Pep Talk

I believe that most people who write feel they have a purpose in doing so. Whatever that purpose may be we can, at times, be doubtful of our ability to communicate. We may doubt the words we choose, our technical capabilities, the methods we use, the subjects of which we speak. Worse, we may doubt whether any of it makes any difference to a single soul other than ourselves.

To love writing, to want to communicate something, anything, and to doubt whether it has any meaning or to find ourselves in a place when the words just won’t come is an awful place to be for any writer. Over the last few weeks, or perhaps longer, I’ve experienced some of these doubts and it has come to my attention that a number of other bloggers, of whom I’m very fond, have been experiencing some or all of the above.

I don’t believe in coincidences. I believe in amazing connections, ones that sometimes blow me away by their synchronicity. Not for the first time here I find myself renewed by reading the thoughts and feelings of others and the honesty with which they share them. I also god bless email and friends across the ether. Some of the allusions in the following poem are born of reading others’ posts, comments and emails. And listening to an enlightening Ted Talk. One that makes the excellent point that I, courtesy of that beautiful synchronicity, will adhere to – I can do better. In all areas of life. I just have to try.

it’s too early to be calling me

or too late, I’m comfy

and you know that I can’t rise

your bugle pierces

no respite, it hollers

get up lassie, seek the prize


I bleary eye my boots on

and I splash my face

and question silently

who’re we kidding, what’s the point

battle’s over

all a waste of energy


but I’m trained for long haul

war and peace

and justice just the same

and tired is no excuse, you’re in the army

you’re a soldier

not a number but a name


and it matters that you uniform

and polish spit

and stand up ever straight

you can’t lie abed

and give up ghosts

they’re at the gate


there’s a battle to be fought

and in conscience

can’t object

for to not to try, surrender all

to give the field to hate

how keep respect


so get up soldier, silence voices

don the boots and arm yourself

and fight another day

ennui, attitude

and poor perception

out the way


these ruminations

round and round they go

we rue, beget

pivot points, dissatisfied with somethings

round and round, encircling, draining and despairing

in a helix of regret


get the little boots on

you are awesome

and you know you are

believe it soldier

you’ve a purpose, we’ve a purpose

we still orbit that same star



Toss Up

Dear God,

Not to sound ungrateful or anything and many thanks for all these bounteous blessings including a husband, seven weans and a mortgage but I feel you may have overlooked a blessing or two when you were dishing them out.

Now, I’m not pointing this out for just myself, mind you, although I would be eternally grateful.

Think fasting from all sorts for Lent.

Mhmm, that much.

It might have escaped your notice because I know you’re busy with major problems and this might seem like a bit out of your league. Cool, pass it on to one of your minions. You must have an angel for this because I know you’re keen on delegation. Maybe this one’s satnav is on the fritz? Send him. Or her. Not fussed.

I’ll let my husband have a word and point out where Glasgow is because I’m not too good on the whole directional thingy. Been unintentinally over that squinty bridge a few too many times for my liking. Not my fault I have to say. Someone changed the roads or the signs or something. Sorry, I’m wandering again.

The point is I really think you’re missing a great opportunity here to spread the love. Let me explain.

It’s like this.

Five weeks ago to the day the schools here broke up for the summer holidays.

That’s it.


Something’s gone wrong and you might not have noticed, what with all sorts of idiocy going on in the world. Why did you let the House of Lords be a thing? Surely, that should be for yourself and, well, yourself really? Is that it? Were you lonely? Thought you’d open up the chapter to a whole other chapter. You so do not want to know what’s going on with that idea. Or maybe that’s what’s keeping you busy. I can imagine how pissed you must be that some lords are not as cool as you.

Anyway, the point of this missive is that, while you’ve been looking elsewhere, someone’s stolen our summer. Really. I shit you not. They obviously left enough random days to make like it still might be around. And I can be slow on the uptake, I know. But, when I can count on the one hand – btw, does it matter which hand it is? – how many days I’ve been able to hang a washing out and chill among it all, I know something’s more seriously amiss than usual.

I’m a bit concerned about this global warming fiasco that’s been making inroads into this lovely planet of yours – kudos on a job well done at the outset. I know you’re probably irked about that too. And I don’t blame you. You maybe think we deserve all the drought or downpours we get in different places.

But, is there any chance, even just a wee one, that you could swap things around a bit?

Just for a spell.

Not that I’m suggesting you use magic or anything but you’ve always been quite handy with the miracles when needed. Fact is, I can count more miracles than sunny days hereabouts. Which is good in lots of ways – not complaining at all about those. Just mentioning.

But here’s the thing, if you don’t do something about this god-awful weather – slip of the tongue, soz – I might be tempted to move to another country and Spanishmomus just doesn’t have the same ring to it, I’m thinking.

