a tritina for my enigmatic muse

You fragrance the warmth that resides in my heart.

Your heat is implicit in my aromatic words,

and yet consistency’s missed from your promised bouquet.


I dream of wild lily to spice your bouquet.

I pray for pale rose to prod my yearning heart

into blooming, creating a garden of words.


You hide in the trees, whispering the words

I need to capture and show in a scented bouquet.

Speak louder, please: help me speak from my heart.


Let me express my heart in a bouquet of ardent words.


My response to Day 7 of NaPoWriMo 2016: write a tritina


my mother’s best dish

She made my favourite the times I came to visit:

lamb steak, succulent and softening in the oven;

glass of red on the side, slinky in finest crystal.


It was the only way she showed me she cared.


My response to Day Six of NaPoWriMo 2016: write about food

my gruelling garden

inktuition gruelling garden

my garden of eighty feet

is meant to be so sweet

but instead it feels a foul:

an annual source of scowl.


those genetic green-ish thumbs

missed me this time round.

who cares about the lawn?

mowing is such a big yawn.


tempted to tarmac over

the clumps of turf and clover

so all that’s left is space

for me to contemplate


all that I would miss

from a greenery so big.

is it time to sort some turf:

grant my backyard a rebirth?


My response to Day 5 of NaPoWriMo 2016: meant to be a poem about a garden rarity. Turned into a rant about a garden monstrosity.

a poem for joyless january

The sparkle bursts after you appear:

down comes the twinkle, replaced by dreary

nights of dark, of twisted hope, as

resolutions hit a slippery slope.


You’re endless, you’re mean, you bite

with cold, your grey obscures my light.

We have to endure you first, lest we forget,

the year looms ahead, as if a threat.


You bully the new year into winter submission

cowing my dreams and my fresh new ambition.

My door stays shut, the scratch of frost

makes my windows ache. My whole being feels lost.


My response to the Day Four prompt in NaPoWriMo: write a poem about the cruellest month

an acrostic family portrait

For the love of us, we’re

Always there:

Mummy, Daddy.

In a perpetual state of

Love osmosis.

You know what that means.


Perhaps the line missed its cue

Or I didn’t follow the Strictly rules.

Rather than feel I played the part,

Tapping into my falsest heart,

Reality veiled. Somehow I’ve tripped,

Although I convince, I fake, I vow,

I continue the line, dismayed somehow

Trying to make sense of the now.