Don’t Cry


The waterfall cries extraneous tears
which catch on the wasteful wind
then drop, and pool in puddles on the ground,
where people walk, regardless.



Simple Pleasures

Posted in response to the Daily Post weekly photo challenge. This week’s theme: ‘I’d rather be…’

Since my daughters have grown up we’ve only had one holiday together, and it was this one in Northumbria a couple of years ago.  It was a typical summer holiday in England – dull, cold and windy, so not wanting to waste such a brilliant beach we bought ourselves a kite.  Those four people (this includes my daughter’s partner) right there are the ones I love most in the world (as well as my mum of course – I have to say that, she reads this 🙂 ), and I remember watching them in the shadow of Bamburgh Castle, attempting to fly the kite in what felt like a gale, and generally being daft, and thinking just how lucky I was to be in such a beautiful place with such beautiful people.  Yep, I’d take that over a Caribbean holiday any ol’ time…

…on second thoughts, sod the cold, ideally I would be with them in the Caribbean swimming in a warm sea or lying on a white sandy beach sipping at a rum punch…oh yeah…!


The Shape of Love

There are no corners to hide in,
and no straight paths,
or sides to take

There is no long and short,
nor tip of the iceberg,
or points to make

No, love is a circle,
delicious, curvaceous,
a two tier cream cake

A full harvest moon,
a banging drum heart,
a promise you make

A ring on your finger,
a cuff on your wrist,
a hunger that wakes

A bowl full of spices,
a bouncing beachball
that gives, and, that takes

Oh love is a circle,
a merry go round
of tender heartaches

Yes, love is a circle
Two people conjoined
as endless soul mates

Unless, of course, it becomes a triangle…

To be Still


She turned towards the greyness
of the thunderous sea and sky,
her tears lost to the wanton wind
as she dreamed of stillness.

The stillness of a frozen path
covered with that lazy snow
that drifts capriciously
smothering all beneath.

The stillness of an animal,
trapped in the gaze of a hunter,
frozen in its startled state
‘til it’s heart is stopped.

The stillness of an empty church
where the silence echoes
filling the void with peace,
while the cold walls seep death.

And while she dreamed,
the whirlwind world
whipped around her still,
amplifying her melancholy.

She watched as the waves
attacked the rocks below,
then, succumbing to the depths between,
felt the numbing embrace of water.




The 42

The poem below was inspired by this headline – ‘Oxfam: 42 super-rich hold same wealth as world’s poorest 3.7 bln – 22nd January, 2018

The sun shines on their towers
and glints from the roofs of their fast cars
It makes patterns in the water of their pools
and melts the ice in their long drinks
It tans their golden skin
and it blinds them
They are the 42

The 42 fat cats in their castles
with their small minds locked
on rising lines on screens
don’t they see the others
those sitting in muddy tents
drinking muddy water
wrapped in drenched rags

Don’t they see the silent babies
with their distended bellies
fly ridden, naked and snotty
their paper skin stretched
over the sharp outline
of their fragile bones

Can’t they imagine the horrors
of a child’s misery in sickness
When the doctors not on call
And there are no pills to pop
Or drugs to take
Nor a bed to rest in

Those who can afford
to be fussy over food
with their diets and their health kicks
who drag their overweight bodies to the gym
to keep ostentatiously fit
Intelligent enough to get rich
Yet what do they know of living?