Monday, April 29, 2013


The demons haunted hard the nights,
of childhood's lonely days;
those fears which drifted in my dreams
and hovered round my days.

But desperation raised her head,
to win a bitter fight,
them buried them beneath my thoughts;
locked deep and kept from light.

But demons do not disappear,
when simply moved from view,
in fact the darkness feeds them well
and many come from few.

So now the woman heeds the call,
to tidy childhood's room,
to open drawers and cupboards too
and bring all into view.

And as the demons reach the light,
so small and old they seem,
the brightness blows them all away...
or was it just a dream?


Sunday, April 28, 2013


When you truly forgive
there is no need to forget,
for the pain has been left
behind, and all that remains
is a memory, which is
a part of your life.

Wintering soul

The Autumn creeps inside my soul,
casts shadowed, branching shapes,
the mind stripped slowly, leaf by leaf;
with dying thoughts replaced.

The trunk of Self is rooted deep,
within earth's chilling arms,
and brightness bears a blackened edge
as Winter makes its mark.

Like leaves the memories are called,
from greater heights to fall,
upon the base and settled place;
their life, so soon withdrawn.

The soul has found a wintering world,
where it must spend its days,
until the living sap is drawn,
to bring it forth again.

Bricks of pain

Bricks of pain and mortar'd fear
built high around the child,
a prison strong
and ages deep
to cut the angry cries.

And as the wall grew higher still,
to keep the world away,
they trapped the child,
slow-choked her voice
and buried her alive.

This prison pain so strongly built,
stood fast through all the years,
and still within
the child stood
and called the dark her friend.

And when the woman followed close,
the echoes in her mind,
she found the prison,
felt its walls
and knew what lay inside.

She touched each brick,
knew whence they came,
touched lips to bitter stone,
drank deep the tears of tired days;
remembered what had gone.


Saturday, April 27, 2013

I dragged the dreams....

I dragged the dreams reluctantly
through fields of mouldering hope,
across the riven chalk and clay;
beyond the place of crows.

The ravens watched with beady eyes,
the draggings dark and bright,
and fluttered wings of sullen death;
brought day to bed of night.

In silken, slow meanderings,
the images were brought,
from landscapes well remembered;
though source too long forgot.

It seemed as if a red-blood sun,
had burst horizon's breast,
and rose in mocking memory;
the truth now full repressed.

But only in the looking back,
could traces still be seen,
of decimated life and love;
of light and broken dreams.

To gather up the fraying shreds,
to weave discarded parts,
would bring to birth new futures;
restore a grieving heart.

The mind can stitch so carefully,
can draw with graceful thread,
embroider with such faithfullness,
that life is brought from death. 

Who sorts the thoughts

Who sorts the thoughts within my mind,
decides what shall be seen,
keeps index cards on ancient files
of all I've ever been?

Each thought, each moment,
neatly shelved; not seen but always known,
sometimes re-read, when mind decides,
just what I should be shown.

This master-keeper of my mind,
works long and silent hours;
cross-reference, delete and date,
to study, sort and file.

This is the key, the only guide
to all I've ever been
and holds close-tight the evidence,
of the eternal me.


Friday, April 26, 2013


When life has taken us in hand
and drawn us to the edge,
to stand upon abysmal grief;
when there is nothing left.

When heart has rendered mournfully,
when mind has splintered full,
when known is lost in chaos;
then we begin to heal.

To dredge the depths of nothing,
to wade through darkest dross,
to stumble on the dregs of hope;
then we have found our cross.

It's when the nails of truth are felt,
as crucifying light,
that we can know the day is done;
that hope crawls into sight.

If fish could fly

If fish could fly and birds could swim,
well then we'd have to think again,
and know that putting things in place,
all boxed up, no greater space,
is not the way that this world works,
and keeps us locked; no gifts unfurled.
But then again, who said they don't?
Who made the rules which say it's so?
For there are fish which surely fly
and there are birds which swim;
which just suggests that life is best,
when rules are not so prim.
It also says that just because,
someone has made a claim,
it doesn't mean there's any truth;
so question time again.

