Blind Ripples

The time will come, as sure it must,

When flesh and bones return to dust.

Ere this happens to mine state

I challenge life, what may await

Round corners I have yet to veer,

On roads and paths that I must steer

As true to self as I can be

While hurting none as best I see.

The trouble with my self-direction,

Modus operandus, introspection,

Is, I can’t see what acts I do

May taint the world for me and you.

I struggle on as blind man feels,

Alerting senses to what’s real,

Believing that my ripples cast

May count for something that could last

Into eternal consciousness

And, somehow, one day I’ll be blessed

By loving light that comforts soul,

Suffuses dark when all is told

In story of my life on earth,

That task completed had some worth.


Blog Tour

A very fine poet, Paul, a master with words and imagery, invited me along on a blog tour. I’m chuffed to bits that he reads my blog and makes lovely comments.

Now, I also feel a bit guilty because Ali invited me on a blog tour a wee while back and I agreed and then didn’t follow through on my side of the tour. My bad. But, here I make it up to her and, hopefully, send lots of new readers to these two wonderful bloggers. Both write fabulously well, leave me standing at the starting gate, so to speak. So I’m delighted that they each extended the invite and urge you to check them out.

This is my absolute favourite of Paul’s. I had to read it over and over again and eventually made a reading of it for my own pleasure. It’s a wonderful piece of work.

Ali’s writing is so often full of humour and this one appeals to the teacher in me and the love of a fine anecdote expressed just so.


The three questions I am to consider are these.

Why do I write what I do?

How does my writing process work?

How does my work differ from other genres?

 These questions  certainly got me thinking about how and why I write and when it all began. So I penned this. With a pen!


Poetic infancy, I guess,

began with a doodle,

a scribble on page,

just a mark

till letters’ formations

revealed their delight,

their sensory quality,

their spark.


Like moth to the flame

of the pencil and pad,

to the ink draining

out from the pen,

I scribbled and drew,

no clue what to do

but still the flow

raptured and then


I found out in books,

those worlds in the pages,

what magic

an author creates,

I gloried in them,

hid out in my den

while kids danced and larked.

My fate


was to wonder at words,

their meanings, their source,

to be spellbound

by even their spelling,

to capture each one

how they’d become,


their secrets concealing


in Latin, in Greek, all the words that we speak,

in the French, in my own mother tongue,

I found that one word

may erupt as I think,

while feelings

course from

my lifeblood

to ink.


In angst of my teens,

I defined all my dreams

in writing,

who I was, the why of existence.

Years charted of life,

senses refined,

thoughts penned, but

only for my own subsistence,


to reveal who I am,

what I feel, what I think

how my mind

plays tricks in the light,

I wrote for myself,

filed the pads on the shelves,

opened new,

wrote into the night.


Till one day in June,

of two thousand thirteen,

at behest of my brother,

I clicked

on WP’s pages,

typed up some old stuff,

and haven’t looked back.

What a dick!


I now feel to have been

so shy to reveal

with the family of all

who love words

my offerings today,

as I make my own way,

not in forms recognised

but in floods


of joy that I’ve found

in expressing myself,

in floating, eyes gazed

to the sky,

that nothing is worse

than a tongue if it’s cursed

to a silence

that tells its own lie.


Now you’ll be sorry you asked

for a blog tour from me

‘cos bugger!

I just don’t do brief

but that’s just my style,

I’ve tried haiku and twitter

but syllable/character counts

feel like thieves,


reducing outpourings,

that I have to confess,

just splurge like

waterfall’d blurbs,

all the A’s and the B’s

right through to the Z’s –

no process –

just a huge love of words.


And pens and paper.

A bit of a fetish actually!



Why do I write what I do? Because I have to, always have.

How does my writing process work? Like a waterfall.

How does my work differ from other genres? Not a bloody clue! And don’t, frankly, care. They’re all words.


I’d like to invite a few others to this blog tour whose work I admire.

Cole, whose eloquence in words and thoughts on life and meaning entrance me.

She’s coming to Glasgow in September so we’re going to have a good old natter about politics and music and life. Over a couple of glasses of vino, of course. Looking forward to it, Cole!

I only came across this blogger recently and he has quite a distinct style that I really must try in that his poetry is prose is poetry.

Daniel at

Now there are so many more I could mention whose blogs and words I love. But I figure you’ll have more than enough marvellous reading material when you visit Paul, Ali, Cole and Daniel.

Do Tell

There’s a wide-eyed wild woman in my house this morning. I’ve met her before and given her short shrift on my way out to work. My husband commented on her presence this morning with the words, ‘What time did you come to bed last night?’

‘Late’ is a perfectly valid time on the writer’s timepiece. It is just vague enough to have been reasonably early or heading for the hay as the birds twitter.

I wasn’t that late last night/this morning. But, good grief, I have to get this writing malarkey under control. Truth be told, I don’t really want to because too many years have passed wishing for just such dedication. And now that I’ve found it I’m scared to jinx it by being too controlling.

And I’m not so hot on the discipline thing anyway with regard to certain activities. I know myself well enough for that. I would have made a lousy soldier. I prefer to rely on impulse and compulsion in some areas of my life. Too much of it is dictated to by routine and rote. So, sensory pleasures must be allowed to flourish whenever possible. A more regimented routine is difficult to imagine at the moment.

But when I viewed myself, looking and feeling somewhat like a vampire – all white-faced and red-eyed seeking a good blood source for a much-needed feed, I have to consider whether I’m not neglecting my health in the name of the written word and thoughts.

So, I have to make some sort of effort to exert some discipline and self-control and rejoin the land of the living. But I don’t know how to switch it off without switching it off! Up too late writing, then thoughts disturbing my sleep. And hubby’s, I’m told. I’ve always talked in my sleep. Apparently, now, I also knock hell out of folk!

No selfies on this one but think Macbeth and three crones. I’m not Macbeth. But Shakespeare must have had a peephole into my future when he wrote that one. Maybe that’s why it was set in Scotland.

What do others do? Give in and go with the flow glad to be pouring forth on paper words that might never see the light of day anyway? Take pad and pen everywhere? I already do that. Try for a timetable? Take up running? I hear that’s good for keeping the thoughts flowing while getting fresh air. But that’s hubby’s love and I didn’t like it when I tried it. More than once, I might add, to give it a fair crack.

The weather’s picking up so maybe garden writing like last year. Sun and words, a wonderful combination. But it’s so hit and miss yet. And I can see clouds rolling in from here. I’ll never make my first year blogging anniversary at this rate. And I don’t like the coffin look. So do tell.