Here We Go Again . . .

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WordPress is running a two-week course which invites writers to dabble in verse.
Writing 201: Poetry will explore alliteration, concrete poetry, metaphor & simile, sonnets, enjambment, haiku, prose, elegies, odes, chiasmus, limericks and epistrophe.

I have closed my eyes, held my breath and jumped.

Starting Monday (5 October) I will attempt to spend two weeks following the poetry prompt for each day.  (Gulp!)

If you are brave, why not jump in with me!
Follow this link:  Writing 201: Poetry

Hope to see you there!


Letting Go

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For years now
(How long? I have stopped counting.)
you have threatened to leave.
Always couched in concern,
always phrased to make you sound like a hero,
and I have played the role you’ve written,
the beggar,
pleading on my knees,
arms around your legs.

But little pieces keep falling.
A muffled phone conversation:

“ . . . just where I want her . . .”
A smirk reflected in a window.
The proud gait of a victor.

The dawn came long ago
but clouds and curtains hid the light.

Now I see
in every move the calculation,
in every smile the chill of winter.

Today I call your bluff.

Tomorrow I am buoyant.

II Corinthians 12:9


The storm comes,
giddily dropping regret
from grey clouds
and I question again meaning.

Something is wrong —
the letters juxtapose themselves
all over the page
creating nonsense.

The significance is beyond my means.
I give up having to know
and lean into the wind
allowing the thunder to echo through me.

Another day. Can I bear another day?
I look down at my feeble hands.
They will have to suffice.
Sometimes I can’t hold on.

Then is when I find
someone is holding me
and I fall home
into sufficient grace.



Everyone yields to you,
small thick-skinned mammal.
They gave you a gentle name
before they knew your nature.
Honey lover,
even the king walks away.

Pigeon-toed marten,
you slowly strut the dry plains,
long claws imprinting the African dust.
Fiercely tenacious,
you help yourself
to anything that takes your fancy.
White-capped weasel,
you make your own rules
and then break them.

The cobra’s venom may slow you down,
but beware,
pied maverick,
the poison of the snake-in-the-grass.
He is threatened by your relentless spirit
and his bite
is fatal.

This Land


This land,
simple rhythms and
discordant melodies
rising from the hills,
walks lazy.

World-wise interlopers
try to bend her to their will.
She laughs,
showing sharpened teeth,
eyes half-mast.

She gives them her body
but hides her soul
in the horns of the acacia.

And when they are spent
she rises
and languorously walks away
singing the songs of her ancestors.

candid camera


I lower my chin now
whenever someone pulls out their phone
just in case
there is a shot
in the offing.

I hate photos
for showing me for me,
this external shell
which bears less resemblance to my true self
the more years go by.

Every once in a while
the camera will catch it,
a glint in the eye,
a slight upward turn to the lips,
and there,
for a fraction of a second,
I see it.
The real me.

I will be whole
and wholly myself.

Until then
I drop my chin
every time
I hear
a click.

Age of Enigma


Starving in a gingerbread house.
Dropping stitches to save time.
Hearing but never listening.
Witnessing the world from an armchair.
Caressing the monitor, ignoring the flesh.
Dying without ever having lived.

And the planet cries
as too many sons of Adam
trade the breath of life
for a game of pinball.

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