We Write…

We write of summer meadows and of dewdrops,

Of circles caught in circles in our mind,

Of senses’ fantasies that beg releasing, in

Images that seep on page to find

Recognition in the land of journey

Of imagination played before our fluttered eyes,

Of colours bright or muted, freed from prism,

Of right or wrong, of truth, of evil lies.


We write of winter howling in bare treetops,

Of geometric tangents linked with space,

Of god and gifts and sad laments of knowing

Revealed inside the gifs behind our face,

Of politics and grace and favour owing,

Of how, by nature, owls seek out and track their prey

While, through the night, their silent wings stir currents,

Nocturnal voice, soft breathing held at bay.


We write at dawn and in night’s tiptoed torment

Of tales and thoughts, common to us all,

Of worlds within the world we all are sharing,

We write, in honesty, must be the greatest call

Of those drawn to the world of language,

In letter’d form, placed hesitantly, upon page,

Hit ‘publish’ while our hearts on white are crafted,

Daring reciprocity or rage.


Of ballerinas twirling in their jewel box,

When opened to reveal our trinkets there,

We write and dare our eyes to endless wonder,

We write, we risk our souls to honest bare.

We write because not doing is no option,

Words bedevil, haunt with no regret,

Spectral forms hover oe’r us, in cloud lexicon,

Begging exorcism on the net.


We write in music, pictures and prose poetry,

In art, in forms all risen from the pyre

Of ashen phoenix, from a long tradition

Of pigments mixed in charcoal from the fire.

In black and white, in colours that suffuse us,

Permeate the gases of our form,

Our nebula of knowing that what moves us,

Communication, as the human norm.


We write when tears are forming on our eyelids,

Smudging ink that proves our hearts still feel,

In anger, too, spilled blood from ancient consciousness,

We write to justify our thoughts are real.

We write because we see all souls are hurting,

As mine does too, from time to time, no less,

We write as union with the great unknowing,

One cell from shared communion that we bless


In knowing that no trouble that we carry

Need be borne alone no matter where we are,

Our words are missiles, more powerful than nuclear,

They are the love that nurtures near or far.

The word is flesh, the word is souls abiding

In light, its form, its earthless, weightless mass,

In silence and in photonic dark room,

One word may mean more than all the rest.


We write of dreams succumbed to when we’re sleeping,

Of daydreams caught in shower’s gentle sting,

Of justice, truth, of pain, of deep depression,

Of cloud release ascended on the wing.

Of tender-hearted moments that we’ve nourished,

Of visions seen in skies, on mountain peaks,

We write of all that’s conjured in our musings,

We write because some words are hard to speak.











May Music, Day 25 – Slainte To The Music.

When I love a song, or a whole album for that matter, I quite often listen to it on repeat. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone has requested, for the love of god, that I change the music. And they’re not talking about me having a moan. Although that happens too.

I kind of sicken myself to songs after I’ve done that and then might not play them again for some time. Twindaddy’s 25th and final question for this music challenge is asking which song I could listen to all day and not tire of. Well, even among my favourites and those that are in recovery from over-exposure, none would fit the category of ‘all day without tiring’.

There is always a limit to how long I can listen to any one piece of music or album. My family might disagree but it’s true.

One such album was ‘Sunny Side Up’ by Paolo Nutini, another Scots singer/songwriter. So Scottish, in fact, that some people from outwith these parts often find it difficult to make out what he’s singing. Obviously, I had no such problem and sang along to this whole album for several weeks – but not all day – and now haven’t listened to it in some time.

Today though, may very well be the day, on unearthing this CD, that I enjoy it all over again.

The video below was captured at an annual charity event, ‘Cash For Kids’, run by Glasgow’s local radio station. The kids involved in this event will no doubt remember it forever – one in particular who got to play acoustic to Paolo’s impromptu performance.

‘Candy’ was the song that made me buy the CD.

Here’s the professional version. In case you can’t make out what he’s singing.

As a parting farewell to this music challenge I want to thank Twindaddy for running it and for inviting participation. It’s been fun to reflect on music that has meant much to me although it’s also been quite emotional – something I didn’t expect at all when I signed up for it. Music does indeed permeate every part of our lives. I’ve never really explored why I favour some songs and choose not to listen to others. Musical preference and tastes obviously play a large part in that but so too do the memories and associations we have with it. One thing it is, though, is universal. It crosses all divides and can touch even where words are not always understood. And it makes us want to dance -sometimes. Some people have even made a lifelong career out of it. Lucky buggers. To music and dancing, Slainte. And cheers to Twindaddy and all the lovely blogging participants I got to meet on the journey.


Don’t Be Alone

There are those who are lonely,

So desperately lonely,

Even when surrounded by friends.

There are those whose physical pain goes on

And they question if it ever will end.


There are those whose pain is an emotional one,

Those who ponder life’s end solution to ease,

The darkest of any confession.

There are those who carry a burden of guilt

And those with deepest depression.


There are those whose hearts seem

Broken in two,

Those whose hatred is well justified,

Whose angst and sorrow is boundless, but

It seems to eat them alive.


There are those who feel as others feel,

Hearts  full of despair

With righteous cause and frustration.

There’s sadness that feels like a terminal disease,

States to country and nation.


It weeps,

It seeps

Into pores

And floods,

There is hurt,

So much hurt,

It feels

There is blood.


There are those who imagine an end

Of all life

So suffering and sadness will cease,

Whose pleas on their pages

Know terrible loss

And pain that knows no release.


The hurt that abounds

Is palpable here,

A microcosm of earth,

Sharing distress and souls set on fire,

Crying for song of rebirth.


