All posts tagged: writers

Vanity In Reptiles – A Quadrille (Entirely Jane Dougherty’s Fault)

The size six snake three trees over, slithered past here last Saturday. The iguana on fern saw her by the pool. Think’s she looks better in the water. Told the croc by willow he should swim on. Big boys like him stand no chance. This is what happens when poets start commenting on other poet’s work. You end up down the rabbit hole with snakes, iguanas and crocodiles. (It didn’t end well for the rabbit.) To check out the writer who provided the inspiration for this quadrille, and then joined me in the madness, hop over to Jane Dougherty Writes. There you can find more of her work like the poem below: Whip snake resplendent in green and black beading, striped vicious as a wasp, terrifying as braided headdress, twisted and entwined with feathers and human teeth, squirms and twitches and sloughs, aghast that this shrugged off apparel, skin of skins, must be how he looks.

My Grandfather

‘One of the old men fearing no man’ Thomas Yarnton of Tarlton by John Drinkwater My Grandfather no longer ages. In photos from family gatherings he stands taller than the rest of us our constant invariable. Despite broken ribs, eleven, smashed sternum, destroyed spleen, punctured lung, fracture wrist, cardiac arrest not once but twice! Despite the bull’s best efforts, our urges to lessen the workload, relax, take time, watch the races and leave the farming- An old farmer never retires. He doubles the size of the vegetable patch, rebuilds fences, two new stables, buys a flock of ewes (in lamb) (and claims they’ll lamb themselves… we all know they will not lamb themselves.) To him, technology was foreign, but, to prove the family wrong he bought a laptop. And taught himself to use it in six months. (Though email still proves elusive And the last text he sent me was blank. Still. My Grandfather is the same as the man in my memories, And even at my most feminist I did not mind to be …


“Tomorrow morning, that footstool goes!” And I’m left to listen to my own voice’s echo, As it bounced back off half-painted walls And round corners without the skirting- Next weekend’s promise still etched in pencil. But faded past the point of a stranger’s notice, And even your mother has stopped commenting, On the second landing’s crooked light fixing. I must have asked you a hundred times before, To throw out that footstool in the hallway. Bought at some junk shop, three streets away, And just awkward enough, so that I stub my toe, Every single time I walk through the dam door! The same door you painted pink to annoy John, Next door’s tenant with a grey tweed suit, And a hate for anything even mildly creative! God he hated you! With a passion unmatched. At least he did- Last week he said how he’d admired you. He said that you artwork was unparalleled! You would have snorted in his face, And asked him “what else you would expect? You were a genius with a …

Hollow Out My Heart

You begged for forgiveness With scrapped up knees, And I stood on my steeple With nothing to steady me. The hollow of your words Drowned out these chapel bells And I struggled not to slip, Knowing you wouldn’t catch me if I fell. If the air is too thin, Then why does it seem That here I can think! While with you I can’t breathe? These lines between lies, They blur into truth! And the crows in the graveyard, They recognize your tune. The magic of the bard, A lair’s way with words. They wait for fresh meat, For me to fall at your feet. So you must sew up forgiveness, Stitch it to my lips, And have me recite it Edit out my slips or quips You apologies for lying, You never meant to cheat And though I’ll nod along, Mimic your rhythm and the beat- My acceptance is falsehood As much as any of your deceits.

“Why does this writer not get more views?”

Have you ever asked yourself that question? I would have thought that it would be a common one to crop up, especially if you’re someone like me spending infinite amounts of time trawling through websites such as Deviant Art, and I have even been on the receiving end of astonishment from some. Random comments cropping up on whatever piece I’ve recently published, on whichever site I’m using, the author bamboozled by the fact my stats have never really taken off at any great rate.  Now I know I can write, it’s taken some time for me to listen to the insistant voices in my ears, (namely one of my best friends Jad) but I’ll now admit that I can write pretty dam well. I just haven’t achieved large numbers of readers. The thing is, I find it bothers me more when I find incredible writing by other people and the reading stats are low. When my own stats plummet, I’m fairly comfortable in the knowledge that there are a group of people out …

Hunting for Creativity

Today I wanted to be creative. I wanted the words to flow Four am wake ups from rogue ideas And conceded scribbles to bribe back sleep.   I needed the clatter of keyboards Rattling my mind for the last drops Waiting for the final thunk of gold The smudges of ink that pulled a chapter whole.   Instead I got the crumpled paper Of half hearted attempts to write. Jottings, notes and contradicting plots Which spin webs of confusion in my mind.   Works that once seemed good Fractured beneath my own acid gaze.   I’m supposed to be a writer Why can I not pin you down? Where’s my sledge hammer for this block? How do you bury my words so far beneath ground?

Writers Block, Creative Friends, Art and Literature

Now I was supposed to do this a couple of weeks ago. But for those of you who know me, asking me do get something done that is not deadline specific is close to asking me to do a triple backflip. I may do it, the likelihood of it taking place is just very low. But when it comes to promised favours I just have a sieve like memory, it’s a struggle to keep thoughts from slipping through the cracks. Anyway, back to the original point of the post. Those of you following will have already seen that some of my friends are somewhat creatively minded, (and completely off the wall.) Now I’ve been told that my blog is apparently drawing in a reasonable amount of traffic (this may be an overstatement) and that as a ‘friend’ it seems reasonable that I will try and introduce those who read my work, to the fantastic works of those I know. Now I have no problem with this. I really don’t mind including such pieces as Amber …