Wednesday 22 December 2021


Hi everyone,
Just wanted to thank you all from the depths of my heart for all your support here on my blog. I truly, truly appreciate it so much.😊😊
I miss you all, and hope to return to blogging in the New Year if my health conditions improve sufficiently.
I do so hope you are all safe and healthy, and am so looking forward to visiting you again as soon as I possibly can. I am back to hospital in January, so hopefully sometime after then!πŸ™
In the meantime...have a Magical Holiday and take care, dear friends xxxxxxx

Thursday 16 September 2021

A 90's RAVER at 3am

An abandoned warehouse, beat deafening, coloured lights flashing,
her brain in overdrive.
Departing in her lycra gear, utterly bushed
from eight hours of non-stop raving. Outside
the street lamps are unsteady, dancing crazily.
The sidewalk rolls and ripples beneath her feet.
As usual, she throws up: curry, wine,
and a hash of cocktails slapped on the asphalt.
Why is she leaving alone again? Tears well up.
Tonight, she'd hoped, someone would be her rock.

In the taxi, inching through
the still busy streets of Chelsea,
a torrent of thoughts, mostly unwelcome.
Rebellion takes over.
This is her life!
Eighteen is an age for fun, not for hard work -
that can come later. Much later.
Her parents are wrong.
She is not accountant material.
It really is time she left home.

That place has become a tomb. Suffocating.
She is interred in it, feels like the living dead, yet
fear of the unknown seriously holds her back.
Such a dilemma! Hard boozing
has become her ally.
It delays the the inevitable, makes life easier to endure.
How she envies her brother,
a successful artist, living his life his way
with no strings attached -
in total freedom and with no pressure to prove himself.

How wonderful to be free of parental domination
and be left alone to make his own choices!
She, on the other hand, is made to feel beholden:
the dutiful daughter, expected to follow
in Daddy's footsteps - someone to proudly parade
before envious colleagues. His carbon copy.
But, this morning, there is change in the air.
Today, she will begin
the life she has always longed for.
Today, she will tell them exactly how she feels.

The taxi draws to a halt. The house is lit up
and she's aware they're waiting up. As usual!
Today, she won't accept the lecture with downcast eyes.
The alcohol in her blood empowering her,
she enters by the front door. Their faces
forewarn of what is to come.
She's been dominated by control freaks for too long.
Their eyes are flashing with anger. There is no consideration
for her wishes, her feelings. She observes
the hard faces, fuelled by one-upmanship...
                                                                               for the last ever time.

Four more days of holiday, followed by two hospital appointments, then hopefully back to some semblance of normality!πŸ˜‰
Thank you so much for your patience...and your kind support 😊😊

Saturday 4 September 2021


Yellow mustard fields. 
The sun-baked earth
with it's mosaic cracks:
parched, barren, like
my thoughts - overheated.

Brain shorting out. Lazing
with the languor of the idle
below blue sky's great arc,
while white limbs turn red
then brown as last winter's leaf.

This could be idyllic, this choreless 
Sunday: ice lollies in the freezer,
Chardonnay cooling in the fridge -
oh if only I weren't too lethargic
to move - only a lover could rouse my senses!

High above the Swifts reel,
their cries piercing. On unseen thermals,
a Red kite glides then steeply dives -
some poor unsuspecting rodent dies -
and I, heat mellowed, detached, simply observe.

Now increasingly dazed
as sunstroke threatens, cognition
like scrambled egg, 
I drag myself from UV assault
and dive into ice cold pool.

Well, a girl can dream, can't she? πŸ˜‰

I am taking a couple of weeks' much needed holiday, so will catch up with you all as soon as I possibly can. 😊

Have a great weekend guys  xxx

Wednesday 25 August 2021


No path leads to the copse
where the Dryad sleeps.
It has all grown in.
He stands as if carved in stone
in the dappled and shifting shade
beneath His canopy of oak,

attired in ivy's profusion.
Through the dense greenery
odours of moist earth rise.
A snail leaves silver track
over aged roots that penetrate the earth.
I take a forbidden glance:

amid bark gnarled by time
and asymmetrical boughs,
He sleeps on, His form barely discernable
within sacred wood and green leaf.
The small brown nostrils inhale
as He sighs in His slumber,

aware of my presence.
I am the hope he dreams of.
His anguish has drawn me here
to defend His kind with my life.
I chain myself to the living trunk
and defy the screeching saw...

