"After Rain"

in spite of ongoing illness

in spite of emotional pain


here - tonight

after rain

my spirit wrapped in the

cool evening breeze

I now breathe in the green

send out peace

send out love


and on the out breath

I let go

of some of the bitterness

the negative thoughts

negative energy

I release

I release

in spite of the pain

"11.50"

I live in a parallel universe

where it is always ten to twelve,

and the really annoying part

is that the clock,

which stopped weeks - maybe months - ago

is not even silent.

Relentless, and undeterred by lack of battery "life",

the second hand continues

to jog on the spot.

"Pens Don't Work"

The pens never work in this flat.

I am writing these words,

before another one runs out.

No matter how many "freebies" we collect -

or how many packets we buy:

I am forever scribbling

desperately

in notepads,

and on used envelopes.

The pens never work in this flat.

Time to end this poem now -

quit while I'm ahead -

before the ink

"I Never Got The Chocolate Flake"

My mum might even buy me an ice cream.

A 99? Well, okay - I could dream.

Might get stale bread to chuck at birds in lake -

but I never did get the chocolate flake.


You could buy those flakes from any store

far cheaper. Ice cream vans charge so much more.

You have got an ice cream, for heaven's sake.

I never did get the chocolate flake.


But we never buy them, though -

from "any store" that sells them - and, oh -

the disappointment, every time, is difficult to shake.

I've got the ice cream, yes - but not the flake.


When I went to Lorna's house for tea,

you'll never guess what her mum would buy, for Lorna - and for me.

Is it such an unfair comparison to make?

No. Apparently, she always got an ice cream - complete with flake.


A childhood full of Mini Milks, and Funny Feet, and maybe some Arctic Roll.

Occasional mints, both with and without hole.

The pink, white, yellow and cream of Angel Cake -

and even sometimes, an ice cream - but always, minus flake.


Then, one holiday - I was fourteen now -

there was an ice cream van, and this time - wow!

But by then it didn't really make

any difference that I could have had a flake.

I was on a diet -

but my brother clearly enjoyed his ice cream,

and the chocolate flake.

"Innocent Dreams"

Maybe there’s still

Some Winnie the Pooh

In my heart

　

Some birds, flowers, streams

Innocent dreams

　

Buried somewhere

Deep within

My broken heart

"Listening"

Magpie chatter outside my window

Relentless rhythm of the clock

The thud of my heart

The steady beat of sadness

"Sadness Settles"

Sadness settles

like a dying moth,

inside a mind that’s broken.

"Material" (written after hearing how the media reported the news that Madonna and Guy Ritchie were divorcing)

You are damned if you do Botox,

but you’re not allowed to age.

Lose half your natural body weight,

but not a pound more:

Anorexia’s so last year.



Well, "Hello!", "OK!" – d’ya feel the "Heat"?

We’ve had your wedding pics. And all your kids'.

We have been waiting oh-so-patiently.

Our readers love a good divorce.

The end is drawing necessarily near.



We would love you to have done hard drugs.

If you switch faiths, that’s kind of fun –

for about a week.

Then we’re after more.

We want your marriage, dear.



We have hyped up your music.

Then we’ve slated it.

There’s only so much to say on that.

You’ve only given us one divorce so far,

in your entire career.



Macrobiotic. Yoga. Kabbalah.

Adopted kids.

We’re running out of

"Material Girl" material.

The end is near. So near. It’s here.

"Love and Appreciation"

this one's for

the one who stayed

thank you

"Never Again Will I"

Monochrome reality

bleeds technicolour dreams.


She feels them all,

the separate hurts -

the absenses -

as one.


The failures.

Some were hers,

and some were theirs.


Some friends abandoned her,

while still alive -

and others died.


So tired:

She has tried to analyse

each situation,

in her mind.

She has written poetry,

and cried -

and walked, little and often,

when her health allowed.


And her mind is a drawer that will not close,

jammed with words

that they said to her.


Left with the so-called "reasons and seasons", and

a lyric that should have been

never again will I "find

someone like you."

"What I Do"

if I claim to be a writer

if I claim that

words

are what I do


why is it that

whenever it matters

the most


I suddenly lack

the words

to make a situation right


it has always

been this way


but still

I claim that

words

are what I do

"Easier Just To Say"

It's overwhelming.

It's devastating.

It's everything.


Much easier just to say the words:

"It's nothing."

"Night into Morning"

poetry-ing and Facebooking

Tweeting and blogging

until the sky is streaked with

pink and peach

and I face another morning's

exquisite exhaustion

"Poetry"

vibrant, swirling

words


emotional honesty


poetry

"Spirit's Song"

Here's the spiritual rhythm

of the universe.

Hear my spirit's song -

and now, I add a new verse.

