Reassessing – 21/2/18

Because Wordsworth was lonely,
He gave flowers faces; made them dance.
Imagined a dancing sea,
And found joy in the plants.
A poet, a lonely poet, he made himself smile,
Found a cheerful memory to put in his joy-pile


I have no daffodils, no waves,
Instead twelve sunflowers mine,
Each in reddened sunlight bathes,
Each of their faces shine.
I find my heart grinning along with them,
As each golden head dances on its stem.



Kitchen – 5/11/17

In the heart of the house,
Hand on the towel, drying the casserole dish
When the house takes a deep breath
Pushing in spring air,
And drawing my eyes to the open door and the white butterflies kissing the dying grass.

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.


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!