About DVerse – For Dverse ( a little ditty)

heart and souls poured into it

that is pure co -mmit -ment

encouragement  ~  support

be it long verse or short

the doors remain open

for our prose or poems

///the rules may have changed   ( ///especially for Brian & Claudia)

but who are we to complain

all they ask is we write

read others THEN com-ment

not too much to ask?

such a simple task

yes this is a rhyme

as I’ve run out of time

Cheers to DVerse

and the people who lead

those with a love of po-e-try

a community ~  that is for sure

and we couldn’t

wouldn’t ask for more

ta daaaaaaaa!

Just a little bit of fun for the team at DVerse, http://dversepoets.com  OLN, yes admittedly scribbled down within 2 minutes (Brilliant aren’t I?) 😉 Their doors remain open, we smile,  so to Brian and Claudia and the whole team – from this Aussie wanna be poet – I thank you insert – ( take a bow).  If you are into writing prose/poetry and haven’t checked them out – please do – they are a very supportive and encouraging group of friendly people.

Colour me colour me not (Prose)


the colours in my life
back then
at 17 years of age
painting of an Autumn tree
a wooden fence behind

oils that set my mind free
burnt oranges and browns
pallet knife and brush
held tenderly in hand

it was bought
purchased years ago ~
alas the first and last
I sketch now in only pencil
it’s simpler ~ it’s fast

greys and blacks
no colours to be found
my piece of love hangs somewhere
or discarded in the trash

a paintbrush is no longer held
or linseed oil in sight
words have now replaced what
talent lies inside

I wish
I’d taken a photo
of the tree ~ in all it’s colour
when my dream
so many years ago
to be an
a mother

©jmtacken 3rd October 2013

PS: I really did want to be a mother..though not at that age 😉

dVerse          Claudia is tending and we are writing about colours over at DVerse, this was a quickie as I have quite a bit of work ahead of me before Thursday.

Don’t grow up (Prose)


Photo credit:    feminactivedivas.wordpress.com

how old do you wish to be
patiently you sit, make up artist at your side
brushes in hand, her mind elsewhere as she turns
your lips to hooker red and accentuates your eyes

hair in a chignon, split dress to show a thigh
heels that hang off baby feet ~ that are yet to grow
allure, seductive poses, do NOT indulge the pedophile
who scours the internet searching for his prey
as he sits and dribbles, smearing blood red lips away

with every stroke, with every pose, the click of the lens
turn this way, pout your lips, cross your legs


is it for recognition, the fuss that’s made
or are parents pushing in the wings for the

riches offering , as you surrender childhood
not understanding what this means
in time you will grow old, my lovely child
wrinkles under eyes, on cheeks, on hands
but for now hold on to that young girl
and the skipping rope, while you can

this is not the attention that you seek
Please grow old with grace ~ for a childhood young
and innocent, can never be replaced

©jmtacken Sep 2013

For   dVerse | Poets Pub and Open Link Night hosted by the lovely Grace. I ask you to read – to join in on whatever subject you may choose.

Alright everyone line up alphabetically according to your height

Ah the wonderful folk at  dVerse  and Tony (who is tending the bar)  have asked us to write a ballad. Don’t ask me why – but I went to Irish mode with mine and was dancing like a Leprechaun (well writing) across the page and even sung the words with the accent. Come across to the Poet’s Pub and see what other ballads these brilliant folk have written. I hope this is worthy for my 610th post.




We’ve been asked to write a ballad
try to keep it true to form
yet I never think of meter’s
as that makes me all forlorn

as words I simply place on page
no metaphors and such
and if a ballad comes of this
I shall like it very much

so in a lilt I sing these words
that I place upon the page
and hope that they make common sense
to show I’m being brave

one day I’ll learn a trochee
rhythm, meters possibly more
but for now I write this ballad
as my head is growing sore

so sing with me in your own tune
and sing with me in glee
this ballad that I offer you
simply comes from me

©jmtacken Sept 2013


ahh to be sure to be sure… lol my hopeless Irish accent – thanks Audra (can’t stop laughing)



There’s a storm ‘a coming, she double takes
the barometer, arrows it to be
always reliable; no doubts on days she reads
yet outside her sparkling window
shines skies of blue, clouds of white
where’s the storm pray tell

tumbling greys, foreboding winds gyre
across the fields, lightening spike fires
remembering from her past, she taps the glass
the arrow stays, casts off her pinny
station switch, for the man to give
the forecast

barometers on the blink; she ‘tsk tsks’
and dry cloths the watered sink
back turned; dusts the faces looking back
at her within the photo frame
their ‘two’ smiles engulf the room till
a knock against the door, she heaves a heavy sigh
fingers comb her straggly locks

not expecting company, who would venture
out, with a storm about to hit
probably Mrs. Jones, ‘cup of sugar’
‘have you milk’
she feels a push to chest
steps tripped back, hand strikes hard
against her cheek, steel is cold
it rests upon her throat
‘don’t fight bitch’ yells the
guttural voice ‘or you can
kiss those kids good-bye’

seems the arrow was correct

*Critique welcome


This contribution is for http://dversepoets.com.   Tony who is hosting  wrote these first few lines

“I have a dark and dreadful secret,” writes Stephen Fry in the foreword of his book The Ode Less Travelled. “I write poetry.”