If fish could fly and birds could swim

Thursday, April 25, 2013


Night cradled day so gently,
as if to soothe its soul,
and croon the words of comfort,
as death took brightening hold.

There was within that moment,
as shadowed forms were drawn,
a bleeding of the sunshine;
life offered in new form.

The minutes clamoured tightly,
upon light's heaving back,
in honoured, hauled procession;
the sun set sail, close-tacked.

The tree and me

There was the tree resplendent,
in purpled, rippled foam,
that made me so dependent;
that offered up a home.
And in the blissful blossoming,
of boughed and branching space,
the golden eyes were glistening;
the panther found her place.

The poem prompt.
If you were a color, what color would you be? (Silly, huh?) OK, if you were a tree, what tree would you be? (Still silly.) Or not silly enough? So let’s do this… If that tree were that color (and no, please don’t say “green”) AND you were an animal up in that tree – what animal would you be?


There was a knock upon the door,
light touch I feared to know;
depression made a timely call
to talk to me awhile.

My eyes grown misted by the tears,
saw enemy outside, but in my heart
a still voice, said so silently:
'Ask your friend inside.'

And when I opened wide the door,
embraced and led her in,
she held my hand, caressed my brow
and hugged me in my grief.

Then shared my tears, heard well my fears,
and nodded at the words,
that till this time no other ear
but mine had really heard.

And then she turned and walked away,
passed silent through the door,
with one grey wave and brief, slow smile
to farewell me once more.


Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Harsh fire which blisters,
strips and sears,
blow-bubbled tears of pain,
to wrest the wrap, peel back
the layers, to show
from whence I came.

As memory screams, then
melts and drips, slow sighs
itself away, life dribbles
from an older face,
bright-painted yesterday.

And when the last, lost layer
is scorched and scraped,
reveals; the day pays
grave due homage,
the wind sighs words of praise.

The sun bends low with gracious
touch, to rest upon the brow,
and whispers what I know;
that only the sure hand of love,
can lead me on from now.


How easily we pour forth hate

How easily we pour forth hate
and point our crippled fingers,
at those we have judged guilty,
before their time in court.

How quickly we condemn someone,
for crimes that we can see,
without there being certainty,
of innocence or guilt.

How quickly do we shout,
and cheer the 'criminal' brought down,
ignore their pain and suffering;
won't wait till justice's done.

How quickly can we turn around,
when it is done to us,
and cry it is not fair -
your treatment is not just.

But then of course it is too late,
the damage has been wrought,
and principles are sacrificed;
our freedoms now are lost.

NB: in light of the irrational hysteria and vengeful hatreds set loose in the US following the bombing in Boston. A level of hysteria which has not been seen in any other developed nation which has suffered the same sort of tragedy.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

God stretched

God stretched and in the doing,
released the servant Good;
bright lamp in dark unknowing,
soft smiling as she walked.
And when the light grew brighter still,
banned shadow, welcomed truth
it laid itself in homage low;
God's heart revealed in full.


Monday, April 22, 2013

God laughed

God laughed and in the smiling
the servant joy was born;
warm hope the way was showing,
close shadow to her tread.
Light-stepped she roamed the centuries,
a timeless, ageless sign
that Joy was our deliverer-
too often left behind.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

God's image

The minds are many,
grains of sand,
and yet they make
the whole;
each one exists,
it can be seen
and yet seems
trivial small.
But with each grain,
such image grows
and vision stretching
far, along the coast
of God's great love,
a beauteous beach
is born.
A place to rest,
for every soul,
where hearts can
lie in peace;
a place where God
may pause and leave
an image printed


N.B. My use of the word God is linked to no religion and is offered to meet any interpretation of an intelligence at work, which people may perceive as they wish.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

It's a funny thing about tears

It's a funny thing about tears -
they have a way of just appearing.

