Welcome to my second July Showcase.

This week, we continue to explore our theme of ‘Reflections’—those moments that offer insight, transformation, and quite often a surprising clarity. Whether through the quiet grace of contemplation, or the fierce urgency of change, reflection takes many forms. It can signal a new beginning, a shift in mindset, or even the severing of ties with old ways of being.

We begin this week’s Showcase with a beautifully evocative poem by Jilly Henderson-Long. A prize-winning piece, Reflectability, invites us to pause, to consider the inner landscapes we so often pass by. With lyrical repetition and emotional precision, Jilly gently guides us through the longing to make sense of life, love, and all that lies in-between.

Reflectability

I wish I could borrow a moment in time,
a moment to think and maybe to find,
a moment of silence, when all that I’ve done,
can be clarified, mollified, agonised won.
I’d so like the chance to unravel the tune,
to reflect on this life and this love and the moon.

I wish I could borrow a moment in time.
A moment that’s wonderfully, selfishly mine,
a moment when corridors through which I’ve passed,
can be coiled into one and made sense of at last.
I’d so like the chance to unravel the tune,
to reflect on this life and this love and the moon.

I wish I could borrow a moment in time.
A moment in which I can empty my mind.
Contemplate, activate, cherish be free,
and discover the secrets still hidden in me.
I’d so like the chance to unravel the tune,
to reflect on this life and this love and the moon.

I wish I could borrow a moment in time,
a moment of quiet so I can unwind.
Maybe, just maybe, when that moment comes,
I’ll turn my face skyward in awe of the sun
and welcome the chance to unravel the tune
to reflect on this life and this love and the moon.

(c) Jilly Henderson-Long, 2025

Connect with Jilly on BlueSky: @jillyhl.bsky.social and via LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/jhendersonlong-8254a796

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This next poem is one I wrote shortly after I lost my father in February this year. It still feels incredibly raw.

We were extraordinarily close in some ways, and his passing shook something deep in me. Grief doesn’t arrive in neat stages. It hits suddenly, unexpectedly: in shops, on trains, in the smallest, strangest moments.

To The Man On The Train Who Moved Seats Because He Thought I Was Mad came from one of those moments. A quiet collapse on a public journey, a stranger’s reaction and the weight of everything I was carrying: not just sorrow for the father I’d lost, but disappointment in others who should have stood beside me and didn’t.

On reflection, that’s been one of the hardest parts: realising that the people who are supposed to be closest to us in times like this can, in fact, be the ones who let us down the most. I came to the painful decision that, for my own peace, it was better to stop trying to hold on, to let go of the ties that only caused more hurt.

This poem is a glimpse into that space: the mess of mourning, the loneliness of being misunderstood, and the strange, sharp clarity that sometimes comes with loss.

I hope it meets you wherever you are in your journey of grief and reminds you that you’re not alone in the ache.

To The Man On The Train Who Moved Seats Because He Thought I Was Mad

There’s been a lot of upset lately—
My dear old dad dying was a major one.
Eighty-two, worn out. Riddled with ailments:
Kidneys failing, liver too,
atrial fibrillation, a cancer survivor—.
He finally popped his clogs of
undiagnosed coronary heart disease.
When a parent dies,
you’re never quite prepared.
You miss them so badly, and it’s gut-wrenching.
You cry unexpectedly in ordinary places:
At bus stops, on pavements;
squashed between the aisles of a small corner shop—
your face pressed into the baked beans cans,
your back in the Fairy Liquid—
and when you see a truck from Leicester go by,
think, Oh, I’ll ring my dad,” And then remember and stop
because there’s no way on earth you’ll be able to do that now.

And though you know, as Tolstoy said,
All happy families are alike;
unhappy families,
each unhappy in their own way —
you don’t expect death to rip a thread,
or for the sudden rot exposed by death,
the pettiness.
The sharp return of childhood wounds.
More sorrow flows from
Death to funeral
—all that living amongst
not even relatives—
So much for blood.
Goodbye, you whisper,
To those who should have held you.

I went to the shires.
Home soil.
Mum still there—
though she left Dad in ’74
and times have changed a lot since.
Still, I went,
the hedgerows full of summer, roads familiar
it’s where I was born, after all
It is fitting to return
because it’s where Dad was born
and bred and it was going good
with Mum for a while. I felt well—
not healed— but better
until I saw that “neighbour”—
one of those people
who care with a smile like a knife.
Caring About anything but you,
not caring in the sense of how me
and you do—.
They care about your coat, your voice,
your weight, your shoes, your salad choice.
The North Sea coast drug stats—
because it is where you live now,
(Yet where they live is way better)
Of Course
Of Course
Of Course, you see—
nothing bad ever happens there.
Their gaze knocked me sideways.
Grief came back like a hammer
and I bolted straight to the train.

