The first of a series of ‘postcards’ – tiny, unconnected stories. The edge of the table cloth moves under the breeze. Worn, white jacquard, soft on my hands, creases easily as my fingers undo its neatness. Folds meet pattern; describing possibility. Dressing a table pleases me; a naked table’s as sad as a bare mattress. […]
places we return to
So, Generation X, are you sitting comfortably? You at the back? Yes, you. Don’t slouch. Well then, I shall begin. Once upon a time there was a writer. No, no, not that one. There was that one teacher in school, probably older than your mum, who constantly reminded you that you’d not be carrying a […]
gate you draw rust where heat’s been; some passage of time; life’s clouded outcomes; weather or not we care. you’re iron to me; blood strength. took years to find you; all: frame, hinge, key, arch; allowing passage back.
“Unbridled creativity is a bit nuts” Why do we go on conferences? Because my boss said? But I’m self employed. Because my professional body says I must do some form of ongoing education? As a copywriter I have no professional body as such. Because it’s good for me? Well, now you come to mention it. […]
a poem from my walking … Dandelion Our moon fell hard to earth, soaked through night to soil. The shivering ground waited; swallowed silver gilded dust. For winter a formless heart; ice and rain raise no pity. The world holds on … for something better. An imperfect star orbits; reluctant saviour, pulling close. Warmth and […]
Lily my dear father was long winter’s Equinox; he mixed into mother mine; last Moon of the Year. i remember this; their coupling made me. head in the sky and roots in the earth; i am Lily. my feet have not travelled but these toes, in the soil, challenge cold Death. at your ending […]
road home empty house, no-one’s calling dreams are maps; I am sleepless, drowning at the end of the world choking on strangers’ needs days inside the machine, nights in a foreign bed, looking for the road home seasons pass, rain grows cold, bricks and stone are prison, the moon cannot catch me, my fear poisons […]
Random reflection. What’s punk, what’s culture, what do we want, where are we now. Where’s my tea?
A poem, and it’s not about singing … All There Is I wasn’t old. But enough; enough about years. They pass to silence. To sing. I knew; pitch, phrase, breath. All of it. That day. No more or less. A series of disasters. I was too small. So many other singers; loud, laughing. Ready. Better. […]