The past does not return, nor do past loves.
They languish, slump, fall into ruts:
we try to recreate that first-time wow
but bypass that love, end up fisticuffs.
And so a river passes under our pain:
what part of us can bear to love again?
Much easier to blame, provoke insane.
Under the Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine.
Synchronicity’s a word I love
And a concept I adore.
I know I’m on the right path
when coincidences knock at my door.
My love of words and symbols
to heal and help renew
broken hearts and spirits crushed
is a calling of the few.
How to bring this to the world
my intuition now will drive.
But the power of storytelling
is what makes me feel alive.
I scratch your paper,
I run out of ink,
I’m a temperamental sod,
I bring you to the brink.
My original pattern
is faded with use.
Yet you still reach for me,
letting my nib run loose.
You think your best words
Come out of your favourite pen.
And those marks of turquoise magic
are a whispering from heaven.
No time to pine
For stanzas or rhymes.
Love this poetry lark
But my cupboard’s stark.
Where would I be without you:
lost in the ticks of time?
Would I be frittering all my chances,
day-dreaming of stuff divine?
Where would I find my courage
without the pressure you pose?
Would I be delving deeper within
making my soul its wishes disclose?
How would I manifest my heart
or place my work in the sun?
Without you, darling deadline,
nothing would ever get done.
You’re my big swathe of cuddle,
what I missed as a babe.
You’ve cossetted me through
the cool and the macabre.
When the snow’s outside
you’re an obvious choice.
You’re generous, holding,
you’re the thing I rejoice.
But you transcend all seasons
especially in spring.
You let me feel safe
when my words are growing.
How could I write
so much brave raw stuff
without my cuddly cocoon
and knowing I am enough.
There’s a window in my kitchen
With a big diagonal skylight.
I sit under it to eat, drink, read,
Do my work and write invites.
I mostly don’t know the glass is there
It lets in light, it keeps me dry.
But at night it’s the window on the world
My own framed, private night sky.
I like it best when the rain comes to dance
With tapping, cha-cha drops.
The skylight turns into a stage
With a pitter-patter round the clock.
A mummy I knew had a cute little girl,
Always acting good, not rocking her world.
A mummy I knew was busy as hell
Her little girl in front of the TV did dwell.
A mummy I knew always checked her phone
Day or night, under her pillow it droned.
A mummy I knew stressed all around.
Her heart a deep freeze, her forehead a frown.
A mummy I knew woke up to what she’d lost.
Her little girl was growing up fast.
One last chance to melt the frost?
The eye of the needle
is tiny and sly.
The skinny little thread
goes awkwardly awry.
Fingers and thumbs
aren’t made to sew.
They’re designed to create.
Through fountain pen high
and keyboard low.
I stayed in my stuck.
A spiritual abductee.
And the stuckness
clung.
Made me feel craz-ee.
A long-term force
seemed bigger than me.
Thought it had
control.
But it was so petty.
Made me feel rubbish
about everything I did.
But one day I thought:
Enough.
Am I really that stupid?
So now I’m not stuck.
I’m released but petrified.
But it’s a fear that’s
free.
Never again a compromise.
inktuition 