Find A Room, Make Yourself At Home

All corridors run back to you,
though they say loss gets less
the longer you let it sit.
And you’ve been sitting here,
in this hollow you left for a while now
Just a slither of yourself
with no new words to say
that might explain this empty.
And barricades don’t keep
the door from banging open,
every time a storm
or gentle breeze blows in.
It only takes a name,
or a memory,
to raise your shade.
So I given up airing out this room
with all your secrets.
Leave another hole in the wall
the same shape as my fist,
pretend I haven’t
when the moments leaves.
Re-watch you walk in
sit down
pick up your drink.
Re-watch you pick up your drink.


Almost A Year On

Some days it’s like you’ve only just slipped through my fingers.

I’m still grasping for the tail-end of a thread,

trying to haul you back up, back to me

and everyone you left.

I feel guilty for the hollowness in my chest,

as if I don’t deserve to miss you this much.

I don’t believe I deserve to miss you this much

because I should have realised the acres of spaces you occupied

inside my head and heart

before the phone call rang in from your mother

and every worst fear was came crashing in like thunder.



For John

Thunder Storm Man

Thunder always precedes the storm.

Like you,

wild and roaring,

an opening show

with the rest of you hiding

beyond the horizon

where the clouds were darker

packed and swirling

lightening flaring in the rips

that couldn’t be sewn together.

Gone in a flash.


I haven’t been writing very much for this blog over the last few weeks so thank you to those readers who keep coming back. Every time I sit down at the moment to write, I end up thinking of John and he ends up in my writing which is why I’ve been so absent.

I was going to dedicate a post about mental health to him today since it’s World Mental Health Day but in the end I couldn’t face writing it. Part of the problem with sitting down to write and him being the only thing I want to write about, is that it makes me want to curl up and ignore everything. It makes the world seem unreal and unbalanced.

John was diagnosed with a borderline personality disorder a while back but he didn’t tell me until this year. I don’t know much about it, only that in the last couple of years it made his life really difficult and the prescriptions he was on didn’t seem to help.

So he went looking for answers himself and instead of finding them he tumbled into a rabbit hole that he would never climb out of.

On the 30th August he accidentally ended his life.

Poetry, for a lot of us, is how we process our emotions and how we work through them.

So for the man who called one of my earliest, and possibly crappiest poems ‘a work of genius’, I give him this Quadrille and all the other poems I’ve been writing for the last month and a bit.

I miss you John, rest in peace.


The grief felt guilty.

Clawing it’s way up, dragging lung and trachea with it, it seemed confused. Why now, why this loss, why not some other more easily explained? They had through the same trauma, felt their own grief and worry, dealt with it in their own way. They had not been there to see the way in which you dealt, the way in which you coped, the things that kept you grounded. Title explains it all, and my gosh is it fun and infuriating. No need to worry about the word count, instead you need to craft your sentences to perfection.

When my Grandfather was very ill a few years ago I stayed at my Gran’s to look after the dogs and my Great-Gran while she spent her time with Grandad at the hospital. My Grandfather’s accident was probably the most traumatic experience of my life so far, and he was very, very lucky to have pulled through. During that time at my Gran’s there weren’t many people to talk to, and instead it was the older dog Bessy who provided the most comfort and reassurance by simply cuddling up next to me on the settee or being in the room. Last night I found out that due to illness she’d passed away. She had a wonderful life with my Gran and was one of the softest, cuddliest dogs you could have met. I will miss the quiet reassurance of her presence.

Bessy Dog


I remember you warning me about candles.

It was Christmas,

(well just before)

and I’d used a cardboard trophy box

to make my own advent calendar.

The sort with a candle for the Sundays

and two more for Christmas Eve and the event itself.

I think Joanna had made one too

and we brought them to show you and Granny,

proud of ourselves for putting them together.


You let us light them.

But probably only because everyone was stood there

and if something went wrong there were grownups

ready to leap in and save the day.


I learnt about France after you were gone.

Twenty-one with two friends and bikes

roaring across the country by yourselves.

Gran found the picture,

asked for it to be framed.


Seeing you young is strange.

It reminds me that my Grandfather

was not my father’s father

or the man my gran married,

he was someone else.

Someone who I never saw because I was born too late

and the sickness had set in

and children that age

don’t ask the questions

that you think about after someone’s gone.

I’ve been on a poetry binge for the last few days and last night I started think about how most of my family poems are written about my mother and her side. So this is me righting the balance somewhat and drafting up a piece for my Grandfather from my father’s side.