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   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

Nomadic nights

silent, dark and moth

These words were given to me from as an inspiration to write the other evening and I had nothing… I now write the below (I probably still have nothing) but I’m giving it a try, I am letting my thoughts flow a little more. Critique welcome.


fingers splintering on bare wood
the night, eyes closed ~ except through
my third eye,  the centre of my brows

early hours are silent,  bar the tinkering
ivories that draws me from unconscious sleep
dreams will not be ReMembered
when I wake yet still I wonder

violins draw close, like moths
fluttering, movement; bow on strings
music helps my flight, as I drift or am I deep
in slumber now

wings circle overhead escaping from the birds
hush morning do not come to soon
I am in the woods, a far off place
morning will enter, UNknowingly disturb

spin… SPin  hallucinating?
rest, tortuous circles upon the pillow
REALity or not, dreams,  nightmare
bring me back to violins and
the black and white

so that I may rest tonight


LIPTEMBER MONTH OF SEPTEMBER – Shaun from 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. Please re-blog his post too if you can, to get this out there. Thank You!

We are in the process of getting a Pay Pal address for those who have had difficulty donating.  

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.

The Escape – Fiction


Photo Credit –

I PLunged into clear;  whilst murky
slept beneath avoiding
air bubbled skin
bring boats;  navigate the coast
in search of me;  my thoughts
you won’t recover
yet I fear not
breath in my lungs
will expire soon, my last
farewell to life and loves
that I have known

yet there is peace floating
bathed;  nudged in silence like your hand
in darkness across a wavy bed
for our fingers never held in love
Strike would find its way ~ as waves
CraSH towards the shore in search
of rest;  the current pulled them back
as I with you returned for
insults;  punishment

with one last look water veiled
plastic upon my skin; arms braced
I still shield myself from you
let the water gently fill my eyes
as I fear not
I shall escape into the darkness
into the sea of graves as others
have before me, indeed a privilege
of the life you found unworthy

and as I rest upon the sand
shards of light flirting with my skin
fish that pick my bones
there is freedom
no fight ~ no breath ~ no hate ~
I fear not
the TORment of you will disappear
the abyss will have swallowed me
and left you ~ a hatred memory


Shared with dVerse for Open Link Wednesday (posted Wednesday my time)

Mother to child – Prose

as the candle flickers its last breath to
the night, with shades drawn; the day at its end
watching you sleep with lashes brown and long
that settle on your skin, your face drawing a
soft smile; a brush could not do as well

blankets tucked in at your sides to
stop the chill of night; keeping you safe
and warm from winter rain and winds outside
beyond the darkened panes of glass, I watch you
with feelings of love; to protect; till the next
day is done

deep into the night, I lay in stillness knowing
you are there, that in the morn when light breaks
the grey and dismal skies, that your face will
smile at me and your arms will reach to be held
and gladly I shall take and give my life for yours
if ever the choice arose

my breath for your breath; a mother’s gift
to child, I’ve lived my journey and can go without
but you have many roads yet to travel, so know this
now, this night, my love’s unquestionable, it’s
what I am, what every mother is; you are folded in
my heart, cradled safe

I share this with

For the love of Cemeteries


I have a love of cemeteries. I always have done, always will have.  Some of you may think strolling through a cemetery and this past time quite macabre, whereas I find it fascinating.  I know some of you may share this 'hobby' of mine.  To walk amongst the dead,  gives me reverence for those who have lost their lives and inner tranquility.

Because our country (Australia) is relatively new (243 years) or thereabouts when Captain James Cook first landed declaring it Terra Nullius, we do not have the historic cemeteries of Europe, or indeed other countries.  Regardless, I never tire visiting or reading the loving words etched in stone.

The picture above also depicts the sparseness of the land, with the sugar cane (that is abundant in Queensland) and the picturesque mountains in the background, this is because as of 2011 there were 1733 people living in this small town of Mossman, so to put it politely, they have space.

