It All Comes Out in the Wash


It All Comes Out in the Wash

I want a wetroom for my memories,
for hanging them like raincoats
or umbrellas. Paired up neatly as
wellington boots. Against the wall.
All my memories, loose and rambling
about, wandering like an army
of small feet on the march.
They’ve fled my head, freed themselves
from sleep-stained pillowcases,
unstitched the seams and then cast
themselves thin as water.

My memories,
It’s laundry day.






Image “Everything is a Remix”by Eurgenia Lori
Written for Margo’s Tuesday Tryouts, What Do You See




I used to know a girl who was a snowball.
Every speck of information, fluff, or grime,
or grit, everything she read, she was.
And it stuck. It all just stuck.
She was always speeding likes skates,
picking up stuff. Useless trivia, facts.
She collected friends, too.

Fortunes. A few.
Luck. Too much.
Lovers. Too many.
Seashells. Leaves. Herpes.

And then it all melted. She melted.
Just the way snowballs do. But like I said,
I used to know her. Haven’t seen nor heard
of her in years, and really, now that I think
about it, I doubt that I knew her when
I thought I knew her. But you can’t expect
much from a snowball.



Written on the A2, BEXLEY HILL •

Every Rock, Every Wave

Every Rock, Every Wave

Rock your weight into it.
That’s how I was taught.
Granny said, You rock like
the curve on a chair but
light as your heel on a wave.

My thoughts are blurred.
Every rock, every wave.
Blurred rhythms. Heartfelt.
And then
he walks into the kitchen.

Slippers scuff, and he’s
holding the newspaper.
It’s like folded origami,
and gosh, he’s wearing
those pyjamas that always

turn my head, make me
feel sixteen. Or twenty-one.
I wash my hands, clean
the dough from my nails.

He likes them painted,
Painted a scarlet red.
I give him a kiss,
Good morning, he says…


Need a hint as to the “interest” – just click the link for a photo




Written for Red Wolf Poems, Wordle 29,
words: clean waves origami rock blurred pyjamas painted

Howling Between Those Gaps


Howling Between Those Gaps

She woke this morning just as I did,
maybe earlier, maybe cooked her
children a hot breakfast; afterall it’s
stormy outside, raining. That hurricane
blowing itself out in great puffs of wind
that pressed against old trees and
howled between gaps under windows.
Was her last meal her favourite? Did
she hear her favourite song today,
hear her children laugh, wish someone
a good day, tell someone she loved
them? Did she know she was loved
when that tree made her a headline?


Written for Margo’s Accident prompt.

Found: The Enterprise of Time


The Enterprise of Time

I am
a second step
of time, as snow and frost
have occupied a possessed man’s
No joy
this success can
bring, enthusiasm
assailed by whose eyes disprove
my life.




Written for Found Poetry Review: Form Double Cinquain,
sourced from From: Shelley, Mary “Frankenstein.”
Bookbyte Digital, 1818-01-01. iBooks,
“Archangel”, 28th March, 17— To Mrs. Saville, England 






The Seers of Laughter


The Seers of Laughter

I’ll tell you a secret – I’m a prisoner
to a child’s laughter. I’m caught
like a shadow in the wiles of sunlight.

Their smiles fill my head with sparkle
and shine. Seers, a diamond’s clarity.
They spill colour into crazy quilts.

That’s it – please, make me a martyr
to a child’s joy, their songs that ring
like steel tempered in iced water.

Take me, and never a stranger shall
I be to childhood’s numerous delights.




Photo Flickr Commons
Written for Sunday Whirl
This week’s words: shine, crazy
diamond, martyr, seer, secret,
laughter, prisoner, childhood,
steel, stranger, shadow



A Chase Back Home


A Chase Back Home

I shall pack my bags, and fly.
Board this vessel of my imagi-

nation, and set my ears to tunes
of rolling waves. I’ll bathe in mists

flipped on end by southern winds,
soft piqued scents of greening pines.

I shall chase my footprints, skipping
with grains of sand, and toss aside

worries as if they be stiffen boots.
All that, as I chase myself back home.








image from the kitchens garden and used with permission
and poem written to prompt: Red Wolf Poems “Playing on a Deserted Island”


Postcards from Poland

PostcardsPoland 15Oct14


Dear Dora,

Dad’s decided that pigeons are God’s marvel.
Sherman tanks with little wings. And something
about their heads hinged straight to their knees.
And they take-off into the air from a standing start.
Truly. A marvel. But after yesterday’s mess, we’re
not entirely convinced about the luck of it. Dad says
he’s taking his coffee inside the café from now on.

Love Edna (from somewhere in Poland)

(ps, still can’t find a post office.)

A Winter Walk into Grey


A Winter Walk into Grey

There’s a limp hanging mood
in the blue glazed pots. Long sticks,
once stems, poking upward like tails
of happy cats greeting each other.

And the air is soaked through,
a spongiform grey, cold and thick
as a butcher’s rump. I slip into my
coat, grab an umbrella, a hat, all

I’ll need for stepping out. Into fog.
Into October’s deadpan breeze.
It’s time for an afternoon winter’s
walk with an overly excited dog.




For Margo’s landscape 15 October 2014