Thursday 19 August 2021


The courage of the pain-wracked, in spite of the onslaught!
The smile forced for others. A convincing mask.
There is agony behind it, and the dread it will never end,
and the frustration of helplessness, the hopelessness of it.
The anxiety cuts deep, silently crying out for help -

loaded, as it is, with hidden self-pity.
Self-pity? Imbecile! Who cares how much you hurt?!
A red hot sword journeying through the nerves:
Hell's Imp, playing in brain with nervous system, 
prodding with pronged fork, a skilled torturer

inflicting agony upon the cursed Soul
with a glee that knows no bounds, 
supremely skilled in his favourite sport.
The Imp is resolute, there is no anaesthetic.
He has been ignored too long, now his presence is felt.

So the suffering radiates, like a fearful nuclear fallout,
and there is only the primitive tongue to express
such depth of pain. But it hasn't the words,
it is inadequate. Should it be cut out?
And the futile sobbing. So ineffective.

Sustenance, too, is rendered impossible - is stored 
in memory's archive with fellow outdated files,
while watching others tuck in. Starvation beckons.
It has become an obsession, food.
A substance more precious than diamonds.

But how about the eyes of the afflicted, the eyes?
Constantly dulled by the hidden curse
and often moist with tears. And the mirror -
that face in there is the face of a dead woman,
so drawn and pale with hollow cheeks,

a ghostly Seer, whose prophecies
bring such apprehension. A merciless judge
passing sentence upon the innocent:
a life sentence of neverending pain.
Courageous? No. I am scared.

My humblest apologies, dear friends, for taking so long to visit you all. I am currently awaiting a brain scan. In the meantime, I will visit you all as often as I possibly can. Thank you so, so much for all of your kind support😊
Been missing you all so much xxx

Friday 30 July 2021


 For Michael Byrne...

I imagined I'd tracked you down
to one of those hellish concentration camps
in Hitler's nineteen-forties Germany. There,
in Nazi uniform, you stood observing
the mass genocide, your expression almost ecstatic.

Ice blue eyes, clear as the spring sky,
would perhaps meet mine. What then?
Would my blonde hair and pale complexion
save me from the inconceivable horror
inflicted upon my non Aryan contemporaries?

I'd assumed you'd be as brutal and inhumane
in real life too and therefore intensely disliked you.
So convincing you were up there on the screen
that I'd accepted as authentic a persona
well rehearsed - but then something else

in your eyes sent shivers of an altogether
different kind down my spine.
I'd inadvertently caught you unawares
before you'd had time to slip
into your chameleonic public image.

And the discovery was intoxicating:
a clean slate with your face on -
a smile so unexpectedly warm
that it took my breath away,
initiating an inexplicable infatuation.

Tell me, does it really matter
that I'm unknown to you, because
isn't absence claimed to be the heart's inspiration?
Observing your every role
has been the perfect antidote

to the isolation of life in lockdown, 
vastly expanding my restricted world.
In the sleepless hours, I think of you
and search the darkness
for your face...πŸ˜‰

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? πŸ˜‰

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.

Friday 23 April 2021


I recall walking out there,
the tide high, the English Channel choppy,
it's southerly winds pushing me back
as if denying access to Hurst Castle -
demonstration of Nature's superior power.
Sudden doubt. 
My last memory 
of my red flip flops, traversing the shingle spit.
I was staring at the distant castle, I guess.
An intrepid explorer full of fervour: me, 
but without my agoraphobic handicap.
Just me and the sharp pebbles, a conscious union -
as if my rapidly disintegrating, unsuitable footwear
represented the will of stone consciousness,
was the monument's entry requirement.

My cut and bruised feet
a symbol of pilgrimage,
a wordless but satisfying communication
with the shingle.
Offering my blood, for the thin tongue
of the spit to devour hungrily.
A sacrifice,
it's significance way beyond my comprehension
at the time, but filed in memory's archive
for later interpretation. It was like
primitive man trying to decipher
modern mathematics.

As I finally achieved the Grail of my quest,
it's mystique brought effective analgesia
to mutilated feet...I was utterly enthralled.
It was well worth the pain.
Perhaps it is merely an old structure to most,
too lost in time to make it relevant today.
But to me it was alive, was crowded
with all those who'd dwelt within it's walls
down the centuries - and, of course,
it's most famous prisoner:
the Cavalier figurehead, Charles I.
Oh how dashing a character,
in white lace and frills - I
watched, spellbound, as he crossed
the courtyard as far as the barred gate
and then vanished into thin air.
Was I spooked?
Far from it.
All I could think of was the excruciating shame
of being in the presence of Royalty
at the very moment my flip flops, much beloved,
finally fell apart! πŸ˜‰

