last night …

Someone tried to break into my home. Breached sanctuary. I’m ashamed of how terrified I was. How I looked around my bedroom for a weapon. Found one. How I still felt powerless as the door was heaved upon, the windows battered.

Jezzie cat stayed with me, the other two hid well.

Barricading the bedroom door I wondered if he was the one who stabbed my tank a month ago for diesel. Cost me loads I haven’t got to fix it. Thank goddess for credit cards. Hid that and the car keys. Few understand the bond between a gal and her car. And livelihood. The mortgage and stuff that needs paying for. That needs wheels. And to feel safe.

The police came and removed him from the back yard. He was just a hooded youth. Off his face. Now I’m even more ashamed. Of all of us.

dream’s catch

the circle tips and we slip,
beads of the same thread
colliding sideways;
on the edge but touching now
we spin over it,
dream of being
shiny stones in a pond

or feathers cast adrift in rain,
a scattered whirl in flight
making circles of our own,
spinning wilder dreams
to find us;
time’s compulsion nullified


now the night is awesomely indifferent,
a voyeur star-ing down, unsisterly,
thought slips on edgy gravel underfoot,

dice rolling echoes into silence;
it’s time to spin like dust …

escape in the rise of alien birdsong,
shiver through each tonal beauty
beside yours, so painfully untouchable

australian dawn chorus not essential listening, not a soundtrack either, just a by the way


she’ll tip a dark stiletto to your lip
guide her wave to yours
curl martini hips like a smile
pressed into action for the time
of moon or year or simple pleasure

in the act of love – so cool
in showtime’s final blow – to kiss

image: nathan rohlander

re-genesis 2

In the dark after words my cloudy breath
wandered four slow hours.
An icy fern crawled the bedside window;
its fingertip entered mine and grew inside

like doubt: first one thin spine then more,
then fractal buds, curled fists
ready with an urge to freezeframe thought.

You slept through it all, one arm curled
around my glassy form.
Perhaps this time I will not break,
wake more than less in touch.

re-visioned December 19

image: the bohemian gothic tarot deck (lovers)

written for rhythm

memories bounced then slid on wine
heading for the screendoor.
unfamiliar with the layout
of my moonish mind
they twisted, drowned exquisitely.

ethanol laments

abandonment; who cries about
the violin you smashed?
you’re a ghost on my doorstep
marking time, unstrung.
one bad patch in the afternoon
after summer’s chase.


what i actually posted in the challenge noted in last post …

the ten words?
patch memories violin doorstep laments afternoon bounced chase screendoor cries

no name for this

moon’s patch on the doorstep

won’t shape your shadow

now that afternoon’s been crushed

by the slam of metal into blood



go now darling go


your gaze a total wild of love

before the screendoor

closed, memories untouched

by the chase of metal into bone



and again we break



this started out as a challenge on critical poet but i couldn’t use the ten words offered … didn’t even mean to write this really but my heroangelcat was killed on the road a few weeks ago whilst coming to greet me from the car .. guess i needed to try and write something but this is nothing like a tribute … maybe that will come when i am free of selfish tears

i love you, Rusty


open palm: gently. watch the gold
moth-flicker swell to air

dive into the wait of blue

how a tremor tickled flight
inside: a lifeline



image courtesy and copyright of Stuart Dunlop


a gentle man winks and tips an edge of smile at the hearty mango sunset. turns to wander. picking up the pace he skips to swirl a-breeze.

You shouldn’t miss me, I am always here or here about. Easy to find.
Being everywhere is just a result of fiddling with the time machinery.

rabbit preens soft-evening-velvet ears. senses poise for the heady taste of marigold.
so close. very. now.
delicious revelation caught in the hop of unexpected farewell. bite. life.

