Today’s prompt was to write a poem reflecting on being in the middle of something. It is perhaps more fair to say this is more an attempt to write poetry whilst being in the middle of a lot of other things; it’s composed of found, overheard and free-written phrases.

Poem in which I am Inside the Eye of a Hurricane,

hip bones somewhere/
all I wanted was the tour
of/ alleged happiness/ to travel light/

unregulated as/a doctor./
point my /swamp heart/
unfathomable under/ apple

trees/ towards destruction/ the earth
churned up/ the sea dispersed/
thoughts forgiven for being/

written down/ humble
and coined/ skewbald./
slowing down/ better not be/

the new destruction.



Picture credit: Lucille Handberg 1927, also used for Siouxsie & the Banshees Tinderbox album





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Today’s prompt  was to write a clerihew. So I did.



It’s been quite the year for Ed Sheeran –
Storming the charts! A number two and a number one!

Lucky for him that it happened so quick
Before the pop buying public discovered

his songs are all shit

*I know choosing the subject I have for this might not make me most popular. But fuck popular. Someone’s just GOT to say it…. while the whole world was watching to see what The Right Honorable Fucktard Donald Trump was just going to do first, somehow we let this tosser slather the media with a healthy dose of female objectification and some sweet, well wrought lyrics about Doritos and Sweet & Sour.




Today’s prompt  was to try a ghazal. I’m a little unsure of how successful this is, but it was nice to try!


if i give in to you it’s for fields burning yellow
it’s for stars small and glad in their crown hoods of yellow.

the birds all found fortune in the pit of the meadow
their calls strip my heart so its chirrup turns yellow.

this isn’t me: i can’t sleep for all i know
& the moon swell – a beast all a-brass & bone-yellow.

failure was the rabbit, wild & far from its burrow
came apart at the seam strings, small, pale and yellow.

buried in the sea is all that i held below
the surface of skin that is cold and gold-yellow.

he sighs, god damn it, carla & it’s too sharp to swallow:
signed up for a goddess, got a cloud of dust yellow.



Picture credit: From WW Denlow’s Night Before Christmas, more at:





Today’s prompt was to focus on alliteration and assonance. I may have gone into tongue twister territory, but it was fun.


Without warning the rains
came in sarcastic collision, climatic
precision, a shit storm to swallow

the whole and the hollow: swarm
of the south – stuttering, swamped,
squalid with suffering, the water

ran wide, bruised and buffering.
They all fled the bank. The foxes too. Back
up the track and suckered into the flat

of the fields. They’re still there now; skulk
sets hunting feasts, skulls of snack rabbits
stacked molehill high at the gaping

dark mouthed dens.
This is like that. Make me mother
my own mouth from motoring.




Picture credit: Raymond Pettibon No Title, (The First Water) more at https://rfc.museum/ae-raymond-pettibon





Today’s prompt  was to try a Bop poem – a form strict on lines and refrains. This was less painful than expected.


If flowers could drown themselves
this would be the day to do it:
how downward that fat sky must look
from underneath. How unhappy. See, even the birds
swim away from it, even the swifts, who sink
endless circles in its great blue fog are gone.

When the wind drops its accent, everything stops to listen.

The baby cries again. The baby is also fat:
four months old, taken to storing the rich
blue milk under his pelt of smooth skin;
Delicious! So edible! in murmuration; even the midwives
twitter between themselves as they undress the baby
from his cloud of clothes and weigh him
on the handsome scales. He squirms pink
and uncovered. His mouth opens blue as an earthworm.

When the wind drops its accent, everything stops to listen.

One night I go out barehanded and behead
the dahlias and lupines, the poppies and the peonies;
I curtail the rosebush of every starry promise. The garden
holds a precise kind of quiet. The sky is the right shade
of dark, and the baby sleeps on peacefully inside, warm
under the plump blanket of everything I have to give him.

When the wind drops its accent, everything stops to listen.


Picture credit: From A Floral Fantasy in an Old English Garden. Walter Crane c.1899



IMG_3092Today’s prompt was to write a portrait poem.

better yet the leaves are turning
into something real. He is out there
too, turning, gathering his thoughts –

wild as horses, and putting them
to bed on paddocks of paper.
Turning them real. You might think

his skeleton is what holds him together,
but no man is carried by bones alone.
Sure, there’s muscle too, a heart even,

a whole physiology; I mean the chronology
of bones, damage and silent scars, the stitches
that seam beneath the skin, unseen

and unknown to anyone but the wearer.
There are fantasies and mysteries: many men
are carried much further by those than bones.

No, as the grasses sharpen after a sudden rain
he is out there turning
old wounds to weapons.


Picture credit: Google search.



Today’s prompt was to write a poem of nine lines. These nearly killed me but here they are.

In need of sudden fortune I walked
to you through the city where dogs

converge in packs like clusters of stars
itching in the dusk and the scent

of day lingers long into the darkness.
Where their eyes are hollows, spools

of lava rushed to cool as they hunt
rank leftovers and bitches in heat

they speak in a violence only we can understand.


Picture credit: http://vintageprintable.swivelchairmedia.com/animal/animal-dogs-all-kinds/