Tag Archives: beauty


Bluebell in my hand,
Sheltered petals kissed with dew,
Cold gnawing at my fingers,
But I will not let her through.

Bluebell safe and warm,
Perfume rising on the wind,
Winter wants to take you from me,
But I will not let him win.

Bluebell dipped in sky,
Violet harbour in this grey,
I know that you are dying,
But you need not be afraid.

Bluebell mine, bluebell mine,
Ever beautiful and frail,
Long after you have left me,
My heart will sing your tale.

Walk in the Wind

I took a moment to


in the


It took hold of my limbs
and danced me to the skies,

An invisible guide

that found its way
inside my mind
and whispered,

“It will be OK”,

Showed me there’s another way,
That there will be another day
beyond this night,
That it’s all right
to sometimes hide away,

To secrete my tears amidst the rain,

To stifle sobs until they fade,

To mask the pain,

Because a walk inside the wind
clears the cobwebs of all sin,
clears out

e    v     e     r     y     t     h     i     n     g

and muffles all their din
so I can let the right ones in,




so I can win.


Photo credit: Radu Voinea


Inspired by the dutch word uitwaaien:


Til Death

Don’t let my fingers
slip from the palm of your hand,
You’re all I have left.



Inspired by the story of Italvino and Diva, a Brazilian couple who died within 40 minutes of each other, after 65 years of marriage, in the same hospital room, their beds pushed together so they could hold hands (read more here).

Also dedicated to a couple within my own family who are currently unwell and in hospital. My thoughts, love and prayers are flying their way x

Eyes Wide Shut

I lay here
conversing with
my inner

We try in vain to find
the drowse,
But sleep still lurks
around here
Hiding like a
sulky child,

A night hag pins my
limbs akimbo
as memories
the peripheries,
In the very edges
of the darkness
I can’t hold on,
I am not me,

I lie at the end of
One Night’s Slumber
but One Night’s Slumber
is avoiding me,

Instead you’re left
with this imposter,
Who screams
at a pitch
to make hearts bleed,
With a tongue that lashes,
flails, belabours,
forked by the dryness
of fatigue,

And I’ll not know
the Sandman’s wonder,
Perchance to sleep;
Forgo the dream.

No More Winter

There will be no more winter,
We’ll live forever in the spring,
There will be no more winter,
And the birds will always sing,

The icy swathes of death,
Will never lay across this land,
We’ll never see the fall of
Summer’s beauty at its hand,

The sun will live forever,
There’ll be bleakness nevermore,
And we will kiss the daffodils
and waltz through heathered moors,

There will be endless hope and joy,
New beginnings will roam free,
Yes, spring will live forevermore;
When you and I make We.

Than the Sword

In my hand,
each stroke, once primed,
can fill a page
with endless rhyme,
the cadence
dances in my mind,
into stimuli
that pirouette
down through my spine
and reach my fingers
just in time
for thought and ink
to be aligned,
for my every wish
to be defined.

In my hand,
this pen is mine,
we are one;
a bond divine.
But in your hand,
to you consigned,
it does your bidding,
it speaks your mind.
What mighty power
from meek design;
to ink war and peace
and this little rhyme.

napowrimo2015Today’s NaPoWriMo challenge was to write a calligram (a visual poem) so I also hand wrote the above poem in the form of a squiggle, like you do when you’re testing a pen, which I thought complimented the poem’s theme:



The route along the cobbles is silent
Save for the shushing of the water wheel
The grass glistens green, pear, then emerald
As the winds rush through its blades with such zeal
The sky is adorned with falling blossom
Its scent sweeps over me like a tide
I should probably get home for supper
But evanescence is easy to ride.

napowrimo2015Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to take an Emily Dickinson poem, chop it up and make it your own. I have used her poem A Route of Evanescence. I took one word from each line of her poem and wrote something new. I may not have stuck wholeheartedly to the prompt (I feel a bit of a rebellious month coming on…) but I like the end result. You can see Dickinson’s original poem below:

A Route of Evanescence,
With a revolving Wheel –
A Resonance of Emerald
A Rush of Cochineal –
And every Blossom on the Bush
Adjusts it’s tumbled Head –
The Mail from Tunis – probably,
An easy Morning’s Ride –


It’s a dark, dark road
that you venture down
when you can’t even look yourself
in the eye,
When the words ‘fat’ and ‘ugly’
like landmines
in your mind
every time you look in the mirror,
When you’d rather
rip your flesh and
gouge out your eyes
than have to look a second more
at what you’ve become,
When you punch the fat
hoping that it will vanish,
When you punch so hard
that you might throw up
(and somewhere inside a voice is
“that might actually
do your fat arse some good”),
When you’re jealous
of those with a tummy virus,
When you consider buying laxatives,
When you eat your lunch
and then you start to panic
and you hate yourself,
And hate yourself,
And hate yourself
until it’s dinnertime,
And the cycle starts again,
And again,
When you won’t let him
see you naked
because you
he’ll be as
as you are,
When you won’t even let him
touch you,
When your skin crawls
at the very thought
of him feeling those
It’s a dark, dark road,
And no help is coming,
Because no-one knows
that you’re so far
from home.

In Her Tears

Yesterday I wrote a poem called “Heartsickness“. During my search for a suitable photo, I found the one featured above. It caught my eye and even though it wasn’t quite right for yesterday’s piece I felt it deserved to be shown off. So I have written a poem which was inspired by, and is dedicated to, this beautiful piece of photography. I hope I’ve done it some small justice…

She could stretch out
her fingers a million miles
and the tips would fall short of his face,
Too many hates and too many lies
have filled up that cavernous space.

He could stare
for a minute, a day and a night
at the anguish his reflection betrays,
But he’ll never again see the man she first loved,
the man who once swept her away.

They could forgive
– it is not an impossible feat –
but forgetting would take them both years,
This man with a crumbling world in his hunch
and this girl with a tide in her tears.