"I Must"

out of luck

out of trust

but somehow I must

I must

"State of Confusion"

hold me

don't go away

even though I drive you away

tell me why no-one else

will stay

and even though I need to go away

I will stay

in the sense that counts

but why should I trust

anyone else

"Let's Pretend"

is it really

"pandering"

for anyone

to reassure

me

ever

of

anything

can I rely

on any

of my

"family"

or "friends"

who will

still be

there

tomorrow

the next day

who will be

with me

until the end

or is

the whole

of my

life

one long game of

let's pretend

people pretending

to be

my family

and pretending

to be

my friends

"Falling Apart"

caring cannot be avoided

but somehow

I must not go too deep


emotional attachments

can break my heart

time after time


and they do

and that's why

I am falling apart

"Once in My Heart"

why would I trust

more people now

when people have always

let me down

once in my heart

always in my heart

I can't un-care

once I care

so now I must try

not to start

"Crumbs and Fears"

I don't need much

that's the ironic part

I could feast forever

on your crumbs

I cling to the signs that you

almost

respect me

I ask for nothing

I can work quietly

spiritually

on your behalf

unthanked

unwanted

unappreciated

but that sounds as if I resent it

and I don't

it is my privilege

it is only the fact

that sometimes

it hurts

more than my soul can endure

and then

of course

I always

have my fears

"Sleeping Beauty"

After that initial

century's sleep,

she felt Prince Charming's lips

upon her own -

but she had learnt too much,

during her waking years.


She lay, motionless -

pretending to be

eternally dead.


Prince Charming believed in her

pretence,

and he left.

"Meandering"

meandering

woodland paths

through the mind

alive, with birdsong

sunlight, filtered through trees

slight breeze

her memories, eternal

her future, insecure

but what of the present

the moment

meandering, meandering

no certain direction

those feelings of rejection

so much introspection

not trusting - need for self-protection

yet, still - alive, with birdsong

walking the woodland paths

of her imagination

"My Cousin Rachel" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "My Cousin Rachel")

Orphaned as a small child -

raised by my elder cousin, Ambrose -

secure together, in our "house of men" -

Ambrose, my cousin -

yet, father, mother, brother -

Ambrose was all. My world.


They used to hang men at Four Turnings

in the old days.

Not any more, though.

I was seven, when

Ambrose showed me

the hanging body of a man.

The man's name was Tom Jenkyn.

He used to sell lobsters.

He murdered his wife,

and for his crime,

Tom Jenkyn hung.


Our damp Cornish winters

did not agree with Ambrose,

necessitating travel -

winters to be spent on the Continent.

And in Florence,

in his forties,

that what where, and when, he met

the Countess Sangalletti -

My Cousin Rachel.

She apparently shared his love of gardening.

Then came the letter,

announcing that

Ambrose and My Cousin Rachel

were married.

I had not know such jealousy -

such intense jealousy - before.


And so few letters.

And when they came...


And that journey to Florence -

and the churches -

and the haunting face

of a beggar woman.


The sudden shock -

the news of

Ambrose's death.


And the villa -

and the fountain -

boy holding a shell -

the laburnun trees -

the unreality of that foreign land.


And, back at home, the hatred

that grew -

of a Rachel

who never existed -

and the love

for a Rachel

who - did that one exist?


Sunday lunches

with the Kendalls and Pascoes -

and My Cousin Rachel.

Especially, that first one.

Especially, the last.


And Rainaldi - hated by Ambrose,

hated by me.

Regarded by My Cousin Rachel as

friend, confidante -

maybe lover, as well?


And the pearls -

around Rachel's white neck -

and a wedding -

my marriage to Rachel -

a wedding

that never took place.


And my own illness.

And - was Rachel innocent?

Was Rachel guilty?


An evening walk

in the terraced garden.

A warning, not heeded.


The image of a granite slab -

a pocket book -

letter from Ambrose - buried,

along with the pocket book.


They used to hang men at Four Turnings

in the old days.

Not any more, though.

"Free Spirit"

My spirit is free.

Only body, and circumstances,

won't let me be.

"Depression Does Not Care"

My depression does not care

whether it is sunny

outside.

"Temptation" (inspired by Daphne du Maurier's "My Cousin Rachel")

My Cousin Rachel. My cousin. Rachel.

My first, last and only.

My temptation. My torment.

Our temptation. Our torment.

"More Intense"

sunlight

only

makes the darkness

more intense

when you're

the ones who live

in the shadows

of a world

that never will

make sense

"Deflated"

My parents should have had an inflatable daughter -

not me -

inflatable, with a few automaton qualities, maybe -

so that she could have been programmed to make

certain appropriate noises,

at certain appropriate moments.

They could have stored her, flat-packed,

in a cupboard, when she wasn't needed.


And my friends could have had

an inflatable friend,

who would be there as long as they wanted her,

but wouldn't protest, or feel hurt, or be "awkward",

when they let her down.