A writing space for you to enjoy and a writing space for me to employ to increase my writing pace.

Month: September, 2014

Book Review Blog

Just posting to let you know that I’ve set up a new blog and it will be mainly for book reviews, but may expand to films and others. The first post is already there waiting for you! It’s on Niall Williams most recent book History of the Rain and was nominated for the 2014 Booker prize. Find out what I thought of it and maybe leave a comment of your own thoughts!


What a Game!

Have you ever smelt the people;
Those who are passing by?
A deep breath from a metre,
You can tell, if you try:
What they have had for breakfast, lunch,
The tea they prefer, and,
Their dearest animals name;
From breath size of a hand.

Smell here. This one, for example,
Enjoys their cereal,
Fries their salmon so deeply,
The scent is bearable…
Of course it is not! No, no, no!
They reek of swathes of fish.
Do you expect good odour?
You are a special dish.

Shall we try you? Go on let’s try.
Ahah. Uhuh. Hmm. Why,
The first note I detected,
A small, dusty kind of sigh,
Tells me that books are in your life.
Second, more distressingly;
There is a hint of alone,
Which presses upon me.

I wish I could help you. What’s that?
Oh, you want to smell me?
Welcome to the joyful stench!
Hello? Hello! You’re free!
The aroma had you held well.
Down in its knockout dark,
And there I thought you would stay.
Ha! You’re good for a lark!


Under the light,
The colour of its skin,
The fox sauntered free,
With a down and out grin,
A gifted companion,
Trust it not once,
For if you give eight,
You’ll gain no response.

A business type,
Professional of sorts,
Keeper of a run,
Watch it work, mind contorts,
As devouring its friends,
Comes natural,
Simple to its brain,
Simply factual.

So if ever,
You suffer to meet such,
A character of fox,
Watch your chickens close much,
But do remind your thoughts,
There are others,
Not all are as this,
One taints not brothers.

The Old Man And His Baby

This is the first of a new set of poems I’ll be writing. Instead of writing many shorter poems I’m going to put a higher effort into some 150 to 300 word poems.

Shuzzekiah and his son.
One a mischief maker, that is true.
Good worker? No. None have used those words.
King of mischief, deeply so,
Maker of nothing else, how well displayed.

Raised in a well of decrepit deceit,
Floundering forgerers and thick thieves,
Shuzzekiah grew and overtook the men present,
The women also there,
Bowed to his presence, and one bare his boy.

The boy was named grandly,
And oil was poured upon his brow,
A prince among paupers, born to King of the Underworld,
Shuzzekiah gave all he had,
And spent every last penny he could steal on his baby.

The man watched his child grow strong,
Under the voices of singers and poets,
Whose words he had scripted with tales of daring and love,
He could never let his son,
Miss on becoming the man he couldn’t have been.

“Pick a few men. We’ll take the town”,
Shuzzekiah spoke many years down the line,
And as the chorus rose to crescendo,
He galloped in between the homes, down the dust road,
He could never forget his son,
His inevitable betrayal that he had been prophesied for.

A month after the boys birth he was taken,
To his mothers mothers mother and was told,
“Little silver child, it is you who shall rise and rise,
And overtake the golden,
With the help of the very same, the future shall be bright.”

These words Shuzzekiah remembered as he lay,
Dying in his baby’s strong silver arms,
He spoke to his killer and his son of those words,
And laid his golden head to rest,
The future of that land was free and bright at last.

Natural Beauty

A mouth as frail as a leaf,
Smiles in its autumn colours,
Crinkles open, shows it’s teeth,
What a pretty smile that is.

A joy etched so clearly there,
Fresh as the dew, settled new,
On a face that’s pearly fair,
Soft as grass and clean, green moss.

Roots dug deep, deep in her view,
Twisting harmony of knots,
Defending what she thinks true,
Strength shown open day by day.

My Struggles As A Writer

The greatest struggle I face as a writer is when the tea gets cold.

Puppy Eyed Monty

I now see where the phrase puppy eyes comes from,
It’s from Monty, the Labrador with those deep brown eyes and golden coat.
When he sighs and moans gently at being not let outside,
And he looks longingly for your opposable thumbed front paws,
To lift themselves up from their paper and pen,
And open to him a world of joy and frolicking.
Those are his puppy eyes, still at work in a full grown dog.

Letter On The Writers Desk

Letter, help me write these words,
I cannot seem to get them through,
My arm and out the pen’s thin nib,
Letter, guide me what to do.

Ink, run down and fast and thick,
Flow freely and form the words there,
The words that will never be said,
Ink, tumble, crow without care.

Pen, give me some space to move,
Give me direction, motive, use,
A clear purpose and energy,
Pen, tighten what is too loose.

Hand, please be steady,
Arm, hold on long,
Elbow, stationary,
Shoulder, do stay strong.

Mind, summon deep and clear words,
Make these rhythmic patterns magic,
Enchanting rhymes descend down,
Mind, take a route less tragic.

Eyes, take it in, discern faults,
Leave none untouched by your blue peek,
Let sea wash, but no colour drain,
Eyes, please find the joy you seek.

I Hate To Go

Goodbye my love, goodbye,
What a dear time we’ve had,
But off you must fly,
Home you’ll soon be,
And home I’ll be waiting,
Your soon return,

Kiss me, my love, kiss me,
What joy will we find soon,
When you’re back from sea,
Rest together,
Holding you, oh, all my,
All my true love,
Is yours as we lie.

Moments Of Joy

Sitting around,
Being near to the one who makes my life whole,
Joy does abound!
Listening to a music written so clear,
A cup of tea each,
Oh, I made sure we got them, we needed them,
Just within our reach.

Talking calmly,
Peacefully we engage with one another,
Smiling smarmly,
A gentle chastisement, nudge on my shoulder.
Making earrings,
Crafting and joking and laughing so freely,
Love for all things.