Not poetry, but you have to go with the flow. This is for Ronovan’s Friday Fiction prompt: a dream.

The illustration is one I used the other day.


Perchance to dream. To sleep would be enough, to shut out the shadows that dart and creep from corner to corner while the moon hides among the clouds. Pain, dull and persistent is all there is, chasing sleep, banishing the bliss of oblivion. All is ache and tossing unavailingly, except the fear that the shadows might be real. There is noise in the fuzzy darkness, unaccounted noise like paws padding or nails scratching, but is it in the room, or in my befuddled head? The window is uncurtained and I see the sky, a shifting mass of rolling blackness, but clouds do not speak nor pad about a room.

The pain of loneliness joins the pain that the drugs are fighting and I sob in bitter anguish, wishing I could howl like a wolf. As if in sympathy, a vixen shrieks in the wood, and I reach out of my sluggish torpor to her, run the fields with her, slip silent and russet through the bracken. Click, scratch, scrape. I am not free, nor do I sleep. The fox is in a dream of her own and I fight the fear in the shadows.

Beyond the window, the cloud breaks, moonlight floods the room full of silver paws padding, and the shadows are not shadows at all. If I were a vixen, I would scream.


A cascade poem for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words to use are:



At the close of day,

tender pigments tint

the canvas of the sky.


Your face in darkness lies,

pale where shadows fall,

at the close of day.


Day’s illusions fade,

monochrome revealed, that

tender pigments tint.


Pride keeps pain at bay,

as slowly night bestars

the canvas of the sky.




Joy, ephemeral as a blackbird’s song,

As his fragile feathered life,

Carried on balmy breezes,

Disperses with the merest sigh,

In a cloud of mist and thistledown.

But pain uncurls in every broken heart,

Opens heavy arms to embrace the dark,

Beats a swathe, red raw between the dancing trees,

To tear a path beyond the round of sleep,

And clawing through the cold and airless wastes,

Fills the space that lies between the stars,

Swelling into infinity.


The Daily Post prompt suits my mood today.


So hard to bear the jangling noise

That beats the drum inside the head

And takes away balance and poise.

So hard to bear the jangling noise,

That jumbles thoughts like babies’ toys

And meshes them like tangled thread.

So hard to bear the jangling noise,

The flashing lights, the taste of dread,

The chaos in sweet order’s stead.

Rose in the rain

Photo ©Audrey


Rose turns its face to find the sun,

Curved pale petals catch the rain,

Sundered two who were once one,

Sweet petals cup an endless pain.

Rain the cold, unfeeling balm,

That soothes and scars and bites so deep,

The storm that blows away the calm,

Ransacks the place where roses weep.

Rose turns away from winter frost,

And sheds its scent, though none comes near,

For all the summer love that’s lost,

The blackbirds’ songs that none will hear.



Paddling in dark pools,

Where the splash of dragging feet

Is the brittle sound of ice breaking,

And the only light

Pierces spear bright

Until I turn away.

Pain throbs,

Now red,

Now black,

And the raucous cry of the crow

Is in every bird’s throat.

Bring back the soft summer light,

That soothes, warm-handed,

Casting dapples smelling of damp leaves.

Bring back the blackbird

And the summer sweetness,

Dripping from the birch,

Making the roses sing with joy.

Or give me gentle darkness,

Soft, moon-blushing and spangled with coy stars,

Before I lose myself

In the dark, subterranean echoes

Of this discordant lost world.

One sentence story #22 Open Challenge.

Painting by Mary Cassat.

A cheery one this morning—still feeling crappy.

HOWEVER if anyone else would like to write their own one or two sentence story based on this painting, do please. It might cheer me up! I’ll make this an on-going challenge, so if you don’t like this one, pick a previous one, or wait for the next.

Just post on your own blog and link to mine so I can see it, or leave it in the comments below. Go on; it’s great fun.


She held the baby tight one last time, so her skin would remember his smell of talc and milk, before the soldiers wrenched him from her arms.



We stand on the corner
Between noisy bars
That strew their rubbish
Beneath the stars.
From your stinging words,
Ill-concealed disdain,
I turn and run
Through tears of rain.
And the rain shafts cold
Through the orange light
Of the streetlamps’ glare
That obscures the night.
And your words, how they hurt
You will never know,
Are synthetic and cold
As the neon glow.

A dismal autumn poem

I woke up today with a crashing migraine. Dosed up on drugs and went back to bed. When I got up this afternoon the rain was lashing down. I felt inspired.

Among the poplars

Among the poplars by the river
I sit and watch the tumbling water
Autumn swollen, brown and troubled.
I listen to the hiss of rain among the trembling leaves
And the leaden plop as sullen drops pit the water’s skin.
Memories brim over, pouring thick as bitter rain
And the steely sky a cracked mirror mocks.
Should every drop from every rain-filled cloud,
Every leaden drop, leaf-dripped and river-borne
Carry, tear-salty, a grain of pain
The ocean would groan and toss and beat upon the cliffs
The waves break in anger, splashing screaming gulls
But my heart would be no lighter, where I sit and think of you
Among the poplars, in the rain.