But so much passion
pulls them forth, well-racked
and tortured still;
like drowning souls they fight
for life and grip my body well.
What called them out,
or was it who and where have
they been hid? But questions
too are washed away
by this tumultuous flood.

It's a funny thing about tears-
they have a way of just disappearing.

Thoughts and leaves

The leaves so light,
released in air
that cradles to a palm,
and takes them down
to dress the earth;
wet cloak of wintry care.

They fall and fall and
fall some more,
from heights we barely see,
to lie at last a tattered gown
beneath the barren tree.

My thoughts so light,
released in air,
to float between us now,
perhaps to fall within your mind,
that I, myself can share.

They fall and fall and
fall some more,
from heights we barely see,
to lie at last, a tattered gown
beneath the barren tree.


Wednesday, April 17, 2013


How easily we empathise
with those we call our own,
and in the doing then deny,
that we are all as one.

How easily we turn our minds,
to those who suffer close,
selective in our sympathy;
dismiss the other's loss.

How easily we tell ourselves,
our pain is worse than most,
that suffering in others,
is not our first concern.

How easily we can divide,
the world in which we are,
into those definitions;
the labels, 'them' and 'us.'

There is no doubt a limit,
to what we can absorb,
but it can be enough to know;
our grieving is not more.

Within the heart of living,
we beat and move as one,
and that which others feel;
is what we do become.



Such clumsy carriers locked and lost
on rubbled roads of mind.
I load my thoughts with crying care,
adjust the goods to fit,
and send you rattling on ahead.
I watch with hope and then with fear,
delivery that you give,
and know the load holds nothing real.
And when I turn to check the road,
I find it littered long
with all the treasures I had packed..
ah words, you do me wrong.


Tuesday, April 16, 2013


There was a blush upon your face,
a colour risen slow,
as I walked in and noticed you;
your eyes a darker glow.
With nothing said and nothing done,
beyond that first slow look,
our hearts were synchronised as one;
those many years ago.
And when your image rises up,
still resonates my mind,
I see the flush of cheek and brow;
that ember of desire.

Death of the Spring

Snow shuffles slow
to the edge of the year,
huddled at the abyss.
Frosted eyes lost
to the night that has come,
seeking another day more.
Bells ringing well season's end
and farewell, laughing
again at our fears.
Why do we cry without hope
every time, fearing
the death of the Spring?

I wrote this while living in Europe.

Song of love

The song of love sang silently
in chords of deepest pain,
as strumming, fingered certainty;
as heart's new hopes re-made.
And in the notes of dreaming,
the tune was slowly played,
upon my mind and body;
the passion re-arranged.
I rose upon the lilt of joy,
and fell into the depths,
of all the best and worst of me;
of all that you possessed.
In soaring hallelujahs,
the voice of love was raised,
in tribute to relationship;
to honour all we gave.

Play a piece of instrumental music. While listening, write the scene, story, images you hear. Craft a poem.

K.D. Lang's Hallelujah.

When people act badly

When people act badly
remember, that they do so
from a place of damage
or woundedness, for
it is not in our soul nature
to seek to hurt others.

Listen then to the whispered
words of your heart,
and not to those the ego
would shout in defence,
for that would only take you
to your own place of
woundedness, or damage,
and add to the pain.

It is in holding to the grieving,
with compassion for the source,
and understanding that,
if they were not so damaged,
or so wounded, then they would
not do what they have done,
and it is, at the end, about
them and not about you.

When people are cruel, unkind,
thoughtless, inconsiderate or
rude, it is their broken child
crying out and the only answer
that child can hear is the silent
breath of love and understanding,
and perhaps the song of hope,
which plays beneath them.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Broken hours

The minutes made
as broken hours,
mosaic on the plate
of day's demands,
and night's deep dreams;
the soul to re-create. 
The shards selected
carefully and chiselled
into shape; glued tight
in beauty's shattered form,
as destiny displayed.
Each piece washed clean
with shuddered tears,
each fragment holding 
grace; the image 
re-constructed, the pain
released as fate. 
It's in the dusty breakings,
upon life's brittle floor,
that we can find serenity;
that art can be revealed.