Saturday 17 April 2021



There is a country cottage,
surrounded by tall pine trees,

that has a small front room
where I came into this world

with a strangled cry -
my first lungful of air. It was

painful, they said, that birth
so reluctantly endured

by as unmaternal a mother
as they come. But

my small white face,
so wrinkly and dimpled,

forged an instant bond
with a doting father

who'd been longing so for a daughter.
What I remember most

is the blinding light
from the window, so white

and prophetic of a lifetime
to come desperately seeking

the light in everything,
the Spirit within:

Mum, Dad and the midwife initially,
but without means to explain it -

well, not in words anyway. Outside
summer lasted for millennia, with clusters

of laburnum blooms. I vividly recall
the heady fragrance and it's sun yellow

mesmerising hue - and the fact
that it was too high to touch

led to ferocious tantrums and
my refusal to be photographed beneath it.


I fell in love yesterday,
and was astounded by the transformation.

I appeared radiant, a light
in my eyes gazed back 

from my image
in the bedroom mirror

and a secret smile
danced about my lips.


He and I touched hearts, and
through the metaphor - a connected

feeling deep inside - 
I fell pregnant with the sun:

all this light I give to you!
In the silence beyond words

I held his presence -

unknown to him, unknowable
in fact, because

there were just too many light years
stretching the infinity between us.

Sunday 11 April 2021


A poem for today...


The rain's been worse than ever this winter,
the river spewing out onto the floodplain
and into too many front doors. It feels uneasy,
like living with an unexploded time bomb,

too precarious. The canal's banks
are lined with barges, whose owners 
are somewhere else. Even the tow path,
usually packed with joggers, cyclists

and dog walkers, lies silent and deserted.
It's quite eerie here in the drizzly mist. There is
a sense of dereliction. And I wish, like
the summer kayakers, to be elsewhere too.


An excess of knocks has left me paranoid -
although some men, it seems,
are drawn to that quirkiness in me,

at least for the short term. Loss
precipitates a descent into desperation - that state
which leads only to the next blunder

involving over-dependency. Emotional intelligence
gives way to fanatically searching 
in the most inappropriate places

for a kind of idyllic love
that could never exist in reality -
until that burning need

inside me drives yet another
substitute away. Mere resemblance
will never be enough. I see that now.


I cherish memories of that last summer beside the canal.
Cool shade, beneath trees reflected
in the still water below: another, reversed world.
It seemed our happiness would never end. 
Such joy to be canoing there with you.

We existed in pure bliss. All day the sun
beat down and butterflies fluttered
around us. Rowing requires effort in the heat,
you have to be prepared to sweat.
Now, the canal is too poignant. A memorial to us.


In the dead of night, his arms
never soothe the hurt. The moon

enchants, but only the sun
sustains life. Now, the mornings

are a vanished lover. Cold emptiness,
a Dear Jane note on a pillow. Tears

are a dripping tap. I crave
some permanence, but I know

nothing except the pain: the flood
and it's brutal destruction.


I'll think of you when summer returns
and the floods have dried up. I'll be
canoeing on the canal again, only
this time alone. Stopping off

as we always used to, at the pub,
I'll sip white wine and listen
to your favourite song. It'll hurt,
God knows, it will. When you died,

I tried to replace you, to fill again
the void you left. You were, are, my sunlight;
my self-esteem. Without you
I am less than nothing...

But they're all telling me
that I have to go on living, that I
am worth something in my own right.
Oh I know they mean well, but

how can I possibly move on
with such a gaping, weeping hole
where my heart used to be?

Saturday 27 March 2021


Just wanted to convey my most heartfelt thanks for all your kind comments. They are so very much appreciated!😊😊
I am currently dealing with multiple health issues, so am to and from hospital quite a bit.
I hope to visit you all again as soon as I can, as I'm missing you all so much.πŸ™
Well, have a fabulous weekend everyone...and stay safe and happy xxx

Friday 29 January 2021


It began with a copy of Wuthering Heights.
Echoes of intrigue lept out of the pages.
I felt them weave themselves into my being.
Another's creation. But where is she now?

Death cannot erase greatness. It is
her immortality, her irresistibility. Why
not before? Had I lived then, could I
have known her, perhaps better understood?

Imagination. So she first entranced me with those miniscule
booklets: Gondal resurrected in my psyche.
Now, when I move, her pen moves with me.
Just out of sight, she directs my life, ever watchful.

And if, as she claims, Heathcliff truly loves Cathy,
then what kind of love is so obsessive
that it rips both Souls to shreds
and condemns them to eternal unrest?

