Twenty Six


shouts ripple in the air

reflecting refracting

chlorinated joy




Day Twenty Five


Ballad prompt


The Ballad of Mick Philpott


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?


Standing stubborn at the dock

Fingers a sieve to pass tears through.

Pressed unwillingly out by the shock

In our eyes as we silently watch you


And judge. For you are unrepentant.

Prison’s not where you should go.

You swear blind- you never meant it,

Sure you’d turn out to be a hero


In the ballad of your own life

you were always the puppet master.

Keeping control with the tip of your knife

Who knew it would end in disaster?


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?


Barrel chested and lordly in reports

Clear now you only loomed so large

up against your chosen child bride cohorts

Throned like a rajah in their regard.


Back bent under the sheer

Press of six bodies draped there.

Surely children are heavier

for a father to bear?




Day Twenty Four



Who made you woodlouse herder

darling? Fiercely intent

and crouched in frowning concentration,

You guide them

with soft voice and occasional gentle poke

from a dirt rimmed finger, tender

with care and hope

for their survival despite my thoughtless feet

and casual moving of pots.


Face pregnant with worry you will rescue them,

righting the fallen.

Occasionally cupping them in an reverent, hot palmed hand

to stroke the waving fringes

of their legs.

Day Twenty Three

Who put these pictures into my head? Who planted these seeds?

Who fed me these lines? Was it Sylvia, Dolly, Nancy or Jane?

Why did I think it had to hurt, to ache -to pain?


How could you think that love meant sliding

down a wall to rest your head blindly.


Long early hours in a green vinyl chair waiting,

scraping for reasons to appease them

when finally it’s your name they’re calling.


Tight rope walking for approval

saying; never mind, it doesn’t matter, that’s fine.

Until you’ve forgotten what it was that you wanted

what you were dreaming – too busy pleasing.


Who said

Love meant


Watching your hand break the cup you like best

like a wave falling down on the beach

turning in the  page empty of story

to find no grain in your harvest sheaf

To sit in the gutter rotten and putrid with grief



To feel your heart swell at the injustice

the sadness. At feeling alone in your own home, out of place.

When you look in the mirror and see nobody there

Who said you should suffer for it, be racked with despair?


As you lie awake feeling your heart beating time with his breathing

and fists curled, find yourself dreaming

of smashing the pan down

on his face.


Why did you think that you need to submit to the sadness

Make windows rattle with the rage and the madness

send obscenities scattered to grey skies.

Storm off, run out, slam doors. Never pause

casting yourself out to the edges that cut you.


Then creep back and beg back – to take up the burden

because love is for hurting.


Who said this? Where did you read this? Who dripped this poison,

Viscous and clear, slow drip drip drip down the thread to your ear?

who set your feet on this path to distress?

Who ever said that this model was best?

Who said this system was the one you had to adhere to?



Leaning by the window as my slow train slides into the station we’ve been aiming for. Weary bent arrow.

Through blocked lines, mudslides, mixed signals, pileups – missed connections.

Footsore, armsore – weighed down with baggage.

To see you

standing up from your bench where you have been waiting.

Quietly, patiently – inscrutable.

Knowing I would arrive eventually on a train. Some train.

and I would like to tuck my arm into yours and

walk home in the drizzle, feet dipping unnoticed into puddles

of splintered lamplight at our feet.


So now I tell you. This is love.


Day Twenty Two and confirmation of my time travelling skills…


because it’s Day twenty four’s prompt. Gah!


Anagram of Laura Parsons

Arson rasps; our soul snarls to pour

Sour slop pus on our parasol parlour.

No oar, no spur, no spar, no roar

Nor loan us a polarspan, a soap lunar


Alas, a sun uproar as a sauna

also, soul-plan scorns our aura



Day Twenty-one


Triolet prompt


Bread Therapy

Listening to the radio

I like to make some bread.

Safe-dealing out a vicious blow

listening to the radio.

Kneading knuckles deep in the dough

pretending it is Osborne’s head.

Listening to the radio

I like to make some bread.


Day Twenty


random words prompt


When it comes to quahog hunting

I am a non-pareil.

Heyer suppresses a gasp of admiration

as I pursue

the elusive salt rimmed shell.


Willowy ghost slipping

between seaweed.

I am pleased to taste the mercurial tang of the sea.


Day Nineteen


Making things rhyme is very hard.

Everything ends up like a Hallmark card.

Day Eighteen


A lurch of visceral fleshed mysteries inside

stone faced unconcern as my heart howls.

Hot plastic bus seat stuck to my thighs

commanding the future in internal growls.

An inch bubble of air prickles above my much

freckle speckled skin. Smooth orchid petal, rare

yet sensitive and aware of casual touch

dear fly. I am a sulphured match poised to flare.

How I yearned after your sly clever smile.

To push the errant hair that threatens to spill

over your eyes – your true heart and all the while

A stubborn sense of right and wrong and the will

to set your shoulder against the ill and push.

To think your way through the world even now

Today I’m glad to be your friend and would blush

to know you’d read my heart and knew that how

from my bed I could see your bedroom light

shining across the block of hunched moonlit shrubs

and, dreaming, flung the end of my regard into the night.

Thin spun filament, a-thrum between us as I touched

myself. I dreamt sweet happy hopeless things

tenderer for the fact they’d never see fruition.

That scent, a rotten one – wasp eaten apples bring.

I will never mix touch with love of my own violation

The men I fucked; older, harder, on the make

I cast myself as a slack poppet – pliant to their desire.

Sex already tainted. Bent early out of shape. I

gave myself no choices. Delivered what was required.

Now wrapped in hard won happiness it is easy

to look back. Laugh, show regret but there’s no shame

in picking you – or those feelings. Instead I feel queasy

with pity and sorrow. It is hard not to blame

Yet blame never brought me change. I did  that.

Myself. Cognitive reconstruction – catastrophe

meant court sent self examination. Gave me back

choices. That led me to him, them and intimacy.

Day Seventeen


Hello prompt


Hello. Welcome. Let’s get this ball rolling

on this fresh page, the blank space unscrolling

before you. Expectant and demanding.