The Season Unseen

Spring.

The season of seasons, this season, unseen.

All around, the green, the jade and emerald

jewels of leaves and buds burst with life,

out of sight. Sunlight blesses sullen earth,

raises tendrils, like the green fingers

of soiled hands in prayer,

to greet it with a drowsy wave.

The frowsy days drift by.

Birds bicker and palaver in trees.

These we see, though from afar,

from a distance as safe for them

as for us. They twitter and breathe

unexpected air, drink sweeter water,

purer and clearer than they have known

before. People prisoned by the present

that we do not wish to give

do not see the glory of the season

that carries on without our attention.

It carries on, free of us, unseen, unsung.

Spring is sprung.

I Am Untouchable

Looking at my hands, fingers,

wondering at all the things

that linger there. These hands

have touched so much,

held on and let go, and

now I know that they may hold

the end of those I love.

So I will pray, though not to God.

My hands will meet

just as they should,

in supplication to the greater

good, for hands together touch

each other and no other.

Touching me untouches you.

leaves you isolated, inviolate,

and safe. Keep it that way.

Don’t touch me now, don’t

ask for trouble. Keep your

hands to yourself.

I am untouchable.

This Old Man

This old man, he played on

until all his mind had gone.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

where’s the dog and bone,

send him to the old folks home.

In her pearls, his old girl

watched him as he lost this world.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

on the dog and bone,

asking for some care at home.

All alone, on her own

his old girl went daft also.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

get the dog and bone,

take her to a different home.

On their own, separate zones,

each went down the slippery slope.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

lost the dog and bone,

each one died but did not know.

This old pair, past all cares,

burned and scattered, no one there.

With a tip-tap, slip-slap,

buried dog and bone,

everybody dies alone.

Writing Me Up

This blog was just eponymous

which made it SEO anonymous

so now it’s more synonymous

with something slightly fabulous

(or, maybe, less ridiculous)

and so it would be marvellous

if you would like to follow us.


A poem celebrating the change of blog name to Writing Me Up.

I felt this was a more appropriate name as it reflected the aims of the blog: the need to write up the words that come to me; the way that writing lifts me up; and how writing rightens up my mind, which can wander into dark corners if it isn’t given something constuctive and creative to do.

So – welcome to my new old blog. Hope you like it.

The Sickening

Closer comes the sickening,

the withering, the reckoning.

Closer, now, and closer still.

It always has, and always will,

be there for you, to scare for you

and bare for you your bones.

A pox is on the world today,

perhaps a curse, as some would say.

No, no, it’s just a new disease

that spreads and roams with deadly ease

to mums and dads, and older lads

and older ladies too.

The peril of the world today

is that we’re all six steps away

from every other, everywhere

from over here to over there,

and now we’re all ascloseasthis,

our sickness spreads without a kiss.

It only takes a sneeze or cough

to see your friends and neighbours off,

so stay at home and wait it out,

there is no need to run about,

just save yourself and watch the fun.

Something wicked this way comes.