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')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). 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 blog posts as much as possible.

30 September 2014

Our Shadows: Erotic haiku September 2014

our shadows
cast by the lantern
rise and fall


smoke tendrils
curling past my face
his long hair


moving in rhythm
lost in the rhythm
we are the rhythm

These were written as separate haiku, but they refer to the same occasion and could be read as one poem.

I am submitting them, on 22 Feb. 2015, to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #240

12 September 2014


Sitting at my desk,
I feel the gentle flick
of a furry tail brushing my leg.
Both cats have always liked
to get my attention that way.

But the one who is still alive
lies across the room
in front of the heater.
He hasn't stirred all evening.
So I know who.

As I clean the kitchen bench
close to the time for cat dinner,
right above the spot of floor
on which that dinner is served,
I hear behind me a tiny mew.

I recognise it. Enquiry.
Encouragement. The nightly 
reminder (as if I would forget).
'Yes, babe,' I say,
'But you're dead.'

11 September 2014

As Time Goes By

So this is what it's like, being 74.
They start leaving,
the ones you love the best, or
the ones you thought
would always be there.
In fact they've been leaving for years,
but now you notice it more.

At home there are just we two
now; I am just an old lady
with her cat. How do you do?
I am the old witch with the black cat,
living invisibly next door to you.
In future years, will it come to that?
Already it's almost true.

3 September 2014

The Water-Colour Sketcher

for Claudia Schoenfeld

In her heart is the music of light.
She doesn't worry
about capturing the exact, neat shape
of the cup with the blue flowers;
what she wants is that blue on that white,
and the half-moon swirl of the coffee
glimpsed over the rim.
She is after the blobby orange
of a sunset sky, or a pale lemon moon
reflected in dark water. Her Eiffel Tower 
curls back into distance
like a dancer abandoned to music.
Her motorbike riders, bright red,
rush towards me out of their street
and out of her picture; I see them 
swerve to miss me.
Everything's alive,
nothing is static.
It all sings.

Written in response to a dVerse prompt and the sketches of Claudia Schoenfeld. I was inspired by all rather than one. I would call her art impressionistic, and my response is very much the impression it made on me, with details jumping out from the collective effect. A quick impression — a closer look reveals there is only one rider on that bike; but never mind, I'll stay true to the first impression.