I’d pack the whole crew up, lock, stock and mortgage and learn Spanish or some other language with declensions. That’s how desperate I am.

I’ve told my kids I’m having a word with you today and they’re beginning to doubt you listen at all – despite the miracles, which some term a series of fortunate events.

Now, I might have something to do with that growing doubt, given that I’m forever prone to ejacualtions of the, ‘Jesus, Mary and Holy Joseph’ and ‘Sacred Heart’ variety. I mean if you were really listening you’d ensure the kids knew my prayers were heard.

I’m telling you, you’re going to end up with a shower of wee atheists at this rate. Want that on your conscience?

I’m thinking something along the lines of you extending this one sunny day here today – which, even as I speak, is turning overcast, for-the-love-of-all-that’s-holy! – into a fortnight maybe.

Too much?

A week?

Tell you what, let’s toss for it. Souls for sunny days. If you don’t get in quick your arch enemy will see an opening and I know enough people who are about ready to trade.

Let’s do it before you-know-who gets wind of it.

Heads you win. Tails you can’t lose.

And I get to hang my washing out.




No pics of me with Paul’s new book (Baldy looks better than I do first thing in the morning!) But he’s absolutely right when he describes this eleventh book of Paul’s – words from a gentleman and a fine poet – and a pleasure to read and hold. Congratulations, Paul. And go, Baldy, for being way braver than I am. 🙂


Sorry for poor picture, I just got up! Sorry for poor picture, I just got up!

Baldy is the proud owner of Paul F. Lenzi’s new book!  Apologies for the ‘mauled by goblins’ appearance, this bleary eyed pic was taken shortly after I rose and, lets face it, I’m not the prettiest person when fully conscious!  A huge thank you to Paul for the poetry.  I have long been an admirer of Mr. Lenzi’s writing, there are few as dedicated to the craft.  Even the dedication in his new book is poetic.  I am delighted and urge others to delve in to this creative masterpiece.

Small Noise, Existential Echoes is published by Stonewood Press.  I highly recommend following Paul on his poetry blog: Poesy Plus Polemics.

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nothing new under the sun they say nothing new under the sun said it and done it before it’s all done nothing new under the sun wedges of sand in strange shapes that shift blocks and towers that move gone in a puff an illusion they made shape-shifting a gift that they gave meanings and forms in a desert no more deserted and turned by a tide disappeared into nothing at once vapour where solid had pride abstractions approved in a dream that we live disproved on waking we see visions all seen and all lived before nothing new there to be nothing new under the sun it was writ all of it written before in life as in dreams the desert has drowned invisible landscape no shore


I’ve touched those words before now,

They reached and asked me to,

Tongued with tenderness their tone,

Words command of you,

Turned the pages where they live,

Leafed and loved them too,

When joy they’ve given, I give back,

The least that I can do.


Kissed some pages, slept with them,

They’ve warmed me when I’m cold,

Comforted or made me cross,

Even made me bold,

Bent o’er backwards when they’ve asked,

Given birth when told,

Filled in blanks and filled the blank,

A love that can’t grow old.


Books I’ve fingered stand the test,

Some I must let go,

A library that needs thinned down,

Released to let them sow,

Off to others, bid adieu,

True loves I can’t let go,

Logophiles know what I mean,

Words desire it so.

In Poplin



satin smooth for sheets to slide on

silk for lingerie

delicates that catch attention

housed in chiffonier

chiffon wraps, georgette gowns,

lustring won’t wear well,

lame, lace or organza

weave their own brief spell

comfort cotton wefted through

warp of stronger skin

little women, heavy-dutied,

worked with worth in poplin


Time Talks



Hands chose to halt upon all faces

Numerals in hibernation

Suspending time and animation

Frozen still near midnight


Every digit waits its turn

Unswept, idle in formation,

Rested, useless at their stations,

While time regains its fight


Paused on play, asleep to hours,

Imperfect planetary rotation

Life still beats in preparation

Given second sight


Movement in the galaxies

Parallels in consternation

Argued routes, black-holed frustration,

Time talks till all put right


Subtle strokes, caressed by cue,

Solitary salutations

Solar shift in ideation

Copernican dark to light

para nuestros ninos – For Our Children



it begins






his fingers

by voice



on repeat


one song

threading my hair

with warm honey



by ohm


a balm




in song







for our children


para nuestros ninos

por amor






Bell Rock Lighthouse

There stands a beacon where a bell proved weak,

Voice to the voyagers in luminous speak,

Identity unique by pulse precise,

Guidance given where the sea hides vice,

Ragged rock with a tidal view

Dwelt below the surface, steered untrue

Were the vessels in their passing, as they hoped to pass,

Made safe in the knowledge cast by coloured glass.

Fires on the hillsides, pillars by the ports,

Candle flames for safe escort,

Antiquity to modern, lighthouse gave

Synonymous, eponymous, strobes to save.