This morning when my eyelids fluttered open this sprung into my head..

Poets can be: Sentimental, fastidious, sensitive, eccentric, pompous, sexual, smart, naive, disciplined, playful,  introverted, extroverted, humble, proud, rebellious, conservative, passionate, open, imaginative, controlling, manic, depressed, apathetic, humorous, pessimistic, ashamed, optimistic, engaging, productive, promiscuous, indulgent, vivacious, enthusiastic, independent and creative!

People who don’t write Poetry can be: Sane

Where did you go?

Childhood did I lose you
somewhere along the way
moments that simply vanished
events I can’t recall
I remember
curly blonde hair
pen marked forehead ~ I called
you Irene like my mum
pink lace dress, plastic clicking eyes
wrought iron fireplace briquettes
wood piled high watching as the
magic circling smoke wafted
up the chimney bricks
cushions stacked a castle made; sheets
from beds my little place –  with plastic
tea-cups filled with water, my dolls my
guests inside and parents not allowed
backyard play and fences climbed till
over I go head first concrete never
soft – sore head – painful head
cries to mum, I lived to tell the tale 
being minded playing marbles
hmm the large one is soooo pretty
fingers down the back of throat
this I remember well
shuttlecock soaring into the air
laughter family brothers playing
dad in knee high socks
holidays with rain in tents 
strumming a guitar on fallen
gum tree; vacant paddock calling
out as center stage,  not so in tune
voices with my besty from next door
there are photographs
to remind me ~ not many but a few
this is only how I remember
how I’ll remember you 
Me in Overalls031
For Poetics dVerse brought to us by Manicddaily, a/k/a, Karin Gustafson – The prompt for the day: some variation of “I remember”.  
LIPTEMBER MONTH OF SEPTEMBER – Shaun from http://prayingforoneday.wordpress.com has kindly and generously written a blog for Liptember to help Kayla raise funds for the fight against Mental Illness. He has donated recently, as have a few of my readers. Please read and if you can donate (for those that haven’t already) we would be most grateful. Thank You!  
We are in the process of getting a Pay Pal address for those who have had difficulty donating.  



Monday to Thursday for anyone who is interested in babble

Good evening everyone out there in Blog WP land.

How are we all this evening, morning, afternoon?

It's so hard to keep track of times and days for that matter.

This is just a rambling blog post from moi.

Just because I can :-)   Ahh the freedom of speech isn't it grand ~ oops no poetry this evening.

Updates on my week - you ready? Comfy? Drink in hand be it coffee, wine or beer? Perhaps some cheese on crackers to go with that?

  • Started the juice diet for 4 days straight I drank nothing but squeezed out fruit and vegetables (my hat goes off to all you vegetarians out there by the way). Yesterday I was in a complete daze, had no idea where the day actually went, proceeding into the supermarket to top up on fruit and veg and other things. Yes, I forgot the other things - my brain was frozen in a sludge state.
  • Tonight yee ha I had a meal, I never knew how much I enjoyed the physical art of chewing! I ate some calamari and salad. Treadmill in the morning, so all will be good Weird how I felt guilty for actually eating after 4 days though.
  • No wine consumed for 4 days (I know,  how the hell did I do that) tonight I am shouting myself to a scotch with Pepsi Max (it is soooooo good) yes the treadmill will be a definite in the morning.
  • Went out twice with Pop on his scooter ~ hmm little concerned as he still doesn't look left and right before crossing the road and I think he feels as if he is still in a car to protect him a little. More practice required, more of me running or walking very fast at his side.
  • Attended a funeral on Tuesday (for learning Celebrant purposes) I did not know the deceased. 20 family members. Song being played for reflection time - wrong song. Try again - wrong song. I sat in the back row cringing, oh and taking notes.  The Celebrant though (as she told me afterwards) "It's best to stay calm when things go wrong, so the family remains calm".  Tell me if I'm wrong readers (this way I will know if you have actually read this far ) her reaction after the song not being played twice was "Right we will move onto the next part of the ceremony".  What the??? No apology for technical difficulties now we will move on??? Nothing? The service went for 20 minutes (family's instructions) but to me way too quick, no time to absorb what was happening, no speakers apart from the Celebrant. The music that the family chose for the recession (the walking out of the service) was a classical piece interspersed with quite 'bubbly' violin… not my choice AT ALL. This had to be played by the FD (that's funeral director lingo) who held a portable CD player at the back of the room. All went well till his/their recording jumped, hopped and skipped and crackled towards the end. I was mortified readers mortified! I shall do better (if I ever get a gig…(no gig isn't the right terminology is it?)
  • Lastly, I want to thank all the people that commented on My Gate is Open piece for DVerse - I am being guided and supported most admirably and for that I thank you one and all.

