What happened to art

until it was nothing but pagan symbols

of a time long ago in a faraway place

that place we’re banned from

banished. The resurrected place of

myths and fables, stories – some true

most not. Giants. Pharaohs. Dark magic.

Circles. Spheres. Phalli.

What feminism?

Dark, dark place buried and lost

Searched for relics and knowledge and misty

Sands. Time. Now a popular virtual place

Replicated. Duplicated. Copied. Idolised.

Misinformation place. That witches seem to know

They think.

Canvases haunted by death and darkness,

Decay and loss.

No life

Among the living

Bones. Skulls. X-ray leaves.

Crumbling claws and rotting jaws of death.

Murky brown meets dark grey and black

Those witches of banal.

Nothing new there.



(NaPoWriMo – Day 22 – writing prompt:

Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form. –  )

no between

A boy talks of professors of medieval history

to his friends dressed in jeans and tokes peering

into hand gadgets.

There is no in-between to the weather any more.

The mansions and castles have decayed with

memories and hopes

that don’t exist.

I am a mansion

with many rooms

pockets of void and mountains

that have moved

Been moved.

Failing to see squalor

of wealth that abides,


haunting me back, luring me to




(NaPoWriMo – 21 Apr 2019 – writing prompt: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like The Color of Pomegranates and “City That Does Not Sleep,” incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic. –  )


Think about what you’ll make, she says

I mould cold, white earth through my fingers

Pound it like dough,

enjoying how it bends to my will.

No, you can’t do that. You must do it this way.

Shudder. Think, control freak. Issues.

And why snap at me one week,

Then waltz me to the cash machine the next?

Hippie-crite, think. Taciturn. Capricious.

Be nice. Deep breaths.

Seems to be established. Into what?

Dig deeper. Bend. Move it.

Dub the Queen of Mud.

Raker. She earns it. Works hard.



Not quo.


An abracadabrian was the order of the day

Before we were all allowed out to play. I

Can’t think of a subject. I’m

Devoid of all topics.

Everything seems so banal and plain.

Forget all events of our

Glorious days;

Hijacked and hoodwinked

In a thousand ways.

Jack-of-all trades, Jill-of-all spades

Knowing our

Laughter is

Made of



Peers and

Queers can


Still in


U and me, we

Veer left

When at


Yellow lights or white striped

Zones, to stay twee.



(NapoWriMo – Day 19 writing prompt:  Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness. –  )

to the walking dead

I was so happy when I heard that

you’d finally entered the

realm of the dead

converted to a lifeless mass of

stiff bones and gristle and the

dark matter that you once took pride in

Laughed out loud as I read

your powerlessness to harm and

put dread into all who cross your path or

those you follow relentlessly to steal

any life they might have had

Smiled broadly for days

heart skipping, feet dancing, low humming

in the supermarket, for all to see,


Gluttonous for information about

the means

the ends

of that smouldering, secretive, dark, evil




(NaPoWriMo – Day 18 – writing prompt:  Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. –  )


I creep in when you’re not there

peep through windows, bare

flesh to see

fresh, plump and new

no gristly lumps of old sinew

I love to know what you won’t tell

what’s going on behind the sill

if I can’t see

invade your door

enter in under the floor

this property is mine you see

even though you hold the key

I know the ghosts

that haunt you here

the ones who used to be my peer

from my vantage I’ve seen them come and go

the ones who stay and those who know

constant invasion

into hidden lives

questions, witness, jokes and lies

now white with age

and withered dry

my once new home

from where I spy

becomes the tomb within I die



( NaPoWriMo – Day 17 – writing prompt: Today, I’d like you to challenge you to write a poem that similarly presents a scene from an unusual point of view. – )


The old shed

Becomes the ancient brick walls in a Gothic mansion

in a gardened meadow

in a couple’s imagination far away

Becomes the tentative shield of organic plants

in a planned and civil urban yard

on the other side of town

Becomes the bones of an ultra-modern thermal-heated extension

in a close-knit community

of other thinkers

Becomes a molten blob of tin

in the accounts ledger

of a man who makes something from nothing

Becomes the enriched soil

of new gardens

in a neglected house of endless tenants

Becomes a piece of art

in the mosaiced glass, tiles, coins and willow-patterned crockery

of the storied ground

Becomes a story



( NaPoWriMo – Day 16 – writing prompt: Today, I challenge you to write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane. )