Saturday, 21 October 2017


Through life's dark times the spirit withstood
denunciation from the harshest of critics,
but resolute as iron defied all heretics
through strength of will and intentions good.

Then as life's purpose became better understood
each day found it's place in Destiny's genetics,
leaving great mind free to formulate theoretics
of how best to to weed out Oxford's dead wood.

So when author Colin Dexter sought a name
to sum up the essence of his greatest creation
and make him relentless, at the top of his game -
he thought of the powerful, triumphant navigation
of Endeavour, Cook's ship of universal acclaim
and endowed his Morse with that illustrious first name.

Sunday, 15 October 2017


Those stunning models in glossy magazines;
those airbrushed models who in soft focus glow;
those gorgeous models in barely-there dresses
that enhance impossibly perfect curves
and expose such luminous golden skin;
those seductive models who pout at the camera
with highly glossed lips in this season's shades.

Those universally emulated catwalk models
parading in all the very latest creations
by the most iconic designers worldwide
that only the wealthy elitist can afford;
those models with radiant flawless complexions:
huge eyes, high cheekbones and dazzling white teeth;
those models with exotic sounding one-off names...
who inspire in us comparisons that blight our lives.

Saturday, 7 October 2017


Little white pill ingested daily
and I think, "Am I safe?"

And it vouches for the month as if akin to the days.
Professor of barrenness,

it purges my reproductive tract
like a powerful laxative.

The eggs simply disappear
as stars into a black hole,

leaving our passion free
to go unchecked without consequence - yet,

are we not guilty of denying all the bodiless Souls
the corporality they crave?

Frantically they swirl around us
here in the darkness
between duvet and mattress,

for they truly believe we are potential gods
capable of providing new life,
instead of the mere mortal impostors that we are.

Oh how they'd love to penetrate
the rich red velvet warmth

of uterine interior
and burrow deep into it's nurturing wall.

But don't they realise the cataclysm has already occurred,
leaving only a sterile wasteland?

Frustrated, they scream and scream in our ears
and curse all the newborn babes
out of bitterest envy.

We never hear them, though.
We are far too absorbed
in our fleeting moment of bliss

to even consider the grave implications
of our rising Karmic Debt.

Tuesday, 3 October 2017


Inspired by the brilliant BBC TV drama.

Incoming text.

Oh sword, sword, how sharp!
Spiteful as a foreign mercenary - and as heartless.
Looking - though trying hard not to. Who from?
It is the gut-wrencher, an implement of torture.
Who is this who would steal my life?

What am I reading? Such sickening words
that pierce the breast like a steely blade.
God! How shall I ever staunch the inner bleeding?
They're draining my entire being, destroying their victim.
Oh why did this happen to me?

Sense of sight becomes dire curse. The screen,
static too long in shock, turns blank.
But the after-image expands in shocked brain. It's malignancy
is his betrayal - and with such a BITCH!
Aah, but beware the woman scorned...

Thursday, 21 September 2017


Stasis in sunlight.
Then the blue expanse
of sky and horizon intrude.

Arthur's archetype
has drawn me here
to this high place - the Head

and its fissured precipices,
crumbling walls
and secrets I cannot quite catch:

The Grail.
Knight Seekers inciting
fanaticism -

hidden unfathomable truths,
mythic ghosts.
Now, something more profound

hauls me back through centuries.
Changing shape,
I am a different being -

a black
Cornish Chough, perched
in Gallos' hollow centre.

And now I
call to the Once and Future King:
a Totem's cry

carried on the Dragon's breath.
And I
become the Horn

whose reverberation
reawakens Him
to Albion's dire need:

a new Armageddon is upon us...

Friday, 1 September 2017


Snowdon summit, air thin, two exhausted climbers.
World population seems illusory here.
Our shadows must surely touch Australia.

Thick cloud rushes up and over the Saddle.
It's cloying touch slows our progress, makes breathing difficult:
light-headedness brings visions of the Dark Angel.

