in winters coldness
caught in coal smokes skyward drift
my heart flies to home
Poetry
Children’s publishers accepting unsolicited manuscripts
if you write for children look here :) – it is now updated again in January 2015
* UPDATED OCTOBER 2014*
You can’t get published without an agent, and you can’t get an agent without being published – or so the adage goes.
Thankfully, there are still a few children’s book publishers who are happy to wade through the ‘slush pile’, that teetering tower of manuscripts we imagine fill up a corner of the office, each one representing an agent-less writer who is hoping against hope that they might be plucked from obscurity.
So in the spirit of writerly comradeship here is my current list of writer-friendly children’s fiction publishers in the UK who still accept unsolicited manuscripts. Check their website guidelines and submit away, but please do correct me if I’ve made any errors or incorrect assumptions.
NB Where there is a link, I have endeavoured to take you, the linkee, to the submissions guidelines page of the publisher’s website; where that is not possible I…
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awake
in awoken dreams
there is no further waking
until we must sleep
What is
The names of the paths are these;
‘What was and is gone’,
‘What may or may not be’,
‘That which should have been, but isn’t’
Or ‘should not be’ and ‘I wish’
I have travelled them all in the past
Now I travel the path of ‘what is’
That is the path that runs straight ahead
Step by step, I follow,
Whether I run or walk
Or sit on the verge and dream
It leads only to that which will be.
Under the Willows
When we were young and dreaming
we hired a boat, floated beneath the bridges
made of worn and ancient stone
we rowed stronger and further than anyone else
to be alone on the tranquil river
We pulled in and laid back beneath willows
toes touching, smiling, reading
while the afternoon drifted downstream
dazzling sparks and flashes on ripples
sunlight filtering green through the leaves
We never thought to look deeper
into the darker shadows
to the tangle of weeds beneath us
but we rowed against the current
to make our way home in the evening
We were young and we were dreaming.
Dreaming
I had a dream I didn’t know you,
I’d forgotten all about you,
So it seemed very strange to me
When you took me home
I was startled by what I found.
Stranger still was the way I knew
Where all your things should be,
You had moved some around.
It made no sense to me.
I knew how you felt
And what you thought
And all that we talked about.
Pre-destined, anticipated
As if it had all been scripted
My responses were all defined.
I didn’t know why I spoke.
It all seemed oddly fated and timed
I couldn’t help wondering if we’d met
Or was I so insightful?
I knew I had dreamed it all before
Then woke to find I was dreaming.
Life is lucid dreaming
Where all can be as it seems.
We can make it so.
Dream upon dream
Always dreaming
Always eternal dreams.
How much do we ever choose
The way our lives will go?
Mer Sea
sweet tides
in the depths
the mermaid hides
where no-one goes
sweet tides
comb her hair
she swims up
when no-ones there
sweet tides
wash her near
her sailor waits
she need not fear
sweet tides
wash them close
they sink down
in loves embrace
sweet tides
where life grows
water warms
water cools
sweet tides
the currents flow
a wave to ride
or drown below
sweet tides
the sky reflects
green depths
blue above
sweet tides
in his eyes
sweet tides
pools of love
Grief
There are two kinds of grief
Grief for the living and grief for the dead
They each have their own paths
Both consume your heart and your head
There are two kind of lost love
One leaves you empty and one fills your heart
One by decision and one by decree
The love lost through death will never depart
Both are like poison, one brings its own cure
Grief for the dead brings transition and warmth
Grief for the living is cold, icy and pure
One fills the heart, the other leaves it empty
Hearts remember the love that they felt
But life is not intended for grieving
All grief and sorrow passes in time
The cure is to love those who are leaving
Namaste, Om Shanti
Dream and fling your self backwards
into the arms of the world. It will catch you.
No package tour safety nets here. Follow me.
Bring the map and emergency rations
of hazel nuts, dates, water, a candle.
Be open-hearted, be free.
Step out of your door and head for the station,
take that first step that leads you away.
Tomorrow we’ll be there, feeling the heat,
of a street in India. Seeking a bed
at the end of the day, finding instead, an elephant,
as he strolls home from work in the evening.
Take what comes, not what you look for.
In this world of colours, sun-spun silken,
a myriad whirl that welcomes us, leads us,
not speaking the language wont matter a fig.
Eyes and hands speak volumes,
talking to strangers, laughing, smiling
Namaste, om shanti, be free.
Be Kind
pity the poor worm
that eats the heart of the apple
unformed butterfly
The Dreaming Path 