poem
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The Bindweeds of Lackadaisy – NaPo day #27
*added translation to Serbian below the original The Bindweeds of Lackadaisy We would watch the sundown slowlytipping its orange like a big hollow hatfor our pennies and our dreams –our words dot the trees like wild cherries,our songs smashing against the panesof all the balconies our neighborsglassed up into rooms of no use;a long and… Continue reading
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Dandelions
Dandelions Are the best graveflowers;a whole bush of them, if you willand no charming pots or bent wires,none of that malarkey and all that mustard pom,among the stone – always a faery ball somewhereand it – the boutique.When Death takes us we are toldwe evaporate into the dark, never to be anew.we rot – that’s… Continue reading
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Spring in the Suburbs – NaPo day #1
Today is the official starting day of NaPoWriMo for this year and the prompt is to write inspired by a series of old, gorgeous covers. Covers always make me want to think closely to the material, finding me writing inspired by them as much as the pages they enclose – so have decided to treat… Continue reading
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The Bird-school
*Image found HERE The Bird-school Picture a scruffy sparrow, me,picked clean the bones of every conversationI could hear,coloured like road-rage and squabblesand ditties of dirt,the dissonance of the songs of outside birdsand sweet tunes my dad would only ever sing to his boozeand I learning quickly, and my mother learning to build her doll houses,… Continue reading
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Poem at Bulb Culture Collective
My poem “Ligeia, under dimmed lights” is up at Bulb culture Collective. They are a really awesome lit journal that focuses on previously published work whose online homes are now defunct. You could read my poem previously, in the long ago year of 2017 at Sudden Denouement , so I am thankful for the new… Continue reading
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Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
… blowing smoke signals to the dark blue of the sky… Continue reading
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The 10 best things about being a Shaman
*the photograph is my own The 10 best things about being a shaman -1- The dead are sometimes quiet Like a gently swinging silver Little bell Of a distant mountain monastery. The dead sometimes dance. The dead sometimes touch. The dead sometimes tell you secrets. -2- You are like a river, A… Continue reading
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A Walk In The Suburbs
I am explaining to my brother The personality of every tree Along the path. My language is verbiage Of every sapling That ever grew from my grave. Rotten woodlands Sprouting in the teeth Like clockwork. When we are kings Of this garden, Leaves of oak Upon our bodice, Summery flashes of… Continue reading
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Identity Routine In The Poutine
*Image found HERE Identity Routine In The Poutine In the darkened hours do the ghastly meadows drone, I, am dead, but in the crevice of a lip, Branding me with names I used to own. Who places, then, like poker cards, my scars against the glow? I, a pearl, that slumbers amid… Continue reading
About Me
I don’t mind the sun sometimes,
the images it shows,
I can taste you on my lips
and feel you in my clothes.
Cinnamon and sugary
and softly spoken lies,
you never know just how you look
through other people’s eyes



Recent Comments
We all go back to sand in the end. I like the word play in this.
Thank you so much for reading and for the heartfelt comment, I always love when my poems are likened to…
I think we do remember, in both instances, just that sometimes the fearful ones are remembered perhaps without our will…
Thank you so much, I am glad someone else can remember their first mango, or any other fruit really. I…
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