Thursday, 30 October 2014


© Helen Warner Ode to a Nightingale

She sings like a nightingale
Her voice soaring
the audience enraptured
as her notes ring out

  a dreamworld

of musical beauty
her voice unique
in its purity

by any other

she loses herself in the moment
alone on the stage

her notes pitch perfect
bring a  tear to the eye
and free the soul

Inspiration prompt - Nightingdale at Real Toads 

Wednesday, 29 October 2014


I feel this piece of artwork in the depths of my heart and soul.
They break my heart
they always do
these callous men
that take and never give

Each time I weep and wail
throw my hands to the heavens

And vow

Never again

I find my heart
On my sleeve

Open and raw


 Now in the autumn 
Of my years
I rejoice that the chance
will not come again

I am sufficient
Unto myself
No more my heart will suffer
Slings and arrows

I am whole
Not needing another
 to complete me

This is my way
I will surrender no more
To the whims and fancies
of love

I am a shattered window
of fragmented prisms

I am alone
 it was meant to be

At last



Written for Poetry Jam

Tuesday, 28 October 2014


Amidst his wander he bumps into Thorn in the garden.  Thorn doesnt warn. He was born to scorn.  "Ouch Ouch Ouch am I in a bout."   Thorn all broke falls to his knees.  He Pleads & Pleads to not wake his queen - Rose.   Rose grows to glow the meadow.
We called the child Thorn
A rose by another name
The cross he would have to bear
His jagged frame
a weapon
his enemies no equal
This crown of thorns
 would make him Strong
 his name would pierce the flesh
and the heart
of his oppressors
He will prick their conscience
Draw blood
And be thankful
for his Anglo Saxon forebears
Read it in the Runes
they speak the truth
Written for Sunday Scribblings 2  #Prompt 43 Thorn

Sunday, 26 October 2014

Winters Chill

Snug under quilts
of feather and down
Eyes half closed half open
A dream
 part broken
 As clocks reverse
 and time stands still
 you wake
 to frost crazed panes
and icy breath
 Toes recoil and curl
feeling the frozen ground
beneath your stockinged feet
The camp fire fizzles
 and spits  blue flame
the coffee aroma lures you
  into the barren winter morn
brave as the first pioneer
 in a strange land
Goose pimpled legs and shivering heart
 cold as iron
 your cosy den a warm memory
calling you
to retreat
 with buttered toast
 and honey sweet
to break your fast
Written for Magpie Tales #243 - Tess provides the image, we the story

Friday, 24 October 2014

1930 Notebook ...

gregory crewdson artwork01 Gregory Crewdson Artwork

I have come
to catch your voice
Your constructed notes going out of the throat
With dry, mechanical gestures,
To catch the shaft
Although it is so straight and unbending,
Then, when I open my mouth,
The light will come in an unwavering line.
Then to catch night
Wading through her dark cave on ferocious wings

On, eagle mouthed,
I have come to pluck you,
And take away your exotic plumage,
Although your anger is not a slight thing,
Take you into my own place
Where the frost can never fall,
Nor the petals of any flower drop.

Dylan Thomas

Tuesday, 21 October 2014

autumn light

The garden is damp and shining with early morning dew
Bathed in sunlight
  through petals transparent
  throwing long shadows across the grass

Water droplets on purple ribbed cabbage
 a different kind of beauty
Whilst the bright sunshine-yellow stems of chard
light up and cheer the soul

Autumn is a time for seeking out the unexpected
 to catch the eye
as flowers fade and die
 thrown against a fence
The slow changing of  leaves
in their dying colours
Tomatoes cling to their withered branches

Change is upon us
Step by step autumn arrives
snatching the last glories of summer
bite by bite
The last rose petals fall
 at a mere touch
A version of this originally posted on  Ramblings from Rosebank )

Sunday, 19 October 2014

In Inceptum Finis Est - In the Beginning Is The End

Is that all I have been
No name to call my own
Not sister or daughter or wife
Who will remember
How quickly forgotten
In the blink of an eye
In Octu Oculi
The bole of a tree is my shelter
The earth worms my companions
Crack'ed bark will talk to me
I will listen
And when lichen viridian and moss soft green 
cover this marker
I will be consumed by nature
Turn full circle
Ashes to ashes dust to dust
My sum total
My being
My all
Lies beneath this cheapened stone
In memoriam

Written for Magpie Tales #Mag242 - Tess provides the image, we the story

Saturday, 18 October 2014

Mystic Moonlight

Mystic Moonlight

Leaf edges illumined
frost rimed
Catching the moons glow
Haunted by shadow
That lurks beneath

 They glitter and shine
As the wind passes through
in night time fury

Creatures scuttle and hide
Beneath its girdle
Shining bright

Homeward bound
To some dark den
Moss lined
and earthy

Ill met by moonlight
Branches creak and moan
No one can hear them
They stand alone


Monday, 13 October 2014

The Woman in the Mirror

I see myself
Four times removed
Through the looking glass

Click goes the shutter
Each a reflection
of my other self
Which one is real?
Am I
Who I think I am
Perceive myself to be
The woman in the mirror
Is she me?

Written for Magpie Tales #Mag 241 Tess provides the image, we, the story.

Sunday, 5 October 2014


Without stop
Barbed wire barrier rips and tears
Breathing hard
Pounding heart
Prickling sweat
Old man young girl
 Eyes wide open - heart shut closed
Not ever
A life over
Before it has begun
I can't
I won't
Without stop
The barbed wire holds
I pray to some unknown deity
Hear me
The barbed wire rips and tears
Pull away
Break free
Escape its metallic embrace
No old man no young girl
Just freedom
Before it's too late
Written for Magpie Tales #240. Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides the image. We, the story.