(the italics are Paul’s words)

unhinged 2

my babes are dying, wanna watch?
you can’t hurt us any more;

mine’d enough, slow poison weights
each sigh – gonna look yet?

take your slick hands off my thigh
while that godforsaken wallet

ticks and counts desire as meaning
less, the interest paid reluctantly;

i’m choking, fool, touch us there
while the ocean fills with bones



remind me how it goes, the litany:
one-sided being’s greedy
drenched in birth of need,
clinging to sweet balance, hung
on echoes of a mother’s day.

i got it, then i saw the news:
another spillage day.

my car’s off the road, needs
more oil to stem the bleed.
i feed the birds
share pleasantries,
pretend all’s right.

airbrushed eyelids quiver,
spin the rem again.


remind me how it goes, the litany:
one-sided being is a greed
drenched in simple birth of need
clinging to sweet balance hung
on echoes of a mother’s day.

i got it, ‘til i saw the news:
another oil-spill of a day.

my car is off the road, i need more
cash to stem the bleed
feed bright birds
share pleasantries
pretend that everything’s alright.

airbrushed on my eyelid quiver
shades of madness spin the rem again.


inspired by Paul’s performance and my strange mood …


i love what your hands do but
that gunshot haunts
like starlight
crashing bright ‘n’ dirth

and now the godly birdsong
hurts to hunt
every pain or joy i snared
wanting just to know

how it works
how it bleeds to fly

so like me crawling to the edge
hanging over
to watch starlight spike
loose bolts of earth ’n’ birth

beloved J’s version – way Lighter than mine turned out *heh

i love your hands
but gunshot haunts
like starlight crashing
bright ‘n’ dirth

and now the birdsong
hurts to hunt
every pain or joy i snare
just wanting to know

how it works,
how it perks,
how it bleeds to fly,

like me crawling to the edge
to watch starlight spike
loose bolts of earth
’n’ birth, hung over


i love what your hands do but
that gunshot haunts
like starlight
crashing bright ‘n’ dirth

and now the godly birdsong
hurts to hunt
every pain or joy i caught
and pulled the wings off

wanting just to know
how it works
how it bleeds to fly
so like me

crawling to the edge and
hanging over
to watch starlight fall
through spokes of birth ‘n’ earth


when i started this blog i wasn’t going to reveal anything directly personal, though poeticalia does just that, of course …

this post steps right through that comfort-veil because some dreams step us over mindful lines and limitations …

i’ve written this without a care for style or craft. it’s what it is.
i considered passwording but didn’t, yet …


Visiting Dad and Sue (his second wife) but both very … different … no pretensions or social whatevers, just loving, warm and open in ways their busy-calendar lives don’t seem to allow. They were both so Real and so was i, Real i mean … like anyone else i wear layered shields to protect me from the past and my own mistakes. Sometimes shields are more like nested cages though, yes?

The house was massive, not done up at all though not lacking anything by way of mod cons; everything placed kind of haphazardly in this mansion of ancient stature that simply wasn’t interested in matching decor themes or fancy fittings. i wandered. Furniture was a timeline mix; old paint-peeling cupboards filled with stuff that felt nostalgic beside ultra new kitchen stuff, all fitted to bare stone walls. No divisions between function, more like self-created yet unlimited areas. This seemed important; emotion flowed unimpeded, everything was powerfully alive with purpose and meaning. Spirit within physicalia?

Outside it was raining heavily. Potent somehow. It seemed sunny inside though. Beams of light shone through huge windows, almost like spotlights but not at all harsh, more glowing and splendid. Both rain and sunlight felt conscious, self-aware.

i’m trying but can’t really describe the intense enormity of all this.

Many other souls present too, though i didn’t recognize any of them. Sort of a gathering. Souls from Dad’s world? i was focused entirely on him. Marveling at him, actually.

Dad was breathtakingly strong and healthy; he wore dark blue jeans and a t-shirt (with light blue piping) … he never wears “colours” and certainly not jeans! His clothes were radiant and new. So was he.

i was awed and proud of him. Everyone was. Dad seemed his full self, like i’ve never seen him. A dignified and respectful joy pervaded this special occasion. He was the star, the heart of what was happening. i waited my turn, knew it was coming.

