Category Archives: Writing


Together in a silence
that holds a worry
about the absence of talk,
that holds a preference
in difference to the prevailing
not always companionable.
At times it shrieks
inside my head, giving orders
I cannot obey.
Silence is golden
talk is cheap.
Solitude and writing have become
my conversationalists,
is anything lost,
or gained for those we guide,
for those we love,
when words are sparse
and silence holds us all?

Love’s residence

If I trusted
If I was free
If I was in a dream
If I was telling another
how to live their life
(not that I would)
I would say fly
I would say
follow your bliss
follow your heart,
listen to your love.
I would whisper
we never know
how long we’ve got
do it now before
that thief called regret
settles into your heart
to steal your thoughts
and words, before
‘I wish we had of’ and
‘I wonder what might have been’
your daily mantra.

But what if I’m wrong?
What if I’m looking
for bliss
in the wrong places?
What if it resides
right where I am?
In the thick trunk
of the old oak,
in the flying high
of the girl on the swing,
in the frisbee
floating in midair,
caught between laughter.
What if love’s already here, and
I’m only looking
into my blindspot?

I want to write about you

I want to write about you
so I don’t forget you.

I want to remember the grains of our shared life 
before the tide washes over them 

and I can no longer hold them in my hand
or hear them in my heart.

I want to speak about 
something, anything, that 

brings you nearer,
back to life, maybe.

Even the times you hurt me
in ways big brothers do,
like the time you told me

to stick the knife in the toaster,
when it was on, and I obeyed,
in ways little sisters do.

Or the time you shot me
with paper bullets from an air rifle,

you wondered if they would work,
my bruise, the colour of rain clouds,
satisfied your curiosity.

Or the way you recognized an ally
in me, the first time 
your heart was broken.

I want to hold these pieces of us,
and a thousand more,

in a sacred place 
so that your dying, so that
us never speaking of them again –

of growing up as only we did, 
doesn’t mean it never was, or
that we never were.


Dark, no place for shadows
Quiet, snow falls upon itself
Evasive light
Empty sound
Silence fills me up
I breathe it in
And breathe it out
Ah, bliss

Lies and tricks

Lies and tricks
take me on detours
from my chosen path
Lured by promises 
of a future
with no guarantees
I now realize
it wasn’t 
the one I ordered
Seduced by false idols,
it takes all my strength
to see beyond
their luminosity 
and give up
and give in
and give myself back
to the place I started from
where hopes and dreams
stir and grow
where trust and love
the only guiding beacons
of light
I see.

Some days

Some days 
it feels like
she is the open wound
of the earth,
red raw and bleeding,
washed over and over
by the salty sting
of falling rain.

Cut, grazed and bruised
by a universal pain
that takes a child 
from its mother
or a father from his sons
before they have barely
to talk about this life.

Some days
she doesn’t know how 
to stop 
the bleeding, or
tend the wound
or how 
to pretend anymore
it doesn’t hurt.

Some days
it is all she can do
to butter the bread
put on a smile,
fall into bed,
and practice being
for it all.

Out in this world 

Multiple voices perform
          out of tune
Their noise is painful
      to her ears
       and heart
Skin, too thin
     to shield her
          from arrows

The space between 
    this self
and the one they perceive
         her to be, 
    v a s t  a n d  w i d e

The space between
   this self 
and the one she hoped 
      to be, 
    v a s t  a n d  w i d e

She seeks only retreat
    and trusts that
  wisdom, and compassion
      will arise
  in the emptiness 
       of this space.

Connective Tissue

This in-between has got under her skin,
it is the dermis, the layer beneath –

made of connective tissue and sensory nerves.
It has become like a light

and she is the moth, who cannot 
help but fly into it.

She knows too, she dwells in that space
with the writing of this, as the words 

fall like a sun shower, only to dry up
as quickly as they once poured.

Are there moments of being
there, or here? Of starting, or arriving

of beginning, or ending? Or is there only
birth and death, and everything

in between?  It has caught her, this space
like a fish in a net, struggling to move. 

A place of transition, this not-here
nor there, a borderland between yesterday 

and tomorrow, vast and open
for as far as the eye can see.

She thinks of transition, and recalls
that worst part of labour before birthing

her children, and recalls 
the rattly sound of his breath

the agitated flailing of his body
before death mistakenly took him.

And she wonders, is it important, does it matter,
so what? To be left in a lurch, or

sat in a slump, to be forever left 
in the waiting room (of Dr Suess).

Does it matter what’s there? Does anyone 
care to know the pain of a labour, or

the agony of those sounds and sights 
that pre-empt death? Or the stories 

of traversing the vast sandy desert, or 
climbing the steep mountain track?

And I think, these are the  processes 
that take us, shape us and make us,

the in-between of this way and that,
of this self and the other.

Does it matter where I am? In between
the old and the new, reaching for one

while holding the other, moving between,
unsure, not knowing, reaching backwards

and forwards, outwards and inwards,
sinking and rising.  

So I embark on this journey 
of migration, navigating through

the borderlands, working the hyphen
between this self and an other. 

I have one hand on before, 
one hand in the after,

as I move into 
the multiplicity of possibility,

my heart in my mouth
my feet on the ground

no flying above
no shortcuts below,

with only the breath of wondering 
to guide my way.

Under fire

The gaze of another
can appear like a cloud
with the power to drown
this flailing body

The scrutiny of the few
can pierce through skin,
already white paper thin,
and leave their mark in blood

Ammunition, marked by the critic
turns upon itself, ready 
to inflict the harshest of words
upon a tender and open heart

But between the battle lines
of a war that started long ago
lies a spaciousness, where gentle 
and compassionate hands and mouths
wait, to take you home.

My most beautiful thing

Once, in the blackness of night,
I would gently lay my hand
upon your doll sized chest, 
place my ear against the red ripeness
of your lips, and listen

to the sound of the soft whispering 
– in and out, a tiny pause,
and it begins again –
of the beauty that is
your breath.

You’re bigger now, 
but somehow it remains 
my most beautiful thing.
Like an invisible heart-line

between your breath and mine,
its rhythmic flow, a soothing meditation,
a peace-filled reminder of all that is, 
of all that is possible,
and of all that matters.

Fiona Robyn, of Writing Our Way Home, has recently published a novel titled My most beautiful thing, which you can find out more about by clicking on the link below. Right now she is offering it free for kindle on amazon.

As part of this, she has also invited people to write about their own ‘most beautiful thing’, which I have done above. I wonder what you would choose?