Or is it my unrest - her words merely evoking
my deepest, most tormented desires?
If, as I suspect, I am Cathy; then I must find him -
he is the prize within the maze of words.

But, why should I read, when living it is more persuasive?
Or long to touch, when feeling without touching
is so unexpected, so exquisite and so rare?
Today, his proximity. Ecstasy is in the air.

Saturday 23 January 2021


Call me boring, but I'm never predictable
when I sit down to write. What is it 
about that particular activity
that triggers such dramatic transformation?

Weekdays, admittedly, I'm conformity's slave,
with kohl-lined eyes and high heeled shoes -
ostensibly fitting in with society's expectations. You know,

it's taken me twenty years to perfect
this duel identity - the near seamless balance
between civil servant and poetic visionary.
No one has ever known me, not really.
As soon as they think they do, I confound them.

I cannot fully live up to another's ideals,
so I vanish into thin air; feeling my way,
intuitively led, into the Lands Adventurous;
deeper and deeper until my head spins
with a million and one impressions
that condense themselves into my pen.

And I just scribble, scribble; letting them flow
unedited, cascading like a waterfall
of emotions issuing from the memory banks
of the Cosmos itself. Perhaps
I'm a part of that macrocosm - or, maybe,
simply it's messenger. Either way,
I am mere flesh and blood - but inside
something colossal is stirring:
an irresistible call to the Quest
for universal empathic connection.

So sorry everyone, but I'm running late this week...will catch up with you all tomorrow hopefully! Have a super day xxx

Friday 15 January 2021


My apologies, guys - but I simply HAD to vent my fury after seeing this on the TV news...

You conned her out of her savings -
a lifetime of toil erased.
You stole her independence
without a care for the effect
on her sense of dignity.
All you've left her with is fear - of people,
of even leaving her home. A frail
elderly lady of ninety-two.
Oh yes, such easy prey
for you, wasn't she - to
pose as a doctor and inject
into her arm God knows what,
professing it to be a Covid vaccination
and then charge her a fortune for the privilege.
And, furthermore, to have the audacity
to return again and demand extra payment!
Oh you're so cocky, aren't you,
so fiendishly clever...

Ah, but you were caught on camera.
Yes, you - you heartless, worthless scum!
Think your sweatshirt hood pulled up
will protect your cowardly identity?
No chance!
Just think on this...

There is a Universal Judiciary System,
way above the scope of mere CCTV
and earthly Judges and courthouses,
which observes all, is all-knowing -
and it is closing in around you.
Better be afraid, moron, because
there's no escaping the consequences
of your inhuman criminal activities.
They'll rebound on you
as precisely as an echo, only

And just one more thing, creep,
before I conclude.
A quick check to ask
how you're sleeping at night?
Have you noticed and changes yet
in your dreamlife? No?
Well you will. Believe this, 
you will!

Soon it will begin: the demons
rising up out of the bowels
of your nightmares' darkest recesses.
And they won't ever go away.
They'll pursue you day and night,
will eventually drive you insane.
What, then, of your ill-gotten gains?
What use will they be
when you're locked away
in your lonely, claustrophobic,
padded cell?

Saturday 9 January 2021


The replacement valve that saved him 
was crafted from tissue of pig, so
he no longer ate pork. It seemed inappropriate 
to be devouring his benefactor's relatives. 
The heart specialist concurred,
but for a different reason - namely
that less animal fat would mean 
a much healthier cardiac system.
He also developed a strange compulsion
to visit pig farms - to the extent of once 
sneaking into a pigsty and sleeping there overnight,
just to gain an insight into how it feels to be a pig!
Perhaps, one day, he could even learn 
to communicate with them, a bit like
the legendary Doctor Doolittle!
Sometimes he'd sit in front of a mirror
and almost convince himself that his features
we're gradually changing, were becoming
more and more pig-like: his nose snout shaped
and his ears like those of a pig.
And he dared not admit to anyone
that he had an increasing fear
that he'd wake one morning, to discover
he could no longer speak, only grunt - and that
he had trotters instead of hands and feet!
And even worse - what if
the metamorphosis eventually became total?
What then?
He considered his wife and children, his friends.
What would they think?
Would they even realise he was him?
He would have no way of letting them know he was.
And what if he should fall
into the hands of a butcher? Surely
then there would be the horrifying possibility
that his family may inadvertently consume him! 

And still, today, the paranoia continues to escalate...
for there is no escaping
                                       the pig DNA inside him. πŸ˜‰πŸ˜‰