Brew Round

Important conversations called for tea.

Hands wrapped around a mug,

you were always more prepared to listen

when the steam could be counted on

to fog your glasses

and warm the last of the frost

from your nose.

By the time you’d drank to the dregs

it would be bordering on cold

but still

waste not, want not.

The things left to say

once you’d drained the tea

had to wait.

That was just the way it was,

We spoke a mug at a time

or I did at least.

You were always silent,

stirring the sugar in.


It’s a quick one tonight I’m afraid as I’m trying to pull together a word document of all the poems I’ve written over the last three years. I’ve decided to enter the International Book and Pamphlet Competition hosted by The Poetry Business which requires 20-24 pages of poems. It’s just a matter of finding which ones I actually have the confidence to submit.


Just a murmur, a whisper,

that was all it was.

Passed like an injured bird,

cupped between your hands,

palms hollowed so not to crush its wings

heart a juddering drum beneath feathers.

It sang to me

like you did.

It gave me life.


It’s Quadrille night over at the dVerse Poets Pub. Tonight’s prompt is ‘murmur’.


Count It On My Hands

I’ve started gathering my grandmothers on my fingers. Ba was first to claim her place as right-hand woman. The signet ring’s a little worn but sharpened almost to a blade’s edge. Her wit used to have the same bite if you weren’t careful. She’d slash you with her words and have you bursting with laughter all in a matter of seconds. Something of a frail bulldozer, unstoppable at times, but even her initials grew faded past the point of a stranger’s recognition.

Granny Kitty is a new addition. I don’t know how she’d fair with the idea of taking up residence on a middle finger but she wasn’t one to back down when the blood began to rise. ‘Up like a light’ my mother says. That was the Irish in her, and the feminist who brought the shields to defend her granddaughters going to university. Independent, clever, funny, tenacious, but most of all loving.

The dandelions

and the daffodils grow still.

Even without Spring.


It’s a free-for-all at the dVerse Poets Pub this week and this I haven’t written a Haibun for a while I thought I’d include two of the people who’ve had the biggest impact on the woman I’ve become and two people I’ve unfortunately lost of the last couple of years.


Midnight -A Choka


Sweat sitting sticky

in a shallow pool rippling.

With each breath inhaled

the hollow between her breasts

fills deeper again.

That hidden tremor

running from calf to rib-cage,

echoed with a groan

that rumbles through to marrow

deep and guttural.

Knees converted into hooks,

grappling for contact

drawing deeper into sheets

they hold, lock, engage.

Nails drawing across a scalp

and hair thick between fingers

something for purchase.

lips, tongue and teeth, clash, curl, bite,

praises, curses, moaned.

gasping for air or for words,

muscles arching back

drawn to breaking point, to snap.


Sweat sitting sticky,

that hollow between her breasts

kisses press lazily up.


Thursday night over at the DVerse Poets Pub is form night, and tonight we’ve been challenged to write a Choka which is a Japanese style of poem. It words on an alternating 5-7 syllable count with an extra 7 syllable line at the end.

I decided to combine the Choka form with today’s Daily Prompt: Temptation.


Haibun Monday: At The Sink With Ba


She’d pull the dining room chair up to the counter, when all our plates were edged with pears and the cutlery had chunky blue handles, easy for my little fingers to grip. Those chairs made us, my sister and I, part of her team, her crew of little helpers, bakers, packer-away-ers. Back when our kitchen was mostly hers and I told time by the sight of her car from my bedroom window, her handbag hitting the counter, the activity we were up to. 9am baking, 11am coffee, 1pm lunch, 4pm tea. She was structure and normality. She was love and she was comfort.

Courgettes are sprouting,

I think that you grew them once,

leaves green and tender.


Good evening everyone. Tonight’s post is just a quick haibun for the dVerse Poets Prompt: everyday. When I was child, everyday for me was my Great Grandmother Ba. Some of you will recognise that I’ve written about her before. Make sure to click the logo above and go and check out all the other wonderful writers taking part in tonight’s prompt!