Thursday, 15 July 2021


Trekking over Dartmoor
through air heavy, moisture laden;
passing stone farms, long abandoned, ruinous;
bleak hills, heather clad and darkening
within gathering mist that blurs

the boundary between reality and fiction;
our faces strangely luminous, like
those of ghosts - but somehow not.
Such transfiguring disturbs and hastens
the duo of adventurers onward

toward the great mystery, oft sought,
elusive and otherworldly - yet
simultaneously perceived
on hill top, on river bank;
recognisable only by the howling

other than that of dog or fox:
a blood-curdling, long drawn out cry
that spikes terror through the Soul.
Ominous panting nearby.
We break into a run. Padding footfalls follow.

Mist so dense now. Stumbling into rock,
now prickly gorse that plucks
at our clothing. Blood red eyes within
gigantic black dog shape
looms up out of the gloom.

Desperately trying to out run it,
pulses racing, fear all-consuming.
Hope fading, as it's relentless pursuit
drives us onto narrow path
between treacherous bog pools.

Gutteral howl closer now and we run
even faster, lungs almost bursting.
The path turning dark, liquifying
into black ink, flowing from Sir Arthur's pen
as it skims across the page,

defining our fate...
Mentally beseeching him to deliver us
from the frightful curse 
of his dark imagination.
Only he can lift it.

Baskerville Hall appears before us.
But nearing means distancing
from all we've sought so long.
Pages flutter in sudden breeze. 
The book closes.

Sunlight pierces the gloom.

Friday, 9 July 2021


From my rented postage stamp with no garden
to call my own except my window box,
I observe the dreary perspective
of colossal concrete tenement -
grey roof tiles, scuffed dun-coloured doors -
and perceive my first symbol of independence
as if between mirrors, forming an extensive
column of shabby replicas
anonymously occupied.

                                              But professors 
own their stately bricks and mortar, 
and the land upon which it stands. 
Such substance makes
my visual observation a peasant's eyeful
that inferiority defines as cruelly taunting - a
pointless squandering of youthful years -
and all for what? 
A futile attempt to ape possessor
                                              of ancestral silver spoon.


Saturday, 26 June 2021


What is the significance
of aromatic ferns?
That boy and girl have discovered a secret paradise:
rolling around in the earthy scent,
their clothes staining green
from the moist spiky fronds,
seizing stolen moments,
pretending to be grown-ups. My
envious stare meets them head-on,
awakening passions
of a deeply mourned youth.
Emotional backlash. Bees
lead me back to the open road.
Hunger of the Soul
has to be assuaged. Clear sky -
boundless, infinite - isolation's antidote.
Inhaling it's deep blue.

Freed, calmed, lifted - by meditation
on such unbroken expanse. So open.
Probing possibilities, like 
the famous mind of Einstein:
aware of the planet's spinning,
it's suspension in outer space,
mind clinging 
to invisible shooting stars
and ascending like a rocket - the state 
of metamorphosis, Nature's miracle,
that lump-in-the-throat moment
that renders the Soul wholly open.

I am suddenly
catapulted through time:
a retro journey back
to before the Dolorous Stroke -
to the meaning of Fate itself.
Devoid of shade,
sun beating down mercilessly,
as the ether magnifies it's rays.
Here is my Akashic Record,
the Prophet's transformative madness.
Observing myself blunder through youth
and into the mouth of the abyss.

Witnessing a sacrificial burning
and the Phoenix arising from the ash - not I,
yet somehow the same being.
Sudden denial:
the lashing out nothing more
than immature retaliation
for perceived rejections and betrayals
inflicted upon me by other damaged Souls.

What happens to the heart has consequences.

Retracing my steps. The boy and girl
have gone, but the aroma of damp ferns
still permeates the air. Pure rapture
enters my pores, infusing my being
with a startling revelation...

reabsorption of a juvenile self
accelerates emotional evolution.
I am suddenly light, weightless as a feather.
Nothing can harm me now, not even death.
The ferns rustle in a gentle breeze...

Saturday, 19 June 2021


Hi, my dear friends! 
Just wanted to pop by to thank you all so much for your kind wishes. It does truly mean the world to me.😊
I am currently experiencing multiple health issues, and am suffering extreme fatigue...but will return to visit you all as soon as I am able.
Missing you all dreadfully...
Have a good weekend and stay safe and happy xxxx

Saturday, 15 May 2021


Vainly optimistic I was
believing my life
would be long, eternal even
and dotted with successes
to be proud of
so I'd be worthy in the eyes of someone
and therefore, above all, be loved.

Now, my sole task's to find
some hope to cling to,
such craving for a little more time
to live, a miracle -
because such things 
can happen if we truly believe in them.
And I so, so want to survive.

The arbitrary onslaught
of rogue cells predict my demise:
the ultimate conflict
between tainted flesh and sharp scalpel.
Oh let me be brave and dwell
not on dying, nor on giving up - but on victory,
on finally defeating the enemy within...

I'm going into hospital on Monday to have an operation. I hope to visit you all again soon.
In the meantime...have a great week, my dear friends 😊😊 xxx

Friday, 7 May 2021


A complicated mind
shaped my destiny.
That same mind fed me
the many untruths
that bred my myriad phobias.
Why did I never question them?

When I ventured out into the world
I saw only reflections
of another's paranoia.
Society was a forbidding concept
filled with dangerous pitfalls, so I feared
every shadow, mistrusted every stranger's smile.

Later, within my poetry,
that mind's unfulfilled dreams found expression
in a kind of mournful angst. It also
laced my relationships with a deadly poison:
"Men are the enemy. Never trust them!"
Self fulfilling prophesy. Inward struggle.
Who am I really?

Now, sometimes I question
if it ever was that other mind at all,
but was actually mine all along.
Other times, I wonder if it could be
a genetic anomaly in my psyche
that so warps intuition and fuels
my quest for the inexplicable, the
impossible ideal that other mind
spent a lifetime seeking
yet never ever found.
Have I, indeed, become my mother?

Is it possible that these thoughts
running through my head - these, now,
originated in another mind
that is continuing to influence me
from beyond the grave?

Or is it simply that I am cursed
with the kind of mind that thinks too much? 😉

Saturday, 1 May 2021


Silence gnawed at you. And the terror
of being betrayed: a threatening dark enemy,
the piercing indifferent
destruction of bloody battle sword. After
the glowing sunrise, these were
the emotions that beset you. They filled
my vacant space, and when self-esteem
eluded you, this torment
took it's place. But I
was probably on the beach, just sunbathing
with Anna, no more immoral intent in me
than in the illicit lover
I'd never even imagined. A real lover
may have felt uneasy,
left with haste
when the grotesque malignance of your mistrust -
half victim, half inquisitor, totally
illogical and stuffed with your unexpressed past hurts -
crept relentlessly without hindrance
towards me through the sunlit streets,
through the crowded car park,
tainted my sun oil in it's brown-tinted bottle
and angrily glared at me
with the unjust accusations
that were rapidly becoming the norm.

My double life - the life you have invented
for me inside your head - is comically erotic,
is lived by an effigy wearing my face.
Monstrous allegations and emotional blackmail
have become the story of my life.
And the steps to our front door
have grown into a daunting,
treacherous mountain
that I no longer have the will to climb.