Category Archives: writing

Love letter to C

They found your name

In an ancient language.

Mysterious something

Brought to life.

Crimson tinged:

Life’s blood made real

By your spell.

Danger hides within the seed.

It is a

Smooth transition

From pain to pleasure

As they sew you up


Related imageIt was in the clouds of the sunrise

I heard his voice.

Full with the blush

Of a ripe peach;

The taste of exploration.


He called me;

As close as a lover’s whisper,

As clear as a command.

He told me his name

Nothing more.

Perhaps it was enough.


Name knowing,

Now we can find

Each other in the dark.



Image result for hands holding soil free imageThe sun rises on the fertile soil;

Heels are exchanged for hoes.

Action is the spine in the body.

The statue of mother shadows the maiden.

Breath is magic.

We dream of Avalon

While planning for Ever-After.

The paper thin lines of life

Keep us humble.


I slip into myself

An awkward child

All legs and arms.


Eyes furtive

A bull calf

Trying spindly legs

This world

So large.

The God calls

And I answer.

Images are atoms.

I love.

Open to all

Life will unfold

As it will;

And I grow.


Image result for lips of a statueHe carried a pitchfork

And a hoe.

I dreamed of

Innocent and hard passion

In the back of the bus.

We played tug of war with our eyes

And no more.

I am a widow,

Mourning for the

Death of us.

The Great War

Image result for 1913 womanHands folded


Nails dig into skin.

Corset bound.





Enough to keep alive.

The truseau chest;

Life’s blood,

Her reason for being.

Started at ten;

Finished at eighteen.

Ready for the


Linen and

Embroidered bedsheets.

Victorian propriety

Her only weapon

Against the

Coming storm;



Damn the War.



The Piano

Piano, Ivory, Ebony, Synthesizer, KeyIt had already been a long day when I realized my daughter hadn’t done her obligatory practise on the keyboard.  Every day that we ask her to practise, she will find a wonderful reason why it is not the thing she should be doing at the moment.  When she capitulates for the agonizing 10 minutes it takes her to play the required playlist, her sighs discharge every ounce of air from her lungs.  As of late, my husband had been enforcing this routine because I arrive home late from work.

As newly classified farm owners, we are slowly learning the demands of the land.  So when the requirement of fuel for our stove raised its demanding little head, the regular routine of piano playing was placed, for the lack of a better phrase, on the back burner.

I arrived home to find my husband still chopping logs in my headlights one evening in early October.   All the preparation and supper routine still left; bookmarked by a new demand.  After the general greeting, we divided our evening tasks. He would cook the meal, and I would have some quality time with my reluctant ten – going on sixteen year old.  I corralled her up the ten steps to our improvised music room, pointing out her advantage: she had a piano and the lessons to learn this amazing instrument.  She looked at me with one of her latently hostile ,” I know what you are doing,” looks and I sat awkwardly on the stairs waiting for the token ten  minutes and the rush to escape.

At the keyboard, she collected herself- she knew the routine.  The song, while on the page, sat comfortably inscribed in her memory.  Her hands began to strike the keys.  And I was transfixed.

It was not the song that she played- although she played that very well.   It was that my girl; a child that I had helped to create, could do something I struggle with. Something I always dreamed of doing.

My childhood was difficult. The maelstrom of abuse took its toll.  My parents, though loving, were struggling with addiction and mental health.  Their chaos was my world.  Normal was something I had to learn; I am still learning.  Memory is something that I can’t trust.   The past fades for me quite easily.  For my young memories this was a balm, but in school and in my life now, it is a curse.

She picked up her hands and they found their place on the keys. My daughter created, and memorized music.   It came so naturally to her; I felt tears well up in my eyes.  This wonder was a part of me. She will choose her life; without fear and abuse. As best as I can provide, she will have the options that were unavailable for me. Perhaps one day she can teach me the notes to a song, and we can play together.



poseidon-2504490_1280Liquid light dances in the air.


The marble man

Holds his trident.

Pink dress with lace.

Auburn hair.

Simple hat to hold

The sun at bay.

She asks

Her mother for a coin.

Following the path of

Her ancestors

To a sacred source.

Seeking favour.

Chubby hands

Drop the copper penny;

An offering to

A foreign god.


I doubt when the owner built this place as a luxury hotel he ever pictured it like this. He probably never thought words like "abandoned" "ruined" and "haunted" would describe his Halcyon Hall.The children amble to the roadside

One after the other

United in their reluctance.

Too early

The sun not yet  on the horizon.

Their fall  coats too light

For the cool breath of wind.

Across the road

The old brick house stands dreaming.

The bats slowly return to the attic.

They wait.

For the light along the roadside

The warmth within

The long drive

To a room full of screaming children.




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