Dredging In The Zone

lost leviathan


amid clouds

seeking home

puffs dispersed

she looked upon me

blinked the briefest wink

and she was gone

left behind the promise

ovoid birthrights

devoid dragon

glimpsed alone

humoured by the sky

and deepest waters

untethered for a spell

met in the zone

One Under The Sun

We might have worshipped at this other temple

invoked fierce majesty and plead for culmination

twice each year

We might have blessed ourselves adorned in naked adulation

stroking burnished bronze in service

of its philanthropic flares

We might have rescued grief in selfless sacrifice

redeemed from darkness every corner shaded, sheltered,

bound to be impenetrable

We might have saviour’d chapters from our books

pardoned tired redeemers, partook of chalice

with neither sip nor greedy guzzle

We might have worshipped differently

with golden orb and gilded chariot

we did not

We might have reverenced all creation

as one under the sun

blinded, we cannot

How Be It Dream

If, in inner eye

of languid 


is felt

is seen

a million

multicoloured prisms

streaming on the beam


on pin-pointed purpose

to bestow



two-spirit gendered

ancient deity

suffusing and infusing

seeking soul surrender

in semi-conscious

state of sensuality

caressed and kissed

by ported rays

on zephyr’d fingertips

aroused from drenching

sun-blessed sleep


as felt

as seen

how be it dream


If I run away and hide will you find me

In deepest ocean’s trenches, without air,

Flotsam with forgotten, undiscovered,

Adrift with other lost souls dwelling there.

If I send an SOS, will you hear it,

Answer sonic plea to surface sent,

Will you, please, at least, alert another

Before exploding breath in lungs is spent.

If I hear no engine fast upon the waters,

If rescue seems a distant hope far gone,

If none there shall be up above to save me,

I’ll rest down here, learn somehow, to belong.

I’ll move among strange creatures as their shadow,

Learn their ways, survive as best I can,

Never fear if depths are not your forte

But, if you would, I’ll maid to your merman.

With denizens deep down we’ll both discover

World worth hiding in, as all was meant,

Come, my love, and find me in these waters,

If you do, no mayday need be sent.

Telemachus Told Me

Telemachus told me, with travel weary woe,

While passing through, soul searching,

His hero long ago.

Telemachus told me of suitors in homestead,

How urgency had led him

For mother’s love and dread.

Telemachus told me Penelope knew fear

But plotted course and kept the faith,

Wished her lover near.

Telemachus told me, by light of nightly fire,

Of lessons learned on journey,

Of squatters, she with ire.

Telemachus told me of Calydonian Boar,

Of how the men believed no girl

Could vanquish cursed chore.

Telemachus told me of woman, godly blessed,

Atalantic powerhouse

Dedicated to her task.

Telemachus told me of father’s clever plot,

Of how he guided arrow through

So many with one shot.

Telemachus told me how Homeric tales from yore,

Battles, choice and consequence

Still visit every shore.

Telemachus told me, his name upon my lips,

In dreamland scapes of valued fleece,

Of heroes, heroines and ships.

Telemachus told me that myths are sometimes true

And legends made from bravest acts,

So now I’m telling you.

Fools’ Rule

In a cavern underwater, round the bends, beneath whirlpool,

Wizened crone of ancients dwells, stores wisdom lost from fools,

Sits upon a creature, lassoed from some years back,

Prehistoric plinth once fought, though it no courage lacked.

No one ventures near her unless they be but fool,

Anyone who’s heard of her keeps to golden rule,

Stay away from trouble, if wisdom’s what you lack,

Find this trouble, won’t find own way back.

Dark in corners hiding of the cave she dwells, where rules,

Empty shells of victims never realising they were fools,

Intent upon the knowing of the knowledge that they lacked,

Shells she saves of those who never found route back.

Terrible her vengeance, she cannot suffer fools,

That’s her one and only golden rule,

She’ll have you in for coffee and pat you on the back,

But don’t, whatever, tell her knowing’s what you lack.

She’ll rise up from her plinth, that creature from way back,

She’ll whisper to her slave all that you lack,

Eyes of red will turn to avenge her simple rule,

Empty vesseled shell where once was fool.