Loose rocks dislodged from underfoot crash
over a thousand feet down sheer sides.
We gasp in unison: that could just as easily have been us!

The Angel's blackness closes in. Vertigo
induces transcendental awareness: we have strayed
into the shadowy realm of lost Souls...

Sorry, I meant to say...I will be absent for two weeks. Will be studying hard...and without access to any media.
It's gonna be tough...but hey...I'm sure I can do this - with the aid of your supportive thoughts!
See you soon...xoxoxo

Sunday, 27 August 2017


For Checo...

This week's race is infuriating:
a clashing of team-mates, high speed,
deadly. I hide my face in fear.

He could die, be maimed, by another's ego trip.
Wreckage on the track. Safety Car. I search for his face.
Phew! Luckily, he's still here only now at the very back.

Now he's being blamed - so unfair - by those
lacking experience with tongues like scythes
hell bent on felling true greatness.

Friday, 25 August 2017


Still trapped
within the moment,
re-living Fate's
capricious taunt.
Can't let go
of craving something
once perceived
then snatched away
from desire's unlimited
fantastical vision:
aah the dream-form
yet out of bounds
that I want so much
to touch,
to be part of,
to make my own
reality absolute.

Oh magic ritual
please work for me:
                          sacred water
                                                flame of candle -
all four elements now combine
to forge a fourth
and hopefully release
Creation's power
in this circle today:
Transform my longings
into something substantial
by opening a doorway
into his heart.

The cost is high
but it makes no difference.
I'll risk my all
to just once more
gaze into those gorgeous eyes,
such dark brown eyes
framed by even darker curls;
to be the object
of his desire
and feel the power
arc between us,
if only for a moment.
Oh how different
it'll be this time!
I'll bare my soul
with heart on sleeve
and hope
and hope
for the utterly sublime.

Now slipping deep
into fragrant half-dream,
transported by spiraling
incense smoke.
Mentally backtracking:
I'm here again,
standing before him -
but well rehearsed words
abruptly die
in a throat so constricted
I'm gasping for breath.
Hell! It's happening again -
this effect he has -
I'm rendered dumb
and feeling stupid.
Oh please Elemental Powers
show me this day
the way...

Well, he looks
right through me -
this living wraith
who's willed herself
into his life.
I'm here!
I'm here!
I call in silence.
But he's far too focused
on the outer world
to notice a shadow
playing with matches.

It's the Element of Fire
that's out of control:
my desire,
all-consuming desire,
feeding the candle flame
that leaps higher and higher...
until I'm totally consumed
in the blazing furnace
of power misdirected
by foolish,
passion unrequited.


Sunday, 13 August 2017


A photo of you on Mizen's Head
in the dead of winter, so dashing in khaki uniform
and framed by spray-fringed tides and leaden skies.
In your eyes lurk disturbing truths: infidelity,
irresistible sin.

Loving out of context
and wild oats sown in another's domain -
repeated over and over again,
disregarding procreation's constant threat
of contamination by English DNA.

But such allure was too strong to resist. To hell
with the consequences. But did I really imagine
I'd escape unscathed? A village up in arms
against the Jezebel: public stripping, shorn hair.
Such humiliation binds me still to Ireland's past.

Even today there is no let-up. Vivid memories
of your laboured breath in my ear,
and the constant taunt of emotions up-leaping
to covert messages over crackling telephone line:
oh such blatant thrilling eroticism!

I never set out to find you. A Catholic wife,
such complication was the last thing
I needed then. Nevertheless, two worlds collided
in a head-on smash. Total devastation.
First sight: searing passion, a trap

we fell into. An animated portrait of  doom -
Satan's sadistic toying with the weak.
Then birth of a guilt complex conceived of deceit
and self-indulgence. I was suffocating,
yet clung to you knowing I should have let go.

Constantly wary, like two escaped convicts
we crept around in the shadows, emotionally exhausted.
And what of the cost? What of your victims?
The fallout could be catastrophic.
Holy Mary, please don't make me think of that!

