Stories, prose, poems
2nd March - re-categorised Semi-fictional account of life in a Victorian Sweatshop
Pro-Ana is a name for community websites supporting those with an eating disorder - often referred to by users simply as `Ana'
I recently found a photo of a relative killed in France in 1916 aged 22. Seeing his face looking back at me I kept thinking about him and wishing I'd known him
This is an old piece I re-discvered in the archives - it seems to fit the IP criteria so hope I'm not cheating!
Valium withdrawals in a very strange clinic conforming to Rudolf Steiner's principles of Theosophical medicine. This was not at all what I was expecting....
When I think of you my thoughts are yellow tinged with red, not the cool shades of lemon or cadmium (like the yellow Christ) but more the warm ochre of golden light on lady-skin
"Before us stands yesterday" - Ted Hughes: The Crow Above quote doesn't have much to do with this poem - I just liked it.
On a warm fragrant May morning Anya tiptoes through her special place, one hand lifting swishing skirts free of the soft earth. My sunshine, my Spring she thinks, watching the light
Green box for this, Black box for that Swing bin for something else and The big bin for everything not in the others - But nobody ever calls Each week I consult my leaflet
Have you ever been happy in your life? She asks, and it doesn't take long remembering... the moment, one moment of nothing much - a boy, a girl and a baby in a buggy;
I knew just where I was this time yesterday - the old familiar smells of linseed turps and oils, sounds of easels dragging over dusty floorboards - clips klinking, restraining
I can't believe it's really you in this hospital bed in intensive care, eyes closed and oh so still; a machine breathing for you and a geometric pattern
Last posting for a bit, until I get my act together. This is one of those childhood memories that never goes away.
I'm a painter not a writer an artisan art-maker splat-splashing my concoctions Pollock-like big and bigger.. See my multi-coloured multi-layered landscaped mindscaped pebble-dashed
Imaginings John Did you ever imagine How it would be When Maxwell's silver hammer Finally struck home? In those last moments Before your life ebbed away, Did you see them
with a little help from my friends, John & Paul of course. Wednesday morning at five o'clock as the day begins - Lennon/McCartney
and listen well I don't want you wearing black wear purple orange or red instead - no big black crawling chariot holding up traffic strap me atop a bright red sports car
Morning breaks As sweet bird songs lure me Forgetting that nature fakes It's prelude to the real overture. So I wait For the first train, Moving soft and swift,
Here I am, me and four other women all huddled together in an attic. How, why or where I have no idea; neither have I any recollection of events leading up to this incarceration.
Re-hashed version of previous piece - am now deleting version 1 as no point in having two Snail pieces around and I think this one works better (I hope).
If I could paint you an aura it would be in shades of purple, subtle with a touch of violet and a delicate hint of mauve; all the colours you love, sweet Mia, little dreamer,
He was always there when I got home from school. I would know by the smell of tobacco smoke and the laughing and coughing that it was him in the kitchen with my mother.
Cherries, you say? But I've been there done that already. I even got the T-shirt (you know what I mean). I said my goodbyes before killing off a whole orchard
Inspired by a recent visit to Tate Britain. Peter Lanyon died following a gliding accident in 1964 at the age of 46.
This is based on face. A rare venture into prose so not at all confident - please feel free to criticize.
Pink stains on a grey Winter sky Brown-green grass Strip-teases the communal lawn Yet still the orange-red rowan berries Hang heavy from the bare grey-green twig-branches
Re-write of last year's version -not at all sure about poem but determined to crack the `add image' option. Hope it works...
remembering a fellow art student from my college days back in the 70's
ROOMS BY THE SEA (after Rooms by the Sea painted by Edward Hopper in 1951) So after all it was you Edward Hopper who took me to the sun and coloured me a room
my roads less-travelled are signposted Margate, where the saints and sinners dwell...
I stand there dressed only in my regulation school knickers. I am shivering and ashamed as, although I am eleven years old, I still have no breasts.
This is becoming an annual event a celebratory ritual; another Cornish idyll. In Topsham Devon a job ends, the rain spills, I paint all night, sleep all day.
This is an edited re-post at my daughter's request as she too is a big Elvis fan and January 8th is his birthday...
a personal response to Andy Murray's loss to Federer in the Wimbledon Men's Final - probably destined for the delete button as it's a bit cheesy...
We could be alike Our emotions are so similar Staring each other out You look away first Yet it’s obvious Your relationship with him Has already outlasted mine
She is all the lonely people hiding behind doors, walking at night, experiencing life vicariously through lighted windows and television screens. She has watched him from
Nursery rhyme: "one flies east, one flies west, and one flew over the cuckoo's nest"
My mother, always an embarrassment to me, takes me to the Optician. I am thirteen and have recently been unable to see the blackboard at school without squinting.
based on personal experience of being a teacher in an all-male prison in the 80s. Apologies to all shaven-headed tattooed people reading this...
As many of you already know, my daughter Julia (who wrote as Overthetop1 on Abc) died suddenly in May whilst on a short unescorted outing from a Mental Health Unit. She was due to move into a care facility in the community very soon, and as yet the cause of her death is still unknown. She had been to a cafe near the hospital for a sandwich, and the cafe owner, seeing how unwell she was, followed her out. Unfortunately Julia never made it back to the ward. Later the cafe owner told her sister and I what happened before we got to the hospital. Coral Jane
The tired dancer resting, took up her brush and created a choreography in paint and collage where her free-moving spirit could meander at will through clovered valleys and stormy hillsides,
The problems of involuntary benzodiapine addiction & withdrawals have again hit the news (front page of the Times,1.10.12) prompting me to post this, scribbled in a notebook two years ago...
There you go again my little one, swinging high swinging low flying through the air, waiting for me to catch you like I always do. Will this set you up for life or somewhere
August 6th: one date, different years, distinctive for two members of the same family - one lived a very short time, the other much longer - both imperfect
An edit of an old piece I want to re-post in memory of my daughter Julia Jane Macpherson who died suddenly May 18th. She also wrote on this site as Overthetop1. Coral Jane