At last, he focused on me too. He approached where i was waiting for him. Sat opposite and drew me close. He hugged and rocked me.

i’ve never felt a hug like it, except perhaps when Angel bathes me in those golden rays that make me smile and sing; maybe that’s similar, but this, so intimate, precise, was something else. Timeless and perfect. Just for us. The prodigal daughter receiving comfort from a much missed father. A total cliché i know, but so whole and precious; i don’t recall this happening in childhood or ever.

This hug contained every hug we never shared.
This hug did away with every foolish barrier we’d put up between us.
This hug melted every awkward reticence to declare our love.

Our emotional and physical distance has been acute; not classifiable as a mutual rejection, more an overwhelming void neither tried to do away with. Too much we couldn’t say, perhaps? Frightened what might happen if we got honest about how we let each other down? Ashamed that after being so very close in the younger years, we let circumstantial others redefine and rule us?

Dad or God? Whichever, it was a world of completion and bliss. That one hug vanished every desperate thing i’ve done to try and feel like that in 3d. i gave him his daughter, free of blaming myself or him. He gave me my father. When angry ego’s gone, there’s clarity and Love.

Woke up wondering if this was my father’s passing over, his embrace a gorgeous reconciliation. i think so.

i’m crying today but it’s ok.

His embrace never said “gone”

His embrace said “here”


night’s precious independence
weaves shadow
slide of grace in streetlight glow;
she’s still here, a quiet ache


between tree and star, silence
is a-dream in breeze,
a tremble of herself in silver
blossom so, gently now

M1 : Sheffield

grind to a halt in the crawler’s lane.
on a bridge. decide.
the barrier’s too highly strung,
there’s no space to rev and fly sure

enough. car might burn and they’d
save your crush, debride
what’s left forever
(you’ll wish you’d jumped. forever)

get out. you’ll have to storm the void
full-breath, tip the axis quantified
by rush hour fear of survival.
you’re on the bridge. now decide.

nastiche (nasty chic)


she likes them to fight back in her way
your last breath should fit parameters,
maid of Prada’s best
accomplished minion, faking it of course

careful, sweets, don’t rub my shoulder
the wrong way, blade’s a’waiting

moon’s need of a beautiful new scar, one
that doesn’t contravene her
craving for perfection’s granite
face, tranquil in dimensions’ turn

careful, sweets, don’t touch this blade,
its response is pointed inward

another challenge poem

not about …(voiced)

this poem is not about painting glass,
a slide of ghostlines focus into silhouette
bird captured in bright colour swirl

“this is going nowhere,” she thinks
an echo of a someone else, transparent

maybe her

before another coughs and says
“you’re painting in fresh blood?”

maybe hers

so here they are, those shadow voices
at the door with starling confirmation
of a cut lawn, fuschia dripping

luscious pink on sunburst daisy chains
knowing that a link has burned, up and out;
this poem is not about how freedom works.


The Wild Challenge (in brief):
Write a poem using the techniques of reversal and denial. Begin your poem with the words “This poem is not about . . . then go on to write the poem. Occasionally come back to the statement: “This poem is not about . . .”


sliding to evade the stains
i’m all out of here-see-
me, sneaking down the stairs

please find borderline
excuses, mirrored
wax a scarlet hiss;

the aviary inside my ribs
will not shut up
until daylight pierces

palms and eyelids,
songbird screaming
open now

my not-posted response to a one-word title challenge on Wild Poetry

i reclaim …

the flowery cliffs, climb with the girl
whose battleground is night,
when the watcher comes.

She shows me where stars gather,
re-marks Pegasus with Indian
summer palms; he is her favourite.

My girl prepares to face the entity astride
defiance bright with alchemy,
a firstblood stance packed with a vital strike.

