The pen

Being mightier than the crayon

Draws worlds from minds

Spans paths with synapses

A bridge not far enough

For pencils


Sometimes we encompass

The whole universe

My depression and me

Holding hands

Grafted together are we




Plantings upside down

Turn over a new leaf they’d said

She always was dramatic


If Wordsworth walked

In Australian heat

The temptation of the lake

Would usurp the joy of daffodils

Bobbing and swaying

In the breeze


Who watches the watchers

As I change into my night time clothes

Surely the afterlife

Cannot be filled

With voyeurs



Copyright January 2015

Dreaded December

Lately I’ve had trouble writing. Usually ideas pester me for days {and nights!} until I write them down, capture those little suckers and turn them into poetry or stories, or both. For the last few weeks I’ve barely managed a good haiku or two. My mind has been full of birthdays and my cat’s arthritis and perfecting the art of housework avoidance. Now Dreaded December is only minutes away and I’m hanging on tightly to November.


“Don’t leave me oh beautiful November full of birthdays and sunshine and time!! “

The 1st of December laughs cruelly, “Mwah ha ha ha ha! Only three weeks till Christmas!! Please….step into my December Parlour where time flies as fast as the speed of light, the sun beats down relentlessly and the storms….Oh the storms…..destroy everything in their path. I am glorious December full of humidity and shopping and crowds and stodgy English meals and ……..visitors!! Mwah ha ha ha ha!!”

I sink to my knees and sob!


Today I bought a small plastic Christmas tree. Hopefully it will fit in the smaller gap next to the two-person sofa, which has replaced the one-person chair, with a larger gap. Tomorrow I shall put up this tree, bake the Christmas cake and begin on my Christmas letters and cards. For I know that these stories and poems, all my crazy ideas, are waiting for December to leave before they come out to play again. They do not thrive on stress, so the quicker I move through December, the faster they shall return.


If I had a Time Machine, or was good friends with an incarnation of The Doctor, then I could wake up tomorrow and it would be January the 1st of next year. I would have a brand new notebook and pen, my ideas would be back from their holiday and I wouldn’t be writing rubbish about sentient months and Christmas stress. Oh well, I suppose ideas do need a holiday every now and then to keep themselves fresh and I need to make contact with the outside world occasionally. If only December wasn’t so …………Dreadfully Decemberish!!



Copyright Dec 2014

Make My Proof

It’s the aimlessness really

That lack of purpose in the gaps

Certainly no divinity defined

Could ever take my doubting mind

PROVE IT! I scream inside

Whilst the universal pen





Straddling the agnostical fence

I wait for someone on a horse

To come pass me an apocalyptic scroll

With a giant box of crayons thrown in for fun

I can doodle in the margins

Illustrating such nonsense

With my own style of hieroglyph

A faint scent of apples

And a hiss



Copyright October 2014


I have this recurring memory of watching an old British TV show, Butterflies are Free. I don’t know why I liked it for it was about a disgruntled middle-aged woman and all her inner thoughts. Maybe, as a child, I was projecting my future. Anyway the memory I have is of one particular episode where she fantasises about running through fields of grasses and wildflowers, knickerless and free. I must’ve been very young at the time as I remember sniggering at her rudey-nudey thoughts.

Lately I have come to understand her.

That state of middle-aged disgruntlement, that boxed in feeling, that narrowing of life. That voice in your head screaming  “Is this all there is???????’’ Or, even worse, that anger at seeing yet another over privileged white male politician hectoring everyone on how to be!    No!! Get your expectations away from me!! Let me be!

I have decided that things will change.  Tomorrow, if you happen to be in the vicinity of Buderim Meadows Park quite early in the morning and you see a disgruntled middle-aged woman in a long dress, running through scratchy grass, mud and dog poo, you’ll know that she is me, knickerless and free, beautiful as a butterfly.


Copyright June 2014


Disclaimers on age, title of TV show and my memory.