Shooting Stars

You convinced me that the pebble in your palm

was part of a star that had fallen from the heavens

when you opened your mouth for the first time

and screamed down the gods to demand an explanation

of why you had to do this all again.

I was too young to know what you meant

when you called yourself an old soul.

Reincarnation hadn’t been covered in school,

the idea of living, dying, living, dying, living

over and over

held the same impact on my mind

as when my mother tried to explain gravity

by dropping household items

from various heights onto the kitchen floor

while telling me that it was an invisible force beneath my feet

that kept me from floating off the planet.

When I grew older

I learnt that stars did not become pebbles

and for a while I wondered if you’d meant to say it was a meteor,

a little fragment of space debris you’d discovered by accident

in a black pockmark upon your father’s perfect lawn.

It took me longer to realise there was nothing special

about the tiny grey stone you’d gripped inside your fist

whenever we’d gone anywhere beyond the timber fence

at the bottom of your garden.

Part of me wonders

if you carry it around still.

Perhaps it’s tucked inside your jacket pocket,

loose among the clutter of a rucksack,

relegated to a windowsill or mantelpiece

stuck next to photos and knickknacks from the life you’ve lived.

I wonder if it’s still part of a star to you.

Daily Prompt: Astral



Lost For Words

I can feel the roots in my gut,

knotting around my intestines

while the branches creep upwards

and my throat bobbles.

Twigs stretch higher,

almost to the back of my throat,

while the words I wanted to say


Like half chewed bread on the roof of my mouth,

no matter how my tongue toys with it,

it won’t budge.

I’m not sure if it’s even the right thing to say,

or a thing you’ll want to hear.

So I swallow past the thorns

and say nothing instead.


Inspired by today’s Daily Prompt: Doubt


He kept his apologies in shoe boxes

at the bottom of the wardrobe,

where they stayed gathering dust

until he’d pick a pair

to wear out.

Then he’d wear them until holes

were worn through the soles

and the fabric of them

became crepe paper packing

on unwanted gifts.

They never matched his outfit,

or suited the occasion,

you could pick them out a mile off

three shades too bright

and a little too polished.

I could never take him seriously

when he came to my door

wearing his best apologies

and tried to explain to me

how really,

it was me who was wrong.

Written For The Daily Prompt: Apology

Between A Rock And A Hard Place

It’s like moving mountains.

In the end I might manage,

but I can’t put you back

the same way you were before.

There will always be gaps,

and even filled with silver,

or gold,

they’re the evidence

of scars I made

on your skin and your bones.

Too deep and clear

for me to pretend they don’t exist

and too new

for you to forget them.


Quick poem in response to Daily Prompt: Mountains

History Fandom

I have always been a fan of history, right from when I was a small child. For those of you who read my posts regularly you’ll have noticed already the I have something of an obsession for the old and the half-forgotten. For this post I decided to combine my love of history with my love of scribbling. I don’t claim to have any great talent for drawing, but I do find it relaxing and really good fun.

The first of the doodles above is taken from a 1337 French illustration. I’m assuming that it’s Philip VI of France but that might be wrong.  The original image doesn’t name the character but Philip VI fits with the time and provenance of the artwork. The original illustration depicts St Eligius pinching the devil’s nose, a story from the First Crusade.

Image number two is a doodle of a Norman helmet. It’s a little more ornate that the traditional image of a Norman helmet but I quite liked the extra challenge the detail added to the piece when trying to sketch it correctly. The knot-work going up the top of the helmet took the longest to draw, especially where the two lines intercept. According to my Grandfather’s side of the family, my mum can trace her roots back to the Doomsday Book and Sir William Swinnerton, a Norman knight who came over with William the Conqueror. I’ve not seen any proof of the connection for myself but it’s a nice story to pull out at parties.

Anyway. That’s my contribution for yesterday’s Daily Prompt. Not much I know, but hopefully is this case short equals sweet.

Happy Holidays.