There are those whose posts are filled with good cheer

And those that say nothing at all

Of feelings or thoughts

Or what lives within,

Preferring a different recall.


But for those who are here

Whose very beings starve,

Seeking for someone to listen,

Bear in mind

That we all have these feelings.

It’s part of the human condition.


If no one is there to answer your needs,

No family or friend will suffice,

A message in private may help find release.

Do it and don’t even think twice.


I’ve no great answers

In fact, I have none,

Just a sense of the life that we share,

Please don’t be alone,

If you need a vessel,

Remember that someone is there.


It may not be me,

It could be another

But many there are who believe

That a problem full shared,

Whispered and heard

Is a problem that’s going nowhere


Except to be halved

Or quartered,


Maybe not ever to be

Over or finished


But lessened because

Someone cares.


So don’t be alone

Whatever your reasons,

There’s someone on here,

A man for your seasons

Or woman,

A friend,

A fellowship found.

Please don’t despair,

Don’t sink to the ground

Without looking up

Or inwards or out.

There’s someone for you,

Please just give a shout,


If only to curse at life’s

Little foibles,

Its terrors,

Its spectres,

Its myriad of troubles.


There are those who have offered this to me

And I’ve done the same in return.

You’ll know who to trust,

You may never need

But remember there’s always someone.


So when strength and solutions

Are quite overcome,

Sincerely believe

There is always a one.


Don’t be alone.

Please, don’t be alone.

Your Strength

Your strength



Your words,

Your pain.

You go on.

You focus.

And go on.

Not lost










As much.



To be.

Just be.

So much



So much



Weekly Writing Challenge: Good Riddance.




I can see the little tike from my window again. Jasmine. Normally, she’s such a bubbly little girl with a cheery laugh and a smile for everyone. Today she looks lost and alone. Four years old with the worries of the world on her back. And there is nothing I can do to help.

Just yesterday, she waved up at me as I leant from my window and watched her and her friends at play. They were trying with all their might to turn the hideous toy that her father had brought home from some scrapyard or junk shop.

It had creaked in its rustiness and refused to budge more than a few inches. I had urged them to greater efforts but what force could three infants exert against the rigid metal?

Optimistic children that they were they had plonked themselves on the backs of the creatures and pretended to ride for all they were worth, whooping and giggling as if at Disneyland. Their smiles had been genuine, unlike the gargoyle faces of the freak show on the ride.

Undaunted they had been in the face of failure and it made me realise again how hardy and resilient children can be.

Not like today. Resilience is not what I see etched on her face. Sadness is there. And a hopeless realisation that life is not going to be the same after today.

I can hear their voices from here, yelling at each other while that little angel listens to the people she loves the dearest tear strips from one another.

I can hear the mother screaming at him to just get out, to let her get on with her life and leave her with the little one. But, he’s having none of it. He’s not so loud but I can make out his bass voice ranting in return.

Jasmine glances up at me and I smile kindly at her. What else is there for me to do? I can see her eyes glistening with tears from here even while she tries to adopt a stoic pose for my benefit.

Four years old. That’s all she is. For the four short years of her life she has listened to them haranguing each other on an almost weekly basis. The routine is always pretty much the same.

He comes home the worse for wear. Drink and drugs, I’m pretty sure. He’s not a particularly aggressive type, I don’t think. At least, not around the child. But, I have seen him lift his hand to the mother. He’s never yet hit her that I’m aware of but then I don’t see inside their house. I just hear from across the way.

He accuses her of all sorts of things. Just last week she fled into the yard from her house and he came after her, shouting that she was a slag and a whore. Well, God bless me, I don’t know where he gets these ideas from. That mother is always with Jasmine; playing with her, tickling her, reading her stories while they sit at the back door. She barely has time to wipe her nose let alone entertain anyone. And, if she had been, I would have noticed.

Not much gets by me. I’m always in the same position every day, watching the world go by. And it makes for a great alternative to television. Why, a few weeks ago, I was able to help the police with their enquiries, as they say. I had spotted the culprit as soon as he clambered over the wire fence at Jasmine’s back garden. Up to no good, I knew, straight away.

Every house had been in darkness except theirs and her father had sneaked out the back door to meet with the intruder. I had seen them exchanging packages. I’ve seen enough of the world and how it’s reported to know bad news when I see it. Idle men with nothing to do but push their nasty wares on an unsuspecting public.

One quick phone call was all it had taken. I was quite surprised at how quickly the squad car had arrived. They had been in through the garden gate and caught that man before you could say, bless me.

The no-good father, of course, had slipped back inside before they knew he was involved.

I’ve watched closely ever since, keeping a careful eye out, knowing that I’d catch him at it again.

And I did.

I don’t know why he’s roaming free after the information I gave the police. You’d think they’d have him locked up by now. I mean, what does a person have to say to get someone arrested?

Wasn’t it enough that he had been dealing drugs?

Obviously not.

Jasmine peeps up at me again and now there is no pretence from her to hide her tears. They’re rolling down her cheeks and her tiny shoulders are shaking.

Without even realising what I’m doing my hand snakes out to lift the phone receiver and I dial.

Even if I have to lie I will rid him from their lives. And I can lie.

Too many years I spent covering for the sins of my husband while he beat me. And my son watched. He watched the repeated show until he could watch no more. He’s inside now, serving a life sentence for patricide. That’s what someone called it. Murdered his father, he did. Everyone talked and looked at me, like I was to blame. And I was.

I hid away. But I watch every day, as the worst shows enacted are played out in real life. I do what I can to help now. And good riddance, is what I say.