The Vatican has eternally damned us, I know. My punishment
is to live with the harrowing sound of that explosion
when you blew yourself up, out there on the shore.
As I left for Dublin and my new life
Oh how I grieved for you, but could tell no one.

"Put it all behind you," Father Collins advised me.
Put it all behind me? Pretend it never happened.
Your life, your death - like a far off reverie
fading with each passing year...
But real life isn't like that, is it?

I am old now.
And I have never loved again.

I am taking a little time out to recharge my batteries, so I will be back in around a week.
Will miss you all...
but have a fabulous week! :))

Monday, 24 July 2017


Lying in the sun.
Dozing, beginning to drift
                                       ever higher.
Looking down at myself,
                                       trying hard
                                                     to remember
what I came here for.
                               Only blankness.

Lying in the sun.
There's a hole in the sky
                                     light streaming in.
I can see Heaven from where I am.
A man I love lives there,
was never in my life,
                               neither did he love me.
Who is to blame?

Aah, this precious sunshine!
                 I am hot and feverish.
The sun is scorching
                               and my breathing is laboured.
Overhead is space.
Oh there is so much I've lost.
Burn on, pale skin.
I'll be dust too,
                     and like him,
                                       find peace...

A curtain drawn.
                        Retail therapy.
Sleep like a log.
                                      Trying not to think.
I feel like getting blotto,
                                    fill a glass.
Fed up running from delusion
                                             going nowhere.
On a crowded train,
                            no one smiles or says "Hi."
Then I arrive and meet a guy -
                                            he hangs on to my every word.
He wears your face.
He's yearned for me as you never did.
He asks me to stay.
"I'll make everything alright,"
                                            he softly whispers.
"No, I can't," I reply,
                              "there is someone else..."
And my mind is racing.
"Let's go out then?"
    "What's wrong?
                          I don't understand...
where is this other guy?"
                                  I shake my head.
What can I say?
                      And I reply,
"He's in my Soul."


In loving memory of my Father...

The blooming of red roses and honeysuckle,
their heavy scents pervading the air:
a poignant reminiscence that haunted my Soul

whilst sitting in that sterile room
as my Father died by endless seconds,
just a heartbeat away behind wall and door.

How would anyone value his garden?
Such an earthly paradise, so fine:
the density of bamboo, immaculate lawns,

the echo of his mower, smoke from a bonfire,
and the flowering almond tree
he planted for my Mother on their anniversary.

And in the Chapel of Rest, an image of spade and fork:
iron, cold as his post-mortem flesh
and my rapidly petrifying heart.

All these come to torment me still, with profound longing
for bygone days: of being lifted high in purest love
by those gentle green hands...

Also dedicated to my brother, Chris, who is currently recovering from a serious motorcycle accident...and to all my amazing distant friends, in deepest gratitude for your wonderful words of support through this difficult period in my life. Mere words cannot thank you enough...

Friday, 20 January 2017


Alone on the canal, with nothing but water
and passing hedgerows, their reflections distorted
in the aqueous world beneath it's cathedral-like arches of beech.
What lies beyond the next bend? A multitude
of weeping willows, caressing the water's edge
like graceful ballet dancers, their slender swirling fronds
hypnotising incredulous eyes. Awestruck.
I hadn't expected to be so drawn into this surreal realm -
so connected with such beauty. I am the water's ecstasy.

Overhead the coal-black crows call to my Soul, like
black snowflakes wheeling in the blue sky.
Their cacophony is the only sound, apart from the rhythmic splashing
of my paddle. I hope and mentally pray that this trip will never end.
Tall brown bull rushes sway as I pass,
dancing to my soundless tune, and the occasional call of frogs
pulls my gaze to the green/brown flashes of movement on the near bank.
My unwelcome intrusion has disturbed their peaceful siesta.
Just one more bend, and both canal and hedgerows abruptly end.

