Silk, Mustard brown. – 26/9/17

Unspiced moon,

Watercolour-blue, paper carded sky, marked on crisp white labels, starry seeds. Black wells of pooling ink,


The waiting crocodiles yawn, illuminated in cool moonlight. Silk strands curling off corn heads writher till white herons set off

Across the coarse brown sand.


dVerse spice prompt. 


Information – 21/9/17

The desk is clear, dark,

One defined yellow square, post-it note,

Stuck there. Leaning down, I tear it sharply,

Pencil scribbles, just made out,

Says “Call back the dentist.”

I toss it and it floats curving,

A yellow square on the floor, two centimetres from the bin.


Prompt from Poetic Asides to write an information poem, remembering that not all information is created equal.


The Question is Yours – 18/9/17

Of all the things I lost
Under my bed,
Does this quiet snail have to emerge?


That question is yellow and quite rhetorical.


Why is it,
That all the things I lost
Are under my bed
And you are at the very back, squashed between Shakespeare’s As You Like It and the guitar I never learnt to play?


That question is a puddle.


Can I
Make the bed flat again
Turning corners and
Catching and squeezing like putty
lost and slippery things I’ve forgotten
The ones that illude, dodging over edges, now nothing, I slip a finger on them and it comes back gold dust but the bedcover is smooth and I cannot remember their faces?


That question is….



Prompt from dVerse, questions!


I don’t know the why (dVerse prompt) – 17/9/17

I remember the joy when I first realised a poem does not need to rhyme. I wrote a not-bothered poem, unrhyming, looked at it and thought, this isn’t poetry. Then I looked again and thought, who cares? I like to write my poems in huge blocks and chunks of text, then I come back later and cut it up into the rhythms my tongue tasted as I spewed it from  my mind to the blank white. If I write fast enough I can get this feeling out, amazing how my thoughts come forth in settled patterns, forcing a poem. Later I will read it back and think, how on earth did that genius, that tiny bit there, come out of me? I will then cut ruthlessly to remove the non-genius. I do not remove it all because to do so would often leave me with one word here and one there looking completely unrelated on the page. I often write in Drought. Dust colours my nostalgia, my water is my utopia, my earth and joyous home is crackling grass and the flying crows that whiten bones. I write in feelings and also gel pens or black pens or computer screens. I try to make my feelings clearer by obscuring them in metaphor, in the hopes that someone will pick my wild random phrase and say, you know, I have felt that too. I want my words to give me wings. I will write an impossibility and after when I read it through, I will say, you know, I believe that this could be real and look, look at how that word there is fluttering, it wants to be true as well.


Summer takes a sigh

Lungs collapsing in the sun

Birds fly on up-draft



A prompt from dVerse, to explore why we write in the style we do, with a traditional haiku at the end. I’m not sure my response made my why any clearer, but I didn’t realise before I thought about it that this is definitely my style, at least at the moment. I haven’t put in any line breaks as I usually do so you can see it as it is raw. I still and probably always will be growing in the way I write, so this is a snapshot of me now, I guess.




Fingers – 17/9/15

You know how when someone makes a blanket,
Their fingers hold the thread,
Turn it over, slip it in,
Pull it tight.
They debate the colours, hold them up.
Admire this one with that.
They tie the tassels on the end,
They tie the knots.
They work until the wool is tangled
And then spend half an hour unravelling.
They build it in stitches
And squares,
First one and then twenty, It grows under their fingers.
Every time they pull the thread through to make a stitch.


But when you hold that woollen blanket,
Granny squared, or purled and knitted,
Each colour bouncing off its partner, just right,
You don’t see the stitches.
You can’t feel the fingers knitting.
It’s joined so seamlessly that this is just a blanket,
Thread turned into fabric and every time the fingers turned it
Just the right way to make this whole
Is gone, forgotten,
Lost in the space between this thread and that one,
it’s slipped out of the gaps
And is laying slightly crooked on a concrete floor.
The only way to feel the loving fingers is to pick it up,
Put it around your shoulders.
You’ll always be safe in here.
Stretch it tight across you, that’s a cool hand running across your back,
And then even if you can’t see the fingers
That twisted this into a hug,
They’re there. Just be held.



I was gunna use this for Sanaa’s prompt at Real Toads but it doesn’t really count because I didn’t go out to write it, I was in my room looking at my granny square rug on my bed. It does fulfil the idea of just letting the idea come naturally, as the prompt says, ‘as Francis Bacon wisely states; “Write down the thoughts of the moment. Those that come unsought for are commonly the most valuable.”‘ This is a great prompt though, and I’d like to try it again sometime, actually going out next time! 



Real Interactions Turned Poetical pt II – 15/9/17

He’s standing in their yard, pine tree green.

His eyes are buried in wrinkles,

Browned and egg head bald.

Straight and very gently tired, corduroy black

Coat, vest, grey shirt, over

Old fashioned suit pants. His whole life is settled here,

Floating down, sloshing in a puddle of time.

Butcher turned baker, he knew the whole town.

His family tragedy, cracked the earth he stood on

Into fissures of volcano soil.

The cracked hearts scarred black

But the old wounds have been covered by new grass for many a year.

Now his old eyes shade kindly when he speaks.

They put his wife in hospital nine months ago,

Four hours every day he slides her way.

He comes out every morning holding the hours precious,

Wrapped in old newspaper,

Carried, breaking eggshells, inside thick and yellow, is all their time.

If he lays them carefully on the faded carpet

Every day when he gets back,

Perhaps they will hold together

A few months more.

The steam engine huge events that have rolled over their puny puddles

Push the water out in heaving waves.

But every time the same water trickles back into the same hollows.

We’ve been through it before, he says.

It’s the new movers in that undo them

Oil to the old water, the puddle thins.

When the old-timers all turn to dust,

Their newspaper lining disintegrated, sodden, gone,

The old place will keep its wheels turning,

With one or two less cogs.

For now the screeching cockatoo and the dank dark pine trees will bear him up

And tomorrow he will see his wife again.



Another one for the metaphor challenge from dVerse! I wasn’t going to, but no one can argue that there isn’t a metaphor here somewhere. I mean if you look really closely. It’s there. Perhaps an extended metaphor even. Somewhere. At this moment metaphor has ceased to look like a real word to me. Metaphor metaphor metaphor. Ok.

Also here’s my other metaphor thing.