a vegetarian poo. I took a hoe from John’s shed and flicked the droppings over the low hedge as if I were on a pitch n’ putt course.

At least it wasn’t cat poo, stinky and gooey. I’d take anything positive on this gloomy November morning, the eighth day in a row without sunshine thanks to the anti-cyclone resting over the country.

John staggered outside onto the patio, wearing blue pyjamas, a grey dressing gown and slippers. Tufts of white hair stood up on either side of his balding dome.

“Did you see the deer, John?” I rested the hoe against the stone birdbath.

“Have you been reading my letters?” he said.

“Eh?”

“How did you know Elsie left me?” John shook a fist at me. He swayed as his centre of gravity shifted.

I ran to him and held his elbow. He had cuts on his hands and a purple bruise on the side of his head. He’d fallen again.

“Let’s sit on the bench.” I steered him to the wooden seat beside the trellis, remnants of honeysuckle curled down. Bird seed was scattered across the paving slabs amongst the brown leaves and clumps of moss. John bent forward, then flopped onto the bench, his slippers coming off the ground as he rocked back, rigid.

I sat beside him. “Now, who is Elsie?”

John blinked. “Elsie, my ex-wife.” He looked around the garden as if seeing it for the first time. “Have you seen her?”

I’d cut John’s grass for four years and never seen his wife. I knew he’d been married once, but thought she was dead. “No I haven’t, John. I’ve never seen her.”

“But you said about the letter.” His fingers clenched and unclenched on his knees.

Talking with John required patience, understanding and some leaps of logic that were beyond my limited intellect.

“I said, ‘Have you seen the deer, John?'” I pointed to the fields beyond his garden. “The deer have been on your lawn, pooping.”

“Oh dear.” John blinked. “Oh dear.” He closed his eyes, his chin dropped to his chest and his shoulders trembled.

I sat, not knowing what to do, reluctantly intruding on an old man’s grief.

(c) James Marshall, 2025

Connect with James on Substack: @jamesrmarshall

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Next, a poem which describes a typical morning in Dagenham yet is extraordinary in its ordinariness, evoking all of my senses and taking me on a journey with the poet. I have pictures in my head, like a scene from a film. My mind is even tricked into smelling the aroma of the sweet potato stew and I can almost taste it as I get to the end of the poem. I may well cook it for dinner this week to up my culinary mindset. I have to admit that, when I was a teenager, there was nothing I loved more than eating leftover curry for breakfast!

A Dagenham Morning Commentary

As the Dagenham sun rises.

The natter of a Cockney magpie greets me,
as I breathe in the confused Dagenham air. A
competition between the perfume of the elder
flowers and the invisible traffic fumes for
supremacy of my olfactory senses.

The glint of the Dagenham sun reflecting of dust
smeared double glazing that’s begging for a
chamois leather, bounces off a neighbour’s
window from across the way. Blinding me
into a vision of all-out bottle green fading
to a field of eau-de-Nil.

The feel of the Dagenham morning sun
envelops me like a heavy overcoat. A
forewarning for the sticky humid East
London summer afternoon to come. If
only Dagenham had a sea breeze, for
compensation there is a downdraught
of a passing police chopper but it
dissipates before it reaches me.

The sound of child chatter eventually taps
at my eardrums, as the littluns rush to catch
up with their rushing largeluns all looking
flustered from the rushing of the morning rush
that they’re rushing through to beat the rushing
toll of the morning school bell.

A smell from upstairs excites my taste-buds
as my upper neighbours start prepping for
their supper. The aroma of heated herbs and
spices get me wondering what to have for
my breakfast. I remember the sweet potato
stew I made the other day.

That’s my Dagenham breakfast sorted!

(c) Gertcha Cowson, 2025

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Finally, this poem by Write On! team member Ellie M Blake, reflects the rollercoaster of emotions we can feel in a day or even less, and the realisation no feeling is final. The end of one day/week is the beginning of a new one with new hope and inspiration.

Goodbye, Hello

Blurry reflections of
Puffy clouds before
Sunny spells

Strolling along
Singing a song
Merrily carefree

Content, chillaxing
Calm is the wind
Summer follows spring

We don’t know
Nor does it matter
What the future brings

More rain, rainbows
Balmy days chasing
Purple pink sunsets

Deep slow breaths
Gentle is the night
Buses stir, owls hoot

Delighting in the
Wondrous witching hour
Stars shimmer in our eyes

Sleepless I toss
Like a surfboard
On salty seas until

Glorious darling light
Welcomes Monday
A new shiny week

Goodbye, hello
Left, right, be still
Wine glass, swill

Doze, walk, write
Autumn is alive
Squirrels scoot

I fall off my bike
Asphalt scrapes
My skin stings

Courage is mine
It fills my pockets,
Heart and soul

On my balcony
I want to grow
forget me nots

Be lost in their blues
But the weeds invade
If only it was easy

As strolling, singing,
Chanting a spell
Ringing a silver bell

Dirt beneath my nails
Washing with warm water
Soaking them then

I curl up by a fire
Cozy under a blanket
A pen in my hand.

(c) Ellie Blake, 2025

Connect with Ellie at her website: mycreativeeveryday.weebly.com, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube and X

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I hope you’ve enjoyed my selections this week and that they’ve inspired you to get creating and sending in your pieces relating to our new theme, ‘Reflections.’

Connect with me on Instagram: @letters_home_again and Bluesky: @lisaso.bsky.social

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If you’d like to see your writing appear in the Write On! Showcase, please submit your short stories, poetry or novel extracts to: pentoprint.org/get-involved/submit-to-write-on/

Hear extracts from Showcase in our podcast. Write On! Audio. Find us on all major podcast platforms, including Apple and Google Podcasts and Spotify. Type Pen to Print into your browser and look for our logo or find us on Spotify for Pocasters.

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