All that lies ahead now is stark civilisation.
From an overhead bridge, the sudden stench of exhaust fumes
forces it's poisonous breath deep into asthmatic lungs.
This bridge is too artificial: such an inappropriate terminus for Nature's glory.
I climb out onto the tow path's end and sigh as I deflate my kayak.
The bridge forms a borderland between worlds, between beauty and ugliness,
and I know I must now rejoin that chaos
that most term urbanisation, with it's electric fields, brainwashing and self-deception.
And I feel broken, like a crushed car in a long-abandoned scrap yard...

I am having a few health issues at present and have to go into hospital for some tests.
I will return to Blogging as soon as I can...
until then, I will miss you all. xoxoxo

Thursday, 12 January 2017


For Rusty...

Most school friendships cannot withstand
the passing of years, of futures unplanned:
don't reach the place where fate begins
for two like us who've shared a space
and formed a bond time cannot displace -
we're closer, I feel, than most twins.

In fact, we're connected. Absolute.
My husband thinks it's all rather cute:
all these years spent living apart
from each other, but not in memory or thought,
and it was you in all honesty who mostly taught
me to confidently open my heart.

Ours is a bond that pays huge dividends:
it catches all of life's loose ends
and weaves them into a work of art,
a thing of beauty that brings new meaning
to otherwise arbitrary occurrences demeaning
and impels me to make a new start.

How many have pondered the meaning of life
when beset by years of unconquerable strife?
Well I'm no different from any of those -
I throw my tantrums while lamenting why me?
But is it that question that sets me free?
No, it's the empathy that between us flows.

The most exciting loves can be artifice
that keep us dangling between fire and ice
and combines incongruous
elements like dirty socks and chocolates
in boxes tied with ribbons, and illicit associates.
But in you I trust - you could never be that treacherous.

Yet sometimes our own lives become so all-absorbing
that for months on end we neglect calling.
We're immersed in the mundane
until a glut of disenchantment
overwhelms us with resentment
until we seek once more friendship's domain.

That choice between loneliness and baring one's Soul
often leads the faint-hearted to a safer goal.
But not so for us
because right from the start
we felt lost when apart
and there's no subject we cannot discuss.

Whatever happens we're there for each other -
yet ours is a closeness that will never smother
either's individuality:
rooted in counties many miles apart,
yet the contradiction (for we remain heart-to-heart)
forms the basis of our solidarity.

Saturday, 7 January 2017


ORPHAN. The word itself is distressing:
child, a detached leaf helplessly tossed
on the chaotic up draft
from the searing flames of loss
that will eventually consume the tiny heart.

RAWNESS. Death's pathetic victim
with her gaping wound that leads straight to the Soul,
wherein lies only agony and frozen dreams
of lost love: a severed bond that inwardly bleeds
and bleeds into nothing at all.

PITEOUS. Ariadne sits quietly observing
from the centre of her apocalyptic spokes.
Black is the cloak She drapes
protectively around the little heart so grieving
for the warmth of family unity.

HARDSHIP. Oh for just one more moment:
a Mother's arms to offer physical comfort,
to nurture and wrap in unconditional love -
instead of the cold guardianship of strangers
that leaves her emotionally starving.

ADVERSITY. Constant fight for attention.
The promise of care is full of holes
that the less robust fall through
into depression's infinite darkness,
where life's meaning lies only in oblivion.

NUMBER. This is the hardest part. She is
no more than a number on a computer screen.
A number, without identity or history,
nor any place in society to claim
the yearned-for title of daughter.

Yet, sometimes in dreams a gentle voice
calls her name in the dead of night.
And her heart begins to race -
could Mother-love really breach the abyss,
or is it just the echo of her own deep need?

This is her greatest hope. The hope that her beloved Mother
may still be there in some form and trying hard to reach her,
like a bird with nest plundered: fluttering frantically
against overcrowded dormitory window,
constantly watching over her precious offspring...

for the rest of her time on Earth.