Put your heart on the line

Put your heart on the line.
That’s where it belongs.

Washed at X o’clock and up to dry.
Fret not, the birds are busy singing.

Does it drip or flow – red, black, gold?
A swim of goggled lost purposes!

On the garden wall with a melody,
Surrounded by fruits and vines.

If a cat gets too close, clouds just
Mumble and the sky will curl her tail.

Did you forget?! Our line fell weeks ago!
Heart floats freely on a glowing breeze.


Prosaic stuff:

With a small interaction difficulty over, I felt freed up to become more light-hearted and talk about our never-ending laundry saga.

We had a tree (referred to in previous stories) cut down because it was dead and therefore hazardous as bits of it could fall off, and down went the washing line. Since then, we’ve been very busy but hopefully will get a new pole and line up soon!

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A Tear Fell From my Heart (Idea for a film)

A tear fell from my heart.
It was then a puddle on the street,
which became an expanse of ocean.

I looked up at my toe,
Because I was stuck on the ceiling,
My wings remained cemented to the ground.

The zest of one small map pin,
Whistled through the boiling dust,
Punctures the spherical jaws of gravity.

Giant tongue slurps lazily,
From golden gutters, eyeing
The fruit of the scene.








Sometimes I get too bossy and irritate and upset my friends. Then I feel sad and even terrible for having done this. But of course I’m having a rough week too having had major surgery and recovering but trying to do way too much.

I am thinking it’s not just my personality but the way I was parented and a way of communicating (style/ language/ energy) and trying to work on being an amazing listener.

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Happened, a silver lining

Thought it was the end,
gave away my books,
threw out my artwork (again).

Well then, a miracle,
the first of many.

One small shiver of light..
a drop of sound grows..
in the shadow of broken time.

You had a dream that we
were all in a plane crash,
but Jacob from Casualty saved us,
so long as we thanked each one
of his extraordinary muscles.

My skin cries, peace.. at last.





It’s not the fault of our wonderful NHS that it takes 2 years for someone with PTSD or CPTSD to get to see a psychologist. The day you got the letter and told me, it was extraordinary and also bittersweet.

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The enormity of the futility
is a quicksand erasing
every echo of worthwhileness.

Sometimes, falling through to
the crossfire of another storm..
We spiral in patterns. We live in traps.

Hello, my error! How wide is oblivion,
stalely invisible a road to clarity?

Stumbles of scribbled paths.
Tear my glance from paucity.

If all appearances are illusions..
Why not walk a sweeter way?

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Panic Panics

A “fake love poem” by which I mean using a rhetoric of passion/ infatuation to write about mental health. This is written from the perspective of panic personified “as a lover”.


We kissed. You fell.

It was just a navy puddle, swaying on an autumn afternoon.

You stepped into my mind.

A bell trap of bored ghosts.

A kitchen of melting pans.

A temple of chaos.


Blood rush took you further away and around.

Swooping down like a thirsty silver bird, the rain came and broke the mirror scattering liquid you left me for the golden trees over there.

I couldn’t quite see you…

I cannot even catch the scent.

Exhausted, I sleep in circles.


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Love Songs (To Fear)

Come get in the ring.

I’ve made you tea and brought your favourite chair. Talk to me. Tell me all about it.

Under the moon, we will dance to the rhythm of the distant flowers of the sea.

Your mouth a wondrous cave I wander through, humming.

Life swims in your pockets,

And in the middle of your voice is a grand spoon of ice cream, big as a room.

One lick sends the stars spinning.

I want it again.

The taste of you.

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Like a cold, deep fog,

I wandered

into a field of low volume static, bearing the ritual sacrifice of the day.

A jumper, sequinned with ice, embroidered with stones, and tired river clay.

To my surprise, the ground began to move. It shook like a leaf on a body of wind, and I shivered, fearing falling, into the void, not only having no place to safely land, but losing my jumper and the tray it was on.

A baking tray from the local shop costs _________.

The surface broke as shadowy signals unfurled like flags into the intently watching sky.

The edges linked, and became a wide, screeching tower of wind, around which I gingerly walked.

Bitter voices tore at my ears,

Dreary lines engulfed my fluttering envelopes.

We laughed as my bravery slumped into the recesses of the painting like light fleeing from the shadows.

In the storm cloud, I grew. Just a tiny flame feeding on pieces of sky.

Forgotten by summer.

Time raised me as an old child, quietly making me a coat for the snow and rains.

You can’t see it.

It’s part of my skin.

Moves in my breath.

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