Friday, 18 January 2019


The text book's dogma:
see, I am categorised - it is
what they decree, not I.

Sentence is passed. I am to be
a lifer, it seems.
And that life is unthinkable.

Such cursed fear,
of living with bone damage,
lung atrophy, tissue loss, pain.

Pre cancer days, I crave your return -
through a window in time, to wholeness.
Oh I cannot, will not submit...

Recovering with my my own way! I have decided to refuse radiotherapy and drug therapy, as I believe the side effects far outweigh the benefits. 
Please wish me

Friday, 11 January 2019


Above the town it looms, timeworn, ruinous.
From the south the ocean devours it's foundations
year upon year, inch by inch.

Yet defiant it stands. A sprawling moss-covered hulk,
repelling the violent storms that threaten to destroy it -
It, a survivor for nine centuries and more!

Touch it's weathered vestiges, feel it's history.
Commune with it. Open your mind and experience it all:
the Hundred Years' War, the Dissolution, the bombs of  World War II.

The gloaming is the best time. Such low light
plays tricks upon the mind. The tourists gone,
now only revenants wander among the gloomy ramparts.

Let yourself dissolve into the silence and through half-closed eyes
glimpse what wasn't there a moment ago.
Distant times, the glint of steel, bodies of the slain

and the castle restored to it's former glory:
a shimmering grey-gold mirage, suspended
in the indigo threads of night.

Saturday, 5 January 2019


Lines written on 24th December, 2018... 

It will be lunch time now in Valletta.
They will be dining
and sipping wine in the
roadside restaurants and watching
the passing tourists
who have come to celebrate Christmas.

It will be dark and cold
in Alberta at this time.
The streets will be lit up
with multi coloured Christmas lights
that bewitch both eye and brain.
The city will be mostly asleep,
except for the party goers
singing along the sidewalks,
like the girl in the red
Santa costume, dancing
around a pole in the all night club.

In Reykjavik they'll be clearing snow
from front doors, then going out
last minute Christmas shopping
on skis and sleds over deep snow
that sparkles and glistens
beneath a dark winter sky.

In Bangladesh it is evening,
but not like other evenings.
This one is tragic.
A tsunami has hit.
The villages, the people,
all have been swept away.
By the hand of God?
What true God would inflict such agony
upon his faithful and obedient worshippers?

Volcanoes will erupt, spewing out
molten lava. Tsunamis and earthquakes follow...
while, elsewhere, are peaceful paradises.

In all these places I have never been
my presence dwells: aah, such pleasure...
and the most heart-rending and debilitating compassion.

Sunday, 23 December 2018


In memory of Mark McManus...

A man strolling beside the Clyde,
alone and insular.
The cameras rolling.
It's all an illusion.

He pauses to gaze across to the far bank
as if in a dream,
so deep in thought
he's oblivious to the pouring rain.

Reason and insanity collide in my head.
He just turned and glanced in my direction
and then turned back. Ah, such exquisite moment -
just he and I, here, in my living room!

And my mouth goes dry
as hungry eyes devour their Idol
(heedless of knowing looks all around me!)
while he gradually edges into my life.

And in that drab concrete jungle
the delusion grows out of all proportion.
He's still here now! The experience, increasingly substantive,
refutes the very concepts of time and reality.

Slipping into the eternal now
where our lifetimes converge,
I reach out for something more solid to cling to
as if out of depth in a boundless ocean.

And I see in this freezing rain,
beneath banks of cloud in the cordoned off street,
the shadowy idolized form - so near
I can actually feel his aura.

And I follow and follow his every step
yet can't quite catch up.
My heart is racing, pounding -
oh to be this near but still unable to touch!

Hell, what can I do? Stepping outside my head,
I'm reaching further and further into his.
Mark, I ask so little of you
and yet so much: proof that you never really died.

Fixated upon the TV screen, mentally squeezing between it's pixels.
Transfixed between crazy hope and fearful melancholy,
I finally reach him...
in Glasgow, nineteen-eighty-nine

just a moment ago.

Wishing you all a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! xxx

Wednesday, 19 December 2018


from the land of the living dead!!! Lol

Will now attempt to visit everyone...please forgive any typos, my brain is quite foggy!! xxx

Wednesday, 12 December 2018


One rainy Thursday she bought a lycra catsuit
just like the one Seven of Nine wore
in Star Trek Voyager. She had scoured
the whole of Winchester and then Basingstoke
among hoards of Christmas shoppers,
who jostled and elbowed her, until she found it,
tried it on, bought it and took it home.
The Friday was spent searching online
for a Borg costume. The choice was endless,
but costly. The one she eventually decided upon
was an exact copy of Seven's. When it arrived next morning
she was delighted. She lightened her hair too,
a rich golden blonde - well, she did want to perfect every detail!
Next, she carefully applied her makeup while streaming an episode
and studying a close-up of Seven's face.
Getting in character then, she stood in front of her mirror
and practiced Seven's superior upright stance
and powerful but expressionless gaze. Finally satisfied,
she slipped on her killer heels. Perfect! If anything
could win back her Trekkie ex, this was it!
She really looked the part - and was, hopefully,
the closest match to his idol he would ever find.
Then she carefully took a full length selfie
and posted it on social media.

Friday, 7 December 2018


He drew a diagram of future me.
A disfigured thing, hard to accept.
I'm scared you'll find me loathsome - or even worse
an object of ridicule: a lopsided woman,
in fact no longer quite woman at all
but some freak show exhibit, a gimmick
to make women feel more attractive in comparison
and think thank God that isn't me!

I imagine you frowning then, diagram
on the table in front of you, as recollections
of the whole, symmetrical me give way
to an image of revulsion - a gore fest:
desired lover, carved up by sharp steel
as if a rump steak. Surely this cannot be me!
But my denial is your conviction: you'll have to accept
that we will be changed forever.

And you'll peruse the diagram again.
A simple sketch - just squiggles of ink
casually drawn like so many times before,
only this time it's my breast, my life
laid bare. Then a blob of ink - like blood -
spreading out, obliterating the nipple
as if some shocking omen of things to come.
Then you'll see within it my fading image

eclipsed by the shadow of the Reaper...