I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world,
to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)

They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.

13 August 2011



She sits at her desk
on a Spring day.

On her right is the glass 
door to the back garden.

She is crafting a poem.
She is happy.

Her man and her children
are about their business.

She feels a strange frisson
rippling her back a moment.

She could be in a time-warp,
caught. Or timeless: forever,

in unbroken thread,
sitting at her desk etc.

This might be 1980, or 1985.


At my desk on a Spring day,
crafting a poem,

the glass door to the garden
at my right, my man asleep,

my children grown and far away
absorbed in their own lives,

I feel a strange frisson
and here I am. And there I am.

I can see that desk, that garden,
that woman across time.

I am in my body. 
I am here, I am happy.

And she is in me, with me;
we are two points on a thread.

It is 2011. It is now.

In response to a prompt at Poets United's Thursday Think Tank.


  1. Oh my gosh, I love this. Beautiful.

  2. A wonderful stich.

    Congratulations on your selection as Poets United Blog of the Week.

    I've enjoyed reading through alot of your poems this morning and look forward to future posts.