Tag Archives: mother

Two Journeys

guy 2

He came home today,
her beautiful boy
with his beautiful scar,
his chipped tooth
and his battered faith,
the price of defending another.

once worn like a badge,
now quietly stitched
to the inside of his shirt,
a tight kernel of regret
chafing at his chest.

And she,
though saddened
by the livid weal beneath his eye,
thankful that he returned
in the rattle and hum
of a crowded carriage,

in the drum thud
of his white budded world,
not draped in wood
under the misplaced blood
of a forlorn flag.


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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry



Lacquer clogs my early morning mouth.
Spitting curses and acetates, I watch
as her barely-there bottom

perches on Kohl-smudged porcelain,
spidery legs dangling from the
toothpaste-tinged rim.

Eye-liner daggers drawn,
parrying tongues and tangling elbows
we jostle for space and giggles,

jousting in a lotion-cluttered arena,
hairspray mace and mascara lances –
fighting for glass.

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Filed under Couplets, Free Verse, Poetry



Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting ~ Robert Frost

Nursing vanilla-caffeine infusion,
soft frost melting against the aga,
I watch them

sibling seed heads,
happily bent in solicitude
for their task.

In paper intricacies
patient adolescent soothes
her fervent perfectionism –

it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes sweetheart,
++++++++++++++++++++that’s what makes each one unique

As dusk gnaws at the
frayed edges of the day
I dance a solitary waltz

lacy snowflakes
strung from cobwebbed beams,

in the fractals
of their beautiful mistakes.

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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry, Uncategorized




ten-toeing the edge
of Abereiddy lagoon,
craggy hand-held womb,
palpable wraith
of paternal protection.


Split/screen vintage
volkswagon camper van,

Quick-witted warrior woman
fending off shaggy black,
bouncing the craic,
dirt-dry humour
protecting the scab.

full frontal (g)lobe,
foraging, furrowing,
snaffling new goals.

Concentrically pursuing
a waggly appendage
while craving the calm
of a downward dog
that can’t be tethered.

Sitting uneasily
between skeleton
and skin,
cramped contradiction:

seeking approval,
rat’s ass not given.

Mellow molten mix,
between, betwixt,
schoolgirl shy
full of vixen tricks,
caught between sunshine
and total eclipse.

Constantly pouring an ample C
into a life cup-B,


Maternal cliff climb,
sneaks up behind,
shoves flailing daughter,
swirling water.



Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

Rock Paper Scissors

If I’m on fire they dance around it
and cook marshmallows.
And if I’m ice they simply skate on me
in little ballet costumes.


~ Anne Sexton

A bemused observer
of their game until now,
I have become a portentous player
for I am Water.

Not the cleansing hill streams of Snowdonia,
the bottled minerals of Cerist,
or the bland, reservoir-rated,
‘lapped from the dog’s bowl’ drink.

I am neither clear nor pure.
I do not quench their sand-filled throats
with the serum of their early years
or cool their ragged-flanelled fevers
as my beads burn from their foreheads.

I am torrents of snot-filled globules
bubbling in a salty cauldron,
liquid spittle unravelling before them.
I am deliquescent disorder,
drowning amid the septic sewer’s craw.

So what will become of them?

My rock,
my tiny pebble
who grew into a heather-faced
mountain of a man,
strong enough that I could lean on him
and feel small against his contours
his steady drumbeat a perfect paradiddle
to my erratic metronome.
Will he plunge into the slithering river,
his rhythm faint and failing
as he sinks into the brackish silt?

My first-born paper boy,
so many scribbled lines shared late into the night,
even when distanced by the delerium
of drunken student life.
Will his blue-scribed words bleed,
his pages turn to pulp
as his adolescent song
runs sopping through the gutters?

And what of her,
my sharp-tongued, slippery seamstress
with her silver-fish wit and her precious metal smile,
her glinting shears swathing effortlessly
through the diaphanous dream
that she weaves around her.
Will her blades rust
beneath the deluge of my sorrow,
as the naïve loom lies abandoned
in the corner of a cobwebbed room?

for I am Water.
I can be poured
back into the pitcher,
treated and filtered
until I run clean and clear again,
dancing weightless and unfettered
in the myriad sparkling streams
of Mynydd Mawr
where they will lift me to their lips
in cool-cupped hands
and sup from me once more.

~ Mynydd Mawr ( Welsh for big mountain) is a mountain in Snowdonia, North Wales and is pronounced Mun-ith Mow-r (rhymes with hour)

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Filed under Free Verse

Cutting the Chords

So grateful you did not delay
to rip placental tie with teeth,
and split the victim from the thief

‘fore vital stem cells seeped away.
Invoked the lien of hardened gene,
the traits I loathe with you did stay,

left fest’ring in your shallow sheath.
So grateful you did not delay.

It’s time the wraith like chords were cut,
first harvested from hips left-right,
‘neath solar plexus, pulled in tight,

deep sapphire slashed as clutched to gut.
Burnt twisted wire in violet fire
no longer feeds your glow’ring glut,

darkbound in blood and spliced in spite.
This time the wraith like chords are cut.


Filed under Octain