As I strolled from site to site, I noticed vases with plastic flowers that had been blown or knocked from the grave. I tended to these, I could not walk past without doing so. I refilled any rocks or pebbles that had been spilt out of the vases and arranged the flowers or ornaments back on the grave as they were intended. On some sites, I would say a few words to those that lay beneath and wonder about the families that have either passed away, moved town or do not care to pay homage any longer.

When we were away, Mr. S played a round of Golf, I on the other hand wanted to visit the small cemetery.

The oldest grave was 1938, the majority of them were in the 1960's to current. I took the one below because they were a Czech couple (my Pop/dad) is Czech. They both escaped the War as he did, I stood and thought of him when I read this.


When I was in the UK I remember visiting Highgate:-

Some graves, yes admittedly have brought a tear to my eye, especially when I see the graves of little ones,  but as I read the words (some barely visible) I am transported back to their time and stand absorbed and pensive, thinking of who they were and what their life was like before they passed.

At Highgate there are approximately 170,000 buried.  Some of the people laid to rest here include, the parents of Author Charles Dickens and some of his family. Jean Simmons the actress , Karl Marx, poets, painters, soldiers and more.  Below is one of graves with a fallen Angel.  Who lies beneath her I wonder?


Also in the UK, we visited Grasmere in Cumbria and saw the grave (below) of William Wordsworth the poet.


When we visited France in 2001,  my daughters and I went to Pere Lachasie Cemeteryère_Lachaise_Cemetery .


Here lies Sarah Bernhardt, Frederick Chopin, Isadora Duncan, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison to name a few.

Which brings me to my last photo taken at Mossman Cemetry.


and I am lain beneath hard earth
I feel no pain, nor cold or heat of sun
I hear no voices, or hear the distant waves
nor view the sparkle in your eyes

and those that witness where I lay
my name revealed to you and how I passed
spare a thought for me, for I once
stood above this earth as you

and if my name's invisible
please stand and honour me as my loved
ones have moved on and leave an
unmarked cross, to show that I once breathed

Perhaps this is why I feel I have the calling to be a funeral celebrant. Maybe my love of walking around cemeteries has something to do with this(in a Freud type of way) Do you walk around Cemeteries like I?

an angel was sent


I wrote this from a males perspective (for a change).
Andrea Bocelli is one of my favourites.
These are not his words to this song but mine.

Please listen to the music as you read.


I walked the path of lost and travelled far
till I reached the sands
and drew your heart shape in the grains
etched strong and deep, I found my place in you
your love sailed to me on tumbling waves
and anchored to my soul
you are all I see
how your charm has captured me
my life, this life that can't be lived
without you now, or the days to follow
your voice soft
floats as music to my ears
with smiling lips
you have seduced my every atom
diamonds draped around porcelain skin hold no sparkle to your eyes
flowing dress, frangipani in your hair, an angel sent
hold my hand, across the sands, walk with me to the sunset and beyond


can you see the strength inside of you
you are the rock imbedded in the sandy soil not
swaying with self doubt whilst water washes over you

you are the sturdy tree in the forest
tall and solid that holds the canopy aloft
standing fast, nothing bending your resolve

but how shall I convince you; what words will
penetrate the rock that is you; for you are
stubborn as the water that tries to break it down

it's about belief - in yourself
it's about trust - in yourself
it's about optimism

breathe a little


do not preempt with sleepless nights
or days cast in shadows
what has not yet befallen you
seeing will be when it arrives
and not a moment sooner

never a moment sooner



The Liptember cause (see link below) that Kayla (my daughter) is raising monies for, is still going. Those of you who have kindly donated we thank you.  As yet they do not have a link on line for overseas donations, so if you would like to donate please do to the below bank account details…and please let me know if you have donated, so that we can publicly thank you.

