The hunt
The hill felt a sudden upset. A flow of red ran down the hill opposite. Crimson cloth, chestnut skin, a sprinkle of silver, alien sounds disjointed, disconcerting.
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Between the lines
Maybe it’s time to write the lines Of how and who I loved and lost. Maybe its fine between the lines To write of paths tangled and crossed. Maybe it’s good to note the blood
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A Cybering Tale
The WWWeb can be a wonderful place ..ahhhh
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The Art Of Being A TV Critic
dropped from the tenth floor the TV lies in pieces - nothing on these days
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On Returning Home From The Botanical Gardens
We have spent the afternoon either queuing for tickets or later, inside, curling at the edges fagged and ragged in the humidity as we oozed through continents.
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Remember me with love
In Our Baby I recount the grief of a termination which I was bullied into. In this poem, I tell of my experience of the ectopic pregnancy that followed. Please do not judge me.
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Why?
You arrive Late at night Always I ask myself Why? You undress Kiss my lips Probe your tongue Deep inside My willing mouth I ache For your touch You move your mouth Further down
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Innocence
The innocence of youth Defined by a look A nervous glance A trying too hard not to leave it to chance A beauty that pervades The layers of make up And the clothes too old for your years
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on innovation (a letter to a friend)
I remember you mentioned innovation the other day. It's been on a lot of peoples' minds lately. I'm sure you know a bit about innovation. I flatter myself that I do, too.
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During the Dark Hours
Cold air rushed open wide, my window As shadows of the dark Crawled, gently on the northside wall Hear it! the eerie noise, whistling My blessed name, crippling upon darkness'
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