Okay that's it, hope I haven't bored anyone, thought I'd do it all in one blog (I so hate that word) post ~ thanks for listening..I mean reading.



The Gate Was Open

fingertips trace the suede
that swaddles the comfy place
we’d sit and watch old movies
leaving imprints of my identity
across where you’d lay your arm

the kitchen table where we shared
our meals and laughter from the day or
serious conversations on world
events with stifled yawns from me ~
sits barren

looking sideways to the crooked frame
hanging on the wall; giggles remembered
and stamped feet, how you never hung it
straight ~ the memories of ‘us’ ~ just
simple things

the gate not mended; the grout worn and
fallen; rubbish stacked behind the shed
it would be cleared ‘one day’ ~ things undone
things left; importance now ~ very little
within our walls of home, love held
between four fences ~ that had value

we broke down, distracted by so many things
sweet madness; sweet love of ours
disappeared between the palings
as you drifted out of reach and
that’s what mattered

now with suitcases
at my feet ~ my sweaty hand grips
the handle of the unpainted
door ~ the unfinished
I must say adieu

I have swapped over the last two paragraphs on advice from Grace – also placed ‘and’ instead of & advice from Victoria – thank you I feel it works much better now.

Below is Brian Miller’s (from DVerse) edit for this – I welcome critique, I feel fortunate to be supported in my writing. I have put Brian’s version below so you can see the difference between the two.

fingertips trace suede
that swaddles the comfy place
we’d sit & watch old movies
imprints of my identity

across where, you’d lay your arm

the kitchen table where we shared
meals & laughter from the day or
serious conversations on world
events with stifled yawns from me ~
sits barren

sideways, the crooked frame
hanging on the wall; giggles remembered
& stamped feet, how you never hung it
straight ~ the memories of ‘us’ ~

simple things

the gate not mended; the grout worn &
fallen; rubbish stacked behind the shed
it would be cleared ‘one day’ ~ things undone
things left; important once,now
very little
within our walls of home, love
between four fences, that had value
what mattered; with suitcases
at my feet

my sweaty hand grips the handle of the unpainted
door unfinished, we broke down

distracted by so many things
sweet madness and love
disappeared between the palings
as you drifted out of reach &
I must say



A Fictional write for dVerse and Open Link Week 112.  I would appreciate any critique.

A letter to Tom and Mary

DVerse and Mary have invited us to write an Epistolary piece –http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22718
For The Poet’s Pub – http://dversepoets.com/2013/08/17/poetics-sent-with-a-stamp/
Apologies for the length.

Grandparents 1952030

Dear Mary and Tom,

May I pen a letter asking who you were? I know you are my grandparents,but that is sadly all

Grandpa we never met, I have no stories of your life - this I only blame myself
for the questions were never asked - how sad that I did not

So please I ask forgiveness, as I never knew you as a lad
nor the trials you faced in life, witnessing the wars

I know not how you met 'your Mary', or how you sang or even laughed
how regrettable, that all I know of you - are your old photographs

we did meet, but was for the shortest while, a child of eighteen I came to England to see you the first time. You took ill, a stroke struck you and I tended to your body,such an english rose with you hair of silver curls, porcelain skin, rosy cheeks, in floral dress and string of pearls

And I was young and so naive and went 'round countryside and fell in love ..or so I thought, when your death I read by telegraph and I the one too self absorbed - even to attend, this regret, in life I have and I carry it to my grave for I thought of only me, so I ask for absolution - for not honouring you in death

I shall make amends, though I know not where you lay, to pay respect, to show
my love – Australia’s so far away

I cannot lay a flower nor stand with my head bowed.I cannot say "I'm sorry" though I yell it now out loud. Your life, like Tom's I never knew, only now that I have aged - I wish I could have known you more, with remorse, I turn the page


Non-Fiction – to my Grandparents – I keep still, in silence, in memory of you.

Closing the door to winter

Tony at DVerse came up with a mathematical play for pieces .. I chose the syllable count. I hope this fits.




leave me now
 dissipate, bring me needed warmth
watching rain trickle down the window pane, I am lost
darkened skies, release your sun, set this grey mood free, through white clouds to bring serenity

Fibonnaci: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. Syllable count

For the wonderful D’verse Poets Pub