Wednesday, 31 August 2011


Whenever I'm caught reading for days on end, as I have been this summer, I tend to lose my grip on reality. So in keeping with this month's theme, I present to you my love of reading.



You, leaves of white and

Sometimes black between-

A brief hint, of my fantasy

Made suddenly tangible.


They say I’d prefer a computer

But they lied of course,

Why else would your

Golden embroidery gather

Dust upon my shelf?


I still look at you-

Every day, in fact.

Every time I walk in

I stare-


There are many of you

No wonder my mind

Can’t tell- one world

From another.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Dressing Gown

One of two poems I dedicate to things I can't pass a day without thinking about, everyday objects that go unappreciated by everyone. Today is the day of - you guessed it - the dressing gown.

Dressing gown

I wake up every morning,

From my bed of alone.

Those clean sheets, who

Never sleep, never hug

At all-


The floor is always cold

One foot tells the other,

But that doesn’t stop

The trudging that much-

Even in the summer.


Once your arms entwine

In mine, and your front

Lies over my middle.

I feel your cord-

Always My warmth

That makes us inseparable.

Thursday, 18 August 2011


I must confess to being a tad delicate today, but who can blame me after the summer I've had? I've passed a driving test, written a novel and of three hours ago gotten accepted into Bangor university to study English with French for four years; another step up on my career ladder. So here is today's poem, I hope you all enjoy it.



Your Sculptured skin

All marble white-

With little bumps

Little nooks, sheen

Always so bright.


I remember-

Finger pressed touch

The shivering tingle-

Down my spine.

Beat that heart of

Stone- lips of limes.


Rough touch, slight taste

Little flakes of snow

I’ve loved them so.

How I thanked mum,

For bringing them home.


Spring draws near,

I feel an end,

That disappear

Spring will come.

Unfreeze water.

Another year of

Forlorn summer.

Monday, 15 August 2011

Burst Pipe

I've been inspired lately about everything seemingly insignificant in my everyday life, realising that nothing, is truly insignificant after all. This is possibly one of the most annoying events of the day for me, but when I reflect upon it afterwards I have to question why. So here it is, the poem of the day:

Burst pipe


No longer can I keep it in

That liquid in between

Pipes so coarse and cold

And thin, yet who tear at

Frown and grin.


Sitting on the bathroom

Wall, covered with paint

Why not dirt at all?

Is this why you weep?

As one roughly sweeps-

Your pipes shut once more?

Friday, 12 August 2011


Something a bit more romantic lines up for you all today. This month's theme has definitely been one of the hardest to pull off, having to channel my creativity in a single direction. I really liked this one, as it can been seen as shyly romantic, or mildly erotic, depending on which way your mind works, (I as the writer take no responsibility for this). I simply hope you enjoy reading this as I did writing it.


Here we sat, sticky fingered

Eating creamed buns and

Soggy sweets.


I smelled the sugar

On your tongue- whispered

Come on in, touch me-

Who knows where it may lead?


The park bench pinched

My rump, I think yours too,

Why else would you

Fidget so?


Your breast rose high,

And wouldn’t return to rest.

All I want is that gasp,

Your fresh sugar breath,

The rush will surely

Go- to my head.

Monday, 8 August 2011

Mask (poem)

Unveiling my latest theme of poetry you can touch, I bring to you the poem Mask. I hope you all enjoy it, it is certainly emotive to read.

Life is just a ball-
A masquerade, if you will.
At the door. We take off
Our cloaks, and put on
Fake faces, capes as well.
Business is only a dance-
Where men in suits
Court men in suits.
The boss- obviously
A Ballerina from birth.
Love is blind- so they say.
Yet why do vanities,
Luxuries, get in the way?
Oh look little spider-
That mate won’t even
Eat you up.
Death is just a door-
An unveiling, if you will.
Where we take off our masks,
And let you know what
A great pretender you were.

Saturday, 6 August 2011

A sonnet of Thanks

Now for all of you out there who do not know me personally, there's just one thing you should know about me; I never let a good deed go unthanked. Today's poem is explicitly for that purpose, to congratulate this person on her patience and diligence of following and even offering advice when needed in all areas of work, and some in life. Writing poems for people isn't as easy as you see on television, unless you want to write something that you'd see in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, (recites-you eyes are green as a fresh pickled toad), definitely fun, but now is not the time for that. This month's theme is set, and some poems are written, in between obsessively scrambling the end of my novel together. Now, without further adieu I give you, my thanks:

Sonnet to thine Starri Knytes

Men have learned to read betwixt the night stars

All have gazed upon them, they never glare

The sun, how he shines, unholy centre

Of the heavenly host commands, ‘all seas,’

‘All see, Athena, Aphrodite, knights -

Of the realm, Starri Knytes will drape her hair

Over your gold ambrosia. This rare

Womanly host guides us, these are her stars.


Such golden deities are almost glass

Never asking for worship unlike gods.

Lazy tyrants- why could they not be Knytes?

So we could live under the bright night skies.

Without this host, just what would come to pass?

Nothing for gods are truly second class.

Tuesday, 2 August 2011

A blog of Comedy


This post will be a little more informal than most mainly due to two weeks of sleep deprivation and a thirteen hour marathon of Dr Who just before writing this, they are not a good cocktail. I’m going to try and incorporate my comical ambitions with today’s post, yet stay topical with my usual themes of the writer and influences.

While we’re all young we question what profession we’ll go into when we’ve finished with education. I personally have always fancied myself as a writer; I know I’m an abomination, but your letter bombs haven’t found me yet!

Up until the age of about fifteen, I’d worked on poetry alone; with adding stories and articles to my repertoire, it shows obviously how I’ve diversified over the years. I sound like a business, I just lack a manager, but let’s face it, there’s no woman crazy enough to share a room with me let alone a shackle.

For the last few years I’ve been fascinated by comedians, or at least trying to break into the world of comedy. I have to avoid watching the Apollo otherwise I begin to think, very wrongly, I can be a gag writer after an hour of someone drivelling on about their genitals. In honesty if that makes me think I’m any good I should just try secondary sex ed, cucumber and a condom anyone?

You know how we all laugh at what children say no mater how idiotic it is we find it hilarious, only because we’re thinking the exact same thing? I feel it’s a shame that’s beaten out of kids at secondary school, it’s no wonder good comedians are a dying breed, still, you have to learn how to give a decent wedgies at some point, or your kids would miss out.

I feel that the most bonkers people in society today are comedians and English teachers, or in the case of Mr Frankie Boyle: both. It takes a man with a real set of balls, or a sense of humour that could crack up royalty to sit in front of a class of young hormonal girls and read how a man has been screwing them all over for years. Personally I’m more in favour of throwing the book at them, not being biased; I’d lob a dictionary or two at the lads and head for the hills. But mum said I’m not allowed to do that again, I have to set an example, and hand out the pitch forks, one each before legging it. Apparently it’s good practice for later in life.

On a more serious note, I’m still wishing I were one of those, maybe not handsome, or cool people on stage, but I’d love to do what they do. It may never happen, but as with the catch phrase this generation has opted for, ‘I do it for de lulz’.