I must give the blossoms their heady scent
even in mouldering, their powers not spent
it can set free a mind and bewilder the heart
I am Pan, this is my all consuming art.

I must arouse the lovers and strengthen their passion
the world is made pure in this wanton fashion
let then be drenched in ravaged sweat
I am Pan, I am the place where dreams are met.

I must call the hart, the hare, the hound
to bring them close to safer ground
they need my vigilance and care,
I am Pan, all life is joy when I am there.

Don’t forget the elder gods.
Don’t forget the blessed trance.
Don’t forget the sacred dance.
I am Pan, the first and last.

on my grave i asked you
don’t disturb my bones
instead you plague my history
unravellings my life
who I was
and did i love my wife
read my work
and let me be
I gave you all my heart
now be kind
i took my bow
now let me depart

Only seven days old and deep asleep

His head is heavy on my chest.

He will grow. Now we rest.

From this moment held

In gentle rise and fall,

The future will unfold.

If time stopped now, I’d be glad

to listen to his breath

and never move at all.

a chair beneath a tree

a pram beside the chair

a quiet cup of tea

the baby looking up

a breeze that moves the leaves

light and shadows play

a precious moment, free

encapsulate this day

May every candle shine at night

In hope of better days

But you must trim the wick, my friends,

If you want stronger rays.

Edna St. Vincent Millay – First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.

Lack of money hurts

In the cupboard sits one meal

Nourishment is there

the elevator is crowded

push has come to shove

clutching bags stuffed full

of toilet rolls and gloves

the lights in the halls of the mall

flash an ultra-violet glow

a false protection against

a death that can’t be seen

the bulletin boards above us

pulse the word disaster

in letters ten feet tall

everyone looks the same

behind their protective masks

a man drops down ahead of me

he places his hand on his heart

the clamouring crowds depart

a few take photographs

as he speaks aloud from his knees

he is only praying

his prayers are all for them

If I was a woman I’d want to be

a woman who has a room of her own

I would want to be left alone here to write

and snuggle up warm in our bed every night

I’d write a thousand words every day

while outside our children laugh as they play

with the man who agrees it should be this way

I wouldn’t cook or clean up the house

I might make soup while I think about life

My man would be kind and funny and smart

He’d be happy to know that I am his wife

He would fulfil my loyal loving heart

He would love me and keep me and let me free

If I was a woman I’d want to be

A woman who’s loved by a man who’s like me

wash your hands

where there is no water

sit yourself down

at the table on bones

rest your head

where the trees are bent over

the land is flat

the clouds are too low

when you see yourself

in a fogged up mirror

you may see clearly

grow true and bold

or give up

your foolish complaints

and chatter

before you grow small

diminished

and old

I have returned to University to study Creative Writing and English Literature and am very much enjoying the course. I do not publish my University work here. I need to keep it more ‘under my hat.’ For this reason, I will be posting less work here than formerly but I will post all poems written during National Poetry Month each April – one poem a day. I will also change direction a little here and post interesting articles and recommendations for reading. So I am not actually leaving. If you like my writing you will find loads in my archives which go all the way back to 2014. To find archives look on the right and scroll down.