Poems 2 & 3

I went back to the magnets and looked at the second and third sets of tiles. I haven’t rearranged the Oracle’s words, just let her tell it like it is. The messages are not very clear (except in parts).


Have a pound, a smooth bed, you/his.
This is delirious, could be their crush.

Faster, spring runs to a stop where the sun don’t shine,
urging blood for watching—

it smeared these peaches pink as I was eating,
petal pink.


I am ying, never yang,
swimming through life like honey
and the lazy whisper in my head
that says, yes, you can have that gown

~all blue and purple with rain~

women can scream too,
use their tongues to corrode the edifice,
and if you say we are just bitter,
that is why we must.


Re-wild the mundane day 2

In answer to Paul Brookes’ hedgehog and tea towel questions which you can see here (WP can feck off with it’s stupid questions).

Once were tea towels

smart-checked and striped,
holes now united by threadbare,
unravelled warp and weft,
linted and loose-threaded,
shoe-cleaners, floor-wipers,
the unnameable rags
that line forgotten places.

~Not all forgotten, not by all~

a hedgehog home, deep in the pile
of cracked roof tiles and bricks,
beam splinters ancient plaster,
is lined with linen, embroidered with oak leaves,
spiked and span, gathered by prickles,
wind holes filled with moss,
a winter sleep away from spring.


Painting Kryzhitsky: Landscape with a pond


full of sound
still as leaves
shivering in the breeze
morning grows
a painting
by delicate touch

~ from tree to tree ~

after summer silence
a gentle ripple
water music
and the sky is veiled
soft enough
to line any nest.


For earthweal.


When the leaves are drying, curling,
rattling in the rising wind,
sharp as the gunshots that ring
from side to valley side,
autumn’s beauty marred by brutes,
it’s hard to remember

~ spring ~

bird racket and squirrels leaping where leaves unfurl,
the stream racing after the rains,
light falling bright and green,
falling on a mallard turning in the flood,
her chicks bobbing boats in a baby’s bath,
their new voices thrilling.

Dull day

Turn off the sun, and the grey
seeps through the walls,
light bereft of colour, even meadow-bright
drained beneath the drizzle,
drowning flower-fire,
pink sparks dulled, and flax

~closed all its blue eyes~

the sky is swollen with wind,
too loud to hear protesting birds,
though the branches wave
with the anger of kelp thrashing sand-silt,
stirred up by the passage
of some monstrous fish.