Supporting Australian Womens Mental Health

Liptember Foundation
Commonwealth Bank of Australia
BSB: 062 000
Acc no: 1390 1111

3 feathers

Open Link at the Bar – Please join some amazing talent.


awkward silence
perhaps a bad connection, I tap the phone
a stammer returns..
a paper cut
"I'm in town, thought we could catch up...tonight?"
you could hear a 

feather drop

"Is that wise?"
answered with doubt - curiosity
"We've both moved on, it's been 3 years
lighten the tone I hear myself
...heard you got hitched?"
news faster than the speed
of light
"Yeah...yeah I did"

2 feathers

"Surely no harm..old friends right?"
I heard the smile
"At the Hotel...our old Hotel ... say 6?"
anticipating yes... no
my hand clutches the cell
"I should be okay...see you there"
stomach knots
I hit end call
a light kiss on the cheek
I smell familiar scents
as we sit, knees close able to touch
"You look great"
"We do"
edgy laugh
"To you"
glasses raised simultaneously
like we never parted
never moved on
never met anyone new
the lost jig-saw pieces
another drink, seductive lips
wrapped around the rim
and another
knees again..but electricity
this time
shuffling feet across the carpet
I watch it pour
vodka drink of choice
merry-go-round time
no words just glances
no actions .. only the language
of our bodies
"So you're happy"?
"Hmm" was the reply
a so-so kinda answer
I reach out covering your fingers
that strum nervously on the bar
"I ...ah...booked a room.. for old times sake?"
pupils enlarge
pulse beats
"No regrets... pretend nothing happened?"
a wink
as we walk upstairs
holding sweaty palms
"No regrets at all"
as we enter the room
the familiar decore of
yester-years love
that was blinded by
afternoon lust
before we moved on
and life changed
and routine set
like a dark cloud
as I undid his belt
hands trembling

3 feathers

kissing his throat
how could I pretend....

Puppy Mills

Our Victorian government has failed to keep their promise to stamp out the cruelty in puppy factories. Instead their current draft code of practice for rearing and breeding of animals is weaker, narrower and if made law would result in worse conditions for dogs and cats.
Life for dogs in puppy factories is already bleak. Investigations have revealed dogs being confined in cramped enclosures with no access to food and water; no bedding; no exercise; no heat on freezing nights; no access to sunlight; and dogs even being permanently kept on wire floored cages. What will these new standards mean for dogs? If these changes are agreed to then:

Dogs will legally be able to be confined in puppy factories for their entire lives;
female breeding dogs will be able to be bred more often, with no limit for males;
and dogs no longer deemed profitable may be euthanased via ‘any method’, which could include shooting or being beaten over the head with a blunt object.
Our feline friends have drawn the short straw too, with the revised code recommending that cats only need to be fed once a day; diminishing or removing completely requirements for health checks and vaccinations; allowing animals with hereditary defects to be used for breeding; and allowing mating between second degree relatives.

This is in Victoria the State where I live. Puppy Mills/farms/factories call them by any name you wish, are all over the world. People who want the perfect ‘unique’ hand-bag pup, purchased through unregistered breeders or purchased from Pet stores. They are trying to ban the sale of live animals here in stores to try and run these backyard breeders out of business. Our State Government is being weak. They disgust me. Please adopt or buy from registered breeders only. So many animals are abused daily. Animals that have no voice and cannot fight back.

For our 4 legged friends.

Reach out your hand, show me love – that is all I want
I wasn’t born to live like this, just look into my eyes

my love is unconditional, you can yell – yet I’ll return
but I am always here for you, this is what I’ve learnt

I’m cold in winter on concrete floors, I need a blanket
for some warmth, let me see the sun, please someone take me home

can I walk on fresh green grass, run and play and bark at air
reach out and love me, that is all you have to share

don’t let me live cramped, lonely and abused, without the touch
of a human hand, this is not the life I choose

just a friendly smile, and a cuddle in your arms
please won’t you look after me, keep me safe from harm