I reclaim her courage to say no,
climb cliffs for flowers, to be difficult and wild.

unposted draft for a poetry challenge on Wild Poetry Forum;
they want an “i reclaim my inner child” type thing and i’m not really into that, not in public anyway *heh

crumple zone

raw bend of metal round the corner
greets the meat of other forces,
draws spectators to the roving glare
of Sunday’s red and blue;

the shearing of confinement
takes awhile

mean times, inside, someone
cries into dark walls
about the crash of breath in bone
yet stone appears, unmoved


Smooth as secrets daring to slip out
and knife our shadow lives
cold swam in veins, cruised parlour talk
with the end of everything.

“Are we going to die?”

Mother drank her dreams, turned away.
I thought of birds and horses
burning in the darkness of a scream.


Aphrodite lit another torch,
watched smoke gather, dissipate
faster than mortality
in the pretty afterglow of war,
of mossy islands, unkempt beds,
cute lives blind-folded.
She had time enough to kill
a quiet night at home, brooding
on the nature of volcanic ash.

The torch burned low – like him;
she ground it out on her favourite iris,
delighted at how petals fold and fry.

Geraldine patched up her wound,
the latest in a city of bad luck;
she lit a cigarette, watched
smoke whirl and weave
slower than the time it took
to self-destruct in loathsome beds
though vibrant chaos promised
otherwise … come closer, now

The cigarette burned low – like her;
she ground it out on her arm,
enchanted that she felt – nothing

next time, then

the cart rolled on bearing her and all
those voices mad with passion
bad for everybody else,
better that she burn and take it

that way
“just another witch in heat”
they said.

snowflakes dithered at the window
some tarried longer, spidering
the moving glass with crystal melt;

into these she projected everything
that would be gone soon,
dispersed in shockwaves generated
to disperse all scandal, neuter
the reality of one too many lovers
on the balance sheet.


alternative title : mary’s earth

talking to the wind started it:
the fall and risk of rib on
mountains bleeding holy hell
while numbers screamed
irrational but unavoidable delay

magpies gather on the sunstone
chatter into sameness
compare smoke ‘n’ mirrors’
masquerade, perfectly united

swallow (2)

lips moistened with fine rain kiss
nothing, but the fearless wild
spins and whirls two hundred birds
one rush of thought
in giant, wheeling freeflow;

i’m inside the storm, a swallow
of unfinished rhythm
spitting feathers at an empty page

re-vision 3 – thank you mojave!

i’m inside the storm
a swallow

spitting feathers at an empty page
ready to tear down the sky
chase clouds;

lips moistened with fine rain.
nothing, but the fearless wild
spins and whirls two hundred birds
one rush of thought
in giant, wheeling freeflow;

i want to kiss you. now.

image: francesca dimond

thinking of you

mist swam between dark trees
a silver shawl unraveling

to float, turn seamless moments
into thought, unwind like steam

in wheel arches, round in silent
ground we go; are you here

to see hawk wings
heave across this windscreen

a rainbow perched impossibly
above us?


in full glide, she saw my gaze, accepted it;
her perfect stillness and surrender to
the drift of slipstream’s tongue mirrored
rapture just before the climax

your breath such sweet caress, love

sunlight curled around my arm, smoothflow
wing touch brought me into perfect
stillness and a raven’s eye; i saw her gaze,
accepted it, shared rapture just before …


this morning’s heartraw, an exquisite echo of desire;
birds and leaves tumble in the wind,
gusting, whirling, mad dreams all but breaking
in the heave, the violence of air;

part of me is jousting with the clouds,
the rest a swallow of unfinished rhythm
choked on winter’s pressing need
to turn the savage wheel : my hands are tied to it;

precious little mercy to be gained from what-ifs
silent gulls crusade in freeflow
they know how to ask for more than sky;
self destruction’s teasing lips moistened with fine rain