Dawn at Uluru

Sun sent forth a tongue of light
to lick the sullen face,
of ancient rock and blood-red earth;
to bring a re-born grace.

Salivating silence searched
through dew-dust on the ground,
those hidden tears of darkness;
the source of life profound.

And when the dawn drew in its breath,
and sighed upon the land,
the vision raw and somnolent,
displayed the day's new plan.

Poets & Writers has a geographical prompt today: Find a map—of the Earth, the United States, or your home state or city—or visit Google Maps, pick a town at random, and write a poem about daybreak in that specific location, inventing any pertinent details.

Some weeks are just so hard

Some weeks are just so hard,
the gutters lined with tears,
and dusted grief lies dead like leaves;
as sadness slowly breathes.

You know that it will pass in time,
that all will then be healed,
but in the holding moments,
it simply hurts to feel.

Some things are simply sad and bleak,
there is no brightness found,
and falling into deep, dark realms
leads on beyond it all.

Sometimes it's just the way it is,
and nothing can be done,
but taking one day at a time,
until the days are gone.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Raw moments

Raw moments buttoned tidily
to keep me from the draughts,
which sigh and sing so chillingly;
beat time upon my heart.

Such sadness bloused becoming,
to clothe the days of grief,
pin-tucked and trimmed for others;
to keep me always neat.

But hidden times will call them forth,
burst free from dress demands,
when threads of form can hold no more
and pain is in command.


They haunt the hollow halls of night,
tramp hard upon my mind,
and drag my fears like broken wings;
displayed as splintered signs.
Dissected by the glistening claws,
my heart is riven wide,
for monsters hold the truth of me;
teeth turned in sharp deride.
Love lays upon the silent stones,
turns cold in bitter shreds,
and waits for time to raise it all;
to hang on ancient pegs.
In crucifying constancy they call,
echoed horrors through the dream of day,
slipping through the darkened door of dawn,
determined that I will be shown the way.
And in the shadow dream of fallow night,
I glimpse a shining thread beneath the shawl,
of demons cowled and crawling close;
identity has yet to be revealed.
For angels dress in ways we do not know,
shape-shift upon the shivered face of life,
to bring us what we need but would deny;
to frighten us to change through brutal strife.
It's in this drawing out and stretching slow,
that we become the most that we may be,
and in the hurdled hurting of our grief,
can find the shape of I as well as me.


It is in realms ephemeral,
the place where dreams reveal,
possibilities of life;
hopes close-held, eternal.
Lure with shining constancy,
holding to the path;
addictive in their certainty,
released or not, at last.

This weekend we're asking for exactly 33 of your own words inspired by the following quote from the book you could win in the WBN giveaway. Good luck!

“It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.” ― Paulo Coelho, Alchemist

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Silence at the end of the world

Warm dust blowing and covering,
mantling the broken stone,
hiding the twisted wreckage
in an effort to forget.

The stunned sky weeps and clouds
in a film of powdered death;
charred slivers of confident cities,
scream at a foreign sun.

Houses open-mouthed bare their souls,
voice silent protest at their fate,
as splintered eyes of glinting disbelief
reflect the washed, grey light.

The seed is buried in the earth,
cradled in the bitten soul;
fear warms it, terror nurses it,
hope keeps it alive.

Lifeless but hot with memory,
the cringing land moves warily;
creeping, crawling, crying,
it sighs and laughs and sighs.

No ear to hear a breaking wall,
no eye to watch it die - alone it returns,
as the wiser wind whistles silent
through each smiling metal skeleton.

N.B. This is a poem I wrote when I was fifteen when nuclear war was felt to be more of a possibility.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013


The beaker shattered beautifully,
releasing all it held,
so love could drain in liquid fall;
and hate could be revealed.