Tossed into a crevice, her cavern does not lack,

Room enough for many at the back,

Look out for the signpost sporting solemn rule

Turn again, be off, you errant fool.

Cackles she at signpost, written some time back,

Direction truthfully is what it lacks,

She’s the only one allowed to break her rule,

From conches sups she consciousness of poor misdirected fools.


Hand Of Fae

He was broken by the ocean while he swam against the tide,

Tide resistant to the currents though frail man,

Man warrior now weary, from outside to inside,

Inside drowning, rather floating, best he can.

Harsher rocks in sight as he fights against cruel waves,

Waves he thrice, goes under for last time,

Time surrenders to the blackness, welcomes dulsey grave,

Grave decision outwith will to climb.

Chancing o’er the tidal flew a lady fae,

Fae in spirit, born from waters deep,

Deep her choice to save him, return him to his fate,

Fate took by hand and led him home to keep.

Drowned in waters churning he draws a living breath,

Breath she gave in elemental land,

Land beneath the surface, life bestowed from death,

Death averted, caught by fae’s fair hand.



Maiden Of Mercy – a sailor’s tale

Here, where highlighted, the troubles we met,

Long ago, on a ship, far at sea,

Sights that we saw, I’ll never forget,

Comrades, our captain and me.

Winds that grew howling as high as our ship,

Plumbing the depths of our fears,

Submerging the bravest, resisting prayer lips,

Drowning the best of our tears.

Drenched, we stood stalwart, shackled to posts,

To masts, to each other, comrades,

Afeared of the moment all lives would be lost,

No aid despite mayday relayed.

How to fight gods too intent on destruct,

Neptune unleashed, three tined strong,

Maritime fellows, down on their luck,

Awondering how they had done wrong.

Dimmed came the voice on the surge of first wave,

Agrowing as storm mustered force,

All hope relinquished, none left to save,

Shared thought as we fought to keep course.

No hope was left in purser’s aplomb,

All stores to sea bottom had fled,

Blessed we ourselves, each other and home,

Destined for our final bed,

When out from the waves, against father’s rage,

Came the daughter of merman with cause,

Voice of an angel, persuaded, assuaged,

Pled, melody saw storm pause.

A hush on the wind, the ebb and the flow,

Two voices, for mercy, justice,

Abated, we waited, storm clouds still in tow

Then sound of salvation, a kiss.

Whatever she said we might never know,

Best guess is she loved one, she loved all,

No stoppage to find out, we started to row,

Relieved enraged storm was mere squall.

Here, where highlighted, the troubles we met,

Long ago, on a ship, far at sea,

Captain and comrades might still be lost yet

If not for mermaid who loved me.

Still her voice carries, I carry it close

In water and waves, on sea breeze,

Together we both, but for storm that arose,

God judged but heard daughter’s pleas.

Maiden of mercy saw one, she saw all,

Lifted refrain to save love,

Thankful our passage to angelic peace call,

Thanked we, blessed north star above.


Was it good for you? November, I mean.

I can’t quite believe I’m doing this.


And I’m really pleased. I’m delighted I think is the appropriate phrase.

I am. Seriously. Dead chuffed, as we say here.


It’s been a strange sort of venture.

I started by signing up on a whim. I do that. Whims are my thing. Sometimes. Other times I’m steady as a rock. I flooded my blog the night before the 1st of November with posts that ensured I reached 1000 posts since my blog’s inception. My apologies. Wine (or whiskey) and blogging as no-no’s should be in the guidelines somewhere. Perhaps they are. I don’t read stuff like that. Until later.

Like I never read the Nano guidelines. Until later.

No, really. What the hell was I thinking?

I have just spent 26 days in a place I’m not sure I would voluntarily revisit.


I’m going to.

For more than three weeks now I have absorbed myself in a world that my mind and imagination has decreed should be so. Make it so. ( Is that Star Trek or something? I’m not sure. TV and me are not on intimate acquaintance. But I think my reading here tells me that it is so.)

And you wonder why word count is not the issue for me.

