I asked my daughter what she did today
Did she play with her friends?
Did she thrive?
I could ask her these things because she came out alive.

I asked my son if he was put on Gold
Or was he placed in Red Corner where the bad kids sit?
Not that it matters – not one bit

My middle child
She pondered a while
And then asked me this:
Mummy, it’s different in America, isn’t it?

It is, my love, it really is
You do not need to keep yourself hid
But American kids have a different way;
Here’s the things you’ll hear them say:
‘Today we learned to duck and cover
And to make a break and hide in a cupboard
To grab a phone, dial 9-1-1
And pray that the bad man has gone
And then we learned to stay real still
Because that man will shoot to kill
We learned all this straight from our tutor
In case there is an active shooter.’

For *when* there is an active shooter.
That’s how it seems – prove me wrong.
So I don’t have to weep in song.

Sonnet 3,011


Forgetting how to love, I lived in chains;
Those shackles became sentimental ploys;
Existing in a world of only pain;
All hope had gone, all self-respect and poise.
As life became a bitter, twisted mess
I had to kill my hopes and crush my needs
There were no happy endings then, unless
I saw them in my poetry or dreams.
Then suddenly, a heart just like my own
Appeared before me, beating strong and pure;
His heart was also filled with sorrow though;
So similar the things we had endured.

As love saw us, demanding to enchant,
We recognised each other at a glance.

LMN image.jpg



Sonnet 2,411


imageNow as I go to sleep I write in rhyme:
This evening’s thoughts be thunk and written down;
For I am his and know that he be mine;
The things of which we spoke tonight be ours.
I read and write our love and feed his soul;
He feeds mine too, of that I am aware;
For he is me – and I am he, one whole;
Completed hearts be here as they be there.
I cannot write in words that do not flow;
For he has graced my life with art and song;
My beats and metered ways be his to know;
Two minds that think as one cannot be wrong.

I am the darkest tunnel – he’s the light:
Hence poetry forms everything I write.




This is how it went down:
There was love.

On her part, at least, there was love.
It wasn’t returned.

She hoped it might be, one day.
Contact was full-on…until it wasn’t.

Until she was no longer in his thoughts.

Until she awoke.

Once again, she’d been manipulated and kept around like a fail-safe, idiot-proof, back-up plan. She could imagine his intentions as he played her like the afterthought she’d always been, “she’ll just be there, waiting for me as always.”

But no.
No, she wasn’t.
She wasn’t waiting.

She had already lived her life thus far in an unrequited state and wasn’t about to continue lovelessly.

In the beginning, he had spoken of his desire that one day she would know her worth. He would make her see it. He would make her realise that she should never value herself based on that which she meant to others. It was all in HER, he said.

She is finally aware of her worth. She also knows her value to him – which is insignificantly minimal.

But she f i n a l l y knows her own worth.

And still, love is there. But this time, it’s the love she has for herself.


I have a hunch


The questioning, exclaiming marks show sentiment – reflective; but one’s a little bent to gain a new and fresh perspective.

The Hunchback looks down at his feet, asks questions of the earth; The Soldier stands all tall and proud, with confidence since birth.

But both of ’em are balancing, each standing on their ball; you kick that ball away they’d be identically corpsed.

For one is one and one the other in this little game; in falling to their origins, they’d crumple just the same.




You didn’t want me
Even though
I wanted you
As well you know
You didn’t love me – never could
And even though
I hoped you would
Or dreamed you might…
…I had no fight.
I could not stay
Unloved again
And could not say
I loved you when
You didn’t wish to hear it…
…Because you always feared it.
But this I know: Our letting go
Might hurt our hearts hereafter
But living without love?
We just averted a disaster.






SONNET 7,444



My wasted heart it knew not how to beat;
Instead it chose a terminating pulse;
Preparing to give up, it did retreat
From many tests with negative results.
My poorly heart it wanted to be killed;
Survival was no life with half a heart;
As slowing beats left passions unfulfilled,
So love was paused, no reason to restart.
My dying heart gave up on love at last,
Content without contentment, time to go;
Defibrillation banned, all hopes were dashed;
When love appeared and spoke so I would know:

There’s no more flatlines, no more giving in;
For next to mine, a new heart: shaped like him.