A pop into Marks & Spencer’s for a bottle
of their light and fresh white wine
and a lentil and tomato falafel.
These I took with me onto the train along with
a three-foot-six oil painting painted by my mother
of fractal waters, the palette
Payne’s grey and pale lemon,
stitched like thread light,
pulled tight
with string, wrapped in good-quality brown paper
although rather bulky
with a backpack and two shoulder bags,
tear smudged face
I managed to haul myself onto the train,
somewhat bedraggled even with a new grief-sharp
haircut—an acutely angled bob—
And I was hungry, too.
And exhausted.
You saw me settle down.
You saw the wrap.
You saw me take the bottle.
I had no glass, so I unscrewed the lid
and took a careful sip.
and I’m thinking you must’ve thought I was a wino,
but I didn’t have a cup or a glass from which to drink my customary glass of wine,
with my evening meal— a falafel wrap,
and I saw I unsettled you—
I suppose I must’ve looked weird—
I don’t think it was just the wine.
Beethoven was playing on Radio 3.
Concerto in C Major. Opus 15.
Blazing through my headphones
My fingers twitched, tapped,
and twiddled to the tune
as the train sailed past Rochester,
light skipping off the Medway—
Grief had found its rhythm.
A woman lost in a dead man’s chords.

I saw you glance from my liminal space
to check, then
hastily you moved
reseated yourself two rows up
as though you were escaping.
The woman in the hijab in the adjacent seat
looked from me to you— a quick assessment.
That made me flinch. Seen, but not known.
And something in me folded.
Not because of her,
but because I was being assessed.
Filed under: unfamiliar.
Filed under: avoid.
If you had asked, I might’ve told you everything.
That I don’t usually drink wine on trains.
But people don’t ask. They look.  Judge,
then label. No. I’m not mad —
I’m purely grief-stricken.

(c) Julie Dexter, 2025

Connect with me at my website juliedexterwriter.com, on Instagram: @Latenightswimmer, on X: @JulieADexter and on BlueSky: juliedexterwriter.com

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Next up, a piece that portends to one day making it possible for an artist, through reflection, to overcome their fears to express themselves and share their art with the world. Grounded in gratitude and the memory of how their music has touched others, they commit to stepping into the light. There is a moment of emotional reckoning, then creative release: a decision to let go of fear and share something authentic with the world, even if only for a fleeting moment on stage.

Art Work

I close my eyes, my pen across the page, and I lean back in my chair. The sun is setting  and I know tomorrow I’ll be singing these lyrics for the first time on stage. I love to perform at home, but before  this show, I feel a little tinge of anxiety and I wonder, “What if they won’t like it? What if it’s not good enough?”

But then I remember that, even if a few people don’t like what I write or how I sing, there’s always someone who loves what I do, whose heart is touched by my voice, my emotion and my creation. When I think of those moments and see the tears of joy and awe shine in their eyes, I feel a smile of gratitude come across my face.

The world is waiting for me, waiting to hear my story, my art, my song. Even though I’m afraid, I’ll come out of my shell and share what I can while I’m here.

As I reflect on sharing my art with the world, I realise, as I watch the sun set, that the art I created in solitude for so long must finally see the light. The art that made my family smile, or made my own heart pause in reflection, must be free to fly away, to a world where new eyes can finally see it.

Although thoughts about my reputation come into my mind, I see my image is not the most important thing for me. Reputation feels like something that could always change, depending on how the people view me and judge me. But I feel my art comes from a deep place that will last beyond my reputation. It comes from my heart, mind, and soul, and it will always have a place in the universe.

I open my eyes again, the smile of gratitude still shining on my face. ‘Tomorrow’s the big day,’ I think, ‘and I’m looking forward to it!’ My fears are fading away and I imagine myself on the stage, sharing my art with the world.

(c) Destiny Hankerson, 2025

Connect with Destiny via her website: Destinyhankerson.carrd.com

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Finally, I’ve chosen Tavinder’s beautiful poem, which reflects on how the presence of a higher being fortifies them to overcome, to be uplifted and offers them calm, healing and spiritual reassurance. As we move on into the next few weeks, may you, too, find someone or something to guide and release you to let go, so you can  start to become.

Your Presence

Your presence makes me feel better,
When your eyes sparkle as they see me,
It raises my spirit, and I feel carefree,
I feel calm, it is the balm of my healing.

Your presence makes me feel better,
When you feel happy, as soon as I arrive,
It gives me the drive to carry through to the next day,
I feel beaming as it is a gleam to life.

It raises my spirit, and I feel carefree,
You see me as no one else does,
My inner vulnerability appears as I can let it go,
cry, weep, or feel negativity.

Your presence is all I need,
I feel calm, as it is a balm for my healing.
It helps me to deal with life,
You see me as no one else does,
For this, I am grateful.

© Tavinder New, 2025

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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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