Jenny lives in County Dublin and is originally from the seaside town of Bray. Being near the sea always feels like home. Her husband is Galwegian, and they love to spend time there as often as they can. Always curious and drawn to learning, she has a varied career from media to Montessori teaching and is currently working towards her professional HR qualification. She often says she will stop studying, but never gets around to that. Her biggest achievement to date is being a mother to two lovely people. New to the writing scene and enjoying the practice of it and the community very much, Jenny engages with writing as her creative way to process aspects of life around her and her experience. Her poems have been published in the Galway Review and Impspired.
I don't write about love it's ours, it's private. Where we are queen and king passions force bloody battles some won many lost We grieve poultice womb wounds with salt purging the demented Orchid roots reach toward light and air epiphytes survive supported freely I don't write about love, it's ours, it's private.
November 1992, an envelope landed on the parquet floor the girl eyed it, alert, watchful, a parent, up to that moment eternally absent, comatose, awoke instinct sensing threat, battled its way through stupor, “strip it, strip everything!” When she said strip it, she meant it, fingerplates and handles of fine porcelain, ceiling roses, mahogany fireplaces with hand painted tile, Westminster carpets in monarch red ripped like weeds All items remaining shall be seized, the letter stomped out in Courier slab serif, Signed Bailiff without courtesy of identity, the executioner spared from disgraced and desperate eyes The kitchen sink managed to resist as the ruby heat of shame descended on a mother and children evicted, black bags at their heels, locals gorged, scavenging amongst scraps of dignity as frantic children did their best to adult while packing Raggedy Ann and Miss Mouse Sweet pup, nurtured like a baby from 12 weeks, white whiskered now had to go, no dogs allowed in a place not their own, the trinity embarked on the first of many journeys to salvation, heads bowed, tails limp The letter now sits in a drawer in a warm home that hosts a fridge, eternally pregnant with its bounty, where happy children dance and dream watched over by Raggedy Ann who peeps out from a box of memories.
Playing with shadows on the bedroom wall those nights you tucked me up Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John would terrify me before we'd dive into the classic tales Rumpelstiltskin, Rapunzel, Cinderella. You tried to skip ahead and I let you only to remind you at the end we missed the part with the blue dress and you’d have to go back. It was late, I never thought you wanted to be anywhere else; and your shadow tricks! Bunnies, butterflies and swallows before you wrapped me in Victoria Plum. You, with a full cup of patience only out the door to be summoned back by the princess with the golden ball, who'd promise anything for one last kiss.