No. My issue is sewing up the jumper after I have knitted it. I’ve always hated that part. Despite the fact that the patience and resolve necessary are worth it in the final product. One jumper. Hand-crafted. Modelled by moi.

But you have no idea how many jumpers I have ripped out and started again, how many times I’ve unpicked stitches and ‘fucked’ under my breath (sometimes quite loudly) all so that, at the end, I could model my creation.

I feel a bit like that about my book. So much picking and unpicking to be done. So many holes in the plot and sequencing. So much more I want to revisit and work on.

But the guidelines everywhere say….let it be. Leave it alone.

So that’s what I’m doing.

Despite the fact that I still have whatever number of days left in November, I’m letting go. Fallow shall be its name. Until January and February when I shall edit the arse out of it. And request patient readers to be honest and spare my feelings in the name of the best I can give.

In the meantime…..

* my seven year old wants to know if I’ll be writing over Christmas and if I’ve bought any Christmas presents yet. The answers are, of course, yes and no. Why lie?

* my husband thinks he’s a monk. Feel like a nun myself if truth be told. Would it be ok for two such characters to get it on? Frankly, I’m gagging. TMI? Hell, why end the habit of a lifetime?

*I need a break. Seriously. I am sick of eating on the hoof. Over the weekend I subsisted on Corn Flakes and Weetabix and peanut M&M’s (broke a feckin’ filling in the process. Why, god, could it not have been the Weetabix that did it? I could live without them.) Hubby was off in Robin Hood country running for his country while I bought the kids Mcdonalds and made pizza. ( Farmfoods. I never made them. Heated up. Truth.)

*I have lost more weight than I ever have on any diet. Looking good, btw. 😉 Well, once I get rid of the black shadows under my eyes and the haunted look from the same source.

*I’m gonna finish a jumper I started for me. Begin the one I promised Anna. Find out where I stored my kilt during the summer months. I mean how many places can I store things?

* I’m gonna watch mindless TV. I feckin’ am!

*I’m gonna go, on Thursday (tomorrow), to my next political ‘Yes’ meeting. Because I’m still Yes. To life. To purpose. To meaning. To all the shit that isn’t shit that Yes means for me and all who are still in the affirmative.

*I’m making a dental appointment. Well, you know why.

* I’m gonna BLOB! I never really blob. But gonna. For a few days. Then…..

*I’m going to explain to Anna and Louise and Rachel and David. To the kids who don’t live here any more. To Frank who is still trying to get why, (think actions not words), that this is something I have to do.

*I’m going to explain that even while it seems selfish, that….maybe it’s not. That sharing isn’t really selfish. And that that’s kind of what I’ve tried to do in my book. Kind of what I thought and was taught I should always do. How can that be a bad thing? Even while I feel that I’ve locked myself away and absorbed myself in a world that is in my mind. But is also too close to my reality. A reality I fear in many ways. But one I have huge hopes for.

* I’m going to have a second glass of wine tonight. I have been inordinately abstinent in the name of art. I feckin’ have! Just the odd lubricating of wheels.

One for loosening,

Two for slack,

Three for, ‘Fuck it!’, no going back,

Four for, ‘Did I publish?’

Five for, ‘Ach,’

Six for, ‘They’re faceless, what the feck!’

Seven is a charm I’ve yet to uncover

‘Cos usually by then I’m……

* I’m going to rest and chill with my family.


I won’t stop writing.

I can’t stop writing.

There are a few days left in November….one of the oddest Novembers I’ve ever experienced. Apart from the one where I lost my mum five years ago. On the 30th November, St. Andrew’s Day when, just a few days prior, she told all the family gathered. ‘ I need to get my kilt ready.’

I don’t believe in coincidences. I used to. Now I believe in connections. And reasons why things happen. And in reading the right things at the right time, in meeting the right people at the opportune moment. In worlds within worlds. And a cosmic connection that says, ‘Make it so.’

I’m going to post in a minute or so a synopsis and bit of my book that I hope gives you a wee insight into what it’s about. But, more importantly, what I think we’re all about.

Make it so.