There was in bubbled bruising,
the trickle of our past,
and alchemy in mocking shine;
a cruel, complete contrast.

The heart had held hermetic,
the truth of all we were,
and simmered slow and soulfully,
the death of all we knew.

There was no understanding,
no insight to the cause,
which carried us mysterious,
from joy to hell's sharp claws.

ALCHEMY (noun)

: a medieval chemical science and speculative philosophy aiming to achieve the transmutation of the base metals into gold, the discovery of a universal cure for disease, and the discovery of a means of indefinitely prolonging life
: a power or process of transforming something common into something special
: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting


Picasso’s “Lobster & Cat”

In madness made apparent,
the lobster rose and drew,
sharp claws of bleak aggression;
the cat recoiled in fear.

From crusted oceanic depths,
the creature had emerged,
to taunt the feline natures;
to haunt the broken earth.

In stricken, furred impressions,
the animal was turned,
from soft and somnolescent;
to horrors full disturbed.

The image true collected,
in retinal address,
made synchronistic telling
of what had been repressed.

Tears are tracing

The tears are tracing down my face,
a living path of pain;
they streak their shine from eye to chin
as secret, soul-born rain.

They write their message round my eyes,
and shout it from my cheeks,
and tell the world I hurt within
of words I cannot speak.

The tears are flowing down my face
to wash the path of pain;
to cleanse the hurt that lives within
as secret, soul-born rain.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Love lays bare

Love lays bare
the tender flesh
that sleeps within
my soul.

It strips
the robes
of reason from
my mind.

It leads me on
through hidden
doors, to places
out of time.


Friday, April 5, 2013


What is this shroud upon the world,
a cloth to drape our limbs;
light-cloaked confusion wrapping round
to hide the truth from view?

This corpse not cold will never rot,
this shroud is ever new,
in flimsy folds that hold and fall,
to keep our eyes from you.

But still we see, blurred vision strains
and through each fine-stitched thread,
a glimpse beyond of something else:
the touch of God's warm breath.


N.B. While I have a great deal of time for God, I have no time for any religion, having explored many and found them all wanting because they make God so small, so petty, so male, so unkind and so banal. So, when I talk about God, I am not talking about God in any religious sense.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

The road

I sit and wait beside the road-
it stretches far and long.
My eyes are wearied by the watch,
my world is still and dull.

Horizon hovers high and wide,
it reaches round from view;
the road still lingers to the edge,
so empty, sad and bare.

I wait. For what? I hardly know.
My mother left me here,
upon the road of childhood,
close-brushed by forest fear.

And still no shadow on the road,
the years wear shabby waiting
and childhood drifted from my hand;
small pebbles on the grave.

The forest sighs. Or was it me?
A breath bent low with tears.
Now I must take the road myself,
to learn where it will lead.


Wednesday, April 3, 2013


In dissipated anger,
the thoughts were cut and fell,
as frozen locks of misery;
reminder of my hell.
In grey, sure-suited sitting,
I stared upon my life,
and held the strands of helplessness;
the broken threads of strife.
They scattered on the floor of pain,
in spread and creep of grace,
as crucified upon the chair,
I found my broken place.
It was an offering to life,
a gift to faceless death,
and in the wanton scattering,
I saw the shape of Self.

Frida Kahlo (Mexican, 1907–1954)

Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair

Oil on canvas
15 3/4 x 11" (40 x 27.9 cm)
Credit Line:
Gift of Edgar Kaufmann, Jr.
MoMA Number:
© 2013 Frida Kahlo / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / SOMAAP, Mexico

The pact

I looked into your face in life
and saw the touch of death;
deep lines of pain, and startled eyes
that spoke of truth not said.

And when we knew I looked again
and hoped to see you there,
but with the truth you slipped away
and made your pact instead.

Your thoughts were never mine to have,
but then I ached to hear
of all you felt and thought and hoped;
but still it was not said.

You turned to death and moved away
from all I had to give,
with no goodbyes and no hello's
and I was left to live.