🍒 Articles, Prose - Whatever One Would Like To Call Them. An alternative creative process to my poems, and something I don’t see myself very good at which is why this section doesn’t go on for too long. An extract from: 🍒 Song of Myself by Walt Whitman I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every…

Free Verse over acres and acres a chill wind blows over brown mountains and populations: grass as long as Marram. across fathoms and fathoms of fish: shoals not drowning arisen where ships wrecked sands in search of new land. too familiar a breeze never welcome. it strips the heart strands…

Free Verse Beochaoineadh. Gaelic (Irish) / n. / beɪ.ɒk.wiːnəʊ / bey-och-kwee-noh. An ‘elegy for the living’; a lament for someone who is alive but who has gone away. Once I filled my hand with mist. Then I opened it and lo, the mist was a worm. And I closed and opened my…

Thrifty Word Challenge 100 #73: Enough — “Let us prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s books each day. … The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time.” Seneca Humanity hides behind red-faced embarrassment as…

Free Verse — Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age. Anais Nin I fear my pedestal too high like Nelson’s Column amidst a sea of guano: battered remnants drowning in baleful resignation as I bail my burning flesh into the depths. Age dismantles red-rose…

Free Verse Young girl mindfully pauses a finger upon her upper lip nudging the ring piercing her septum corseted graveclothes cosseted: basque-ing with attitude. Earlobes gape with gouged holes flesh tunnels plugged with plastic and underneath a heavy fringe an eyebrow bar blends a silver tint beneath her chemically ravened hair…

In memory of John Cooper, a dear friend and artist. — When one realises one is asleep, at that moment one is already half-awake. P.D. Ouspensky he drew me naked - a landscape-paint of undulations draped in colour-faded asian silks: the armchair springs inert in their flaccidity drawing welts upon my skin. in rosy-rings his fire burnt me. I did not tell…