The poem, with a beaty rappy type of rhythm is called Medea, but it could be about any number of notorious women throughout history who were lied to, cheated on and dumped by the hero of the story.


I have to say,

there’s no way

I would stay

with a dude like you,

a dude who

won’t apologise,

weaves tissues of lies,

pretends to be surprised,

when I tell him he’s despised.

What kind of a reception

did you think your deception

would get from me—

floods of tears, maybe?

Such a little word,

that I’ve never heard

leave your lips.

Like spitting pips,

you scowl, not even then,

not even when

I say I’m going,

my storm light glowing,

can you spit it out clean,

that word that would mean

you truly care.

Don’t dare,

don’t frown,

make me chase it down,

like some kind of quarry,

that little word—sorry.


Words on a paper

This is for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. I might write a second poem. I like these words.



The final act,

your letter falls on the mat,

no ringing bells or madly blaring sirens,

just a dull swish,

like the dangling rope cut,

swinging in the wind.

Hands tremble too much to open neatly,

white envelope paper ripped across,

the inked, deadly precise letters, a massacre.

I skim the words,

as if the lightness of the glance gives them less weight,

no time to stick their full import on reluctant retinas.

I skim, slide, eyes glide,

avoid the harsh black-on-white truth.

I skim,

the words shout though I close my eyes.

Skim, I say—

the stone bounces,

once, twice, thrice,

and hope drops,

sinks out of sight,

into the darkness,

where fall and fade,

all lovers’ broken hearts.

Like the swan and turtle dove

Today’s dVerse challenge is to write a poem in ‘common meter’ which is more or less the ballad-style meter I am very fond of using.


The tide was running high that night,

The moon was hanging low,

We walked the cliffs by starlight,

And sunset’s ling’ring glow.


I gave my heart to you love,

And you told me you’d be true,

Like the swan and turtle dove

I gave my love to you.


But you left me on the morrow,

At the ebb tide sailed away,

You left me only sorrow

That grows deeper every day.


Should you come sailing back, love,

To find me waiting here for you,

With the swan and turtle dove,

I’ll have flown to pastures new.

#writephoto: The Spring

This story is inspired by Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.


She had determined to find the source before her resolve failed her. The journey had been long and wearisome, and her feet were a mass of sores. But she had found it, the bright, sparkling waters that flowed from the earth’s heart. Not blood, but crystalline, life-giving water. Smell and taste, and at the end, hearing had guided her steps, for she was blind. They had blinded her as soon as the visions started when she was a child, thinking she had no need of eyes since she saw with the eyes of her soul. Earthly sight would cloud the visions, they said, and they were more valuable to the chief than the beauty of any young girl. Her mother had tried to stop them, but her father had made her be still. It was for the good of the clan.

The visions grew more vivid, more real. She truly did have no need of earthly eyes and lived increasingly in a world of fairy people, soft winds and warm sunlight. Then, one day, she heard a voice, a lover’s voice, soft and low. She learnt the contours of his face, his smell, the taste of his breath. But what she wanted more than anything in the world was to see his face, and for him to look into her eyes.

She told no one, not even her lover, and taking nothing but her staff, set off on the road to the mountains. She heard the wind and the cry of eagles; she left behind the smell of salt from the sea and her senses filled with the scent of ling on the mountainside. When the sound of the source filled her ears, she smiled to herself and stopped where a shadow hung between her face and the sky. She reached out a hand and plucked seven rowan berries from the tree that overhung the pool, and dropped them into the magical water. With trembling heart, she bathed her ruined eyes in the stone basin.

Light exploded all about her. The red berries gleamed like rubies, the grass shone so bright in the sun she could scarce look upon it. When the ripples on the pool settled, and the silver glitter receded, she stared into the water—her face, eyes restored, big and wide and blue, and behind her, the reflection of a man. Had he guessed and followed her? Her heart pounded with joy. She swung around, a wild smile on her face, and saw, waiting at the foot of the hill, their feet bathed in the rill from the spring, the chief and his bodyguard. Bewildered, her gaze flitted to the man before her, his scent unknown, his eyes hard and pitiless. She barely had time to whisper her lover’s name before the knife forced its way between two ribs and found her love-swollen heart.

The seller of dreams

Poem inspired by twitter friend and muse, Luigi La Ragione.
Painting by Caspar David Friedrich

XKH141318 Drifting Clouds (oil on canvas); by Friedrich, Caspar David (1774-1840); 18.3x24.5 cm; Hamburger Kunsthalle, Hamburg, Germany; German, out of copyright

You sold me dreams of smoke without fire,
The clouds you rode dissolved in rain,
The blue you painted across the sky,
Torn and rent let through the night.
You poured me an ocean of restless waves,
That rolled over shadows of jagged rocks.
The rainbow smiles were for the others,
The promises made were words in the wind.
You wrote your heart in ripples of water,
And walked away in the cold light of the stars.