Unleash the Imagination
As a writer, my passion for poetry has grown over the years and led me to create compelling works that capture the essence of the rhythms and seasons of human experience. I invite you take a moment to explore my portfolio, and collection of poems to discover the stories, experiences, observations, and themes that have inspired me to write.
I am intentional
about sharing my work
Because
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I believe we need poetry more than ever to heal and inspire, to tell the fragmented narrative of our days, and to express what would otherwise be inexpressible.
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I believe that everyone should write because writing is experiential, soothing and sensual, and softens the path on which we walk.
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I believe every act of kindness and every kind word written is like a tiny drop of water returning to the sea that will become one ocean of peace.
Samples from My Collection
The Knitted Doll
I remember that knitted doll
With an exquisitely lovely
Face who sat at the end of my
Bed and who, despite her torn frock
And wool strand hair, that refused to
Be combed, I was eager to love.
Then in June, after a heat-rash,
The Doctor came and said I had
Scarlet Fever and when I was
Better, he pointed to the doll
And said it must go because of
Infection. And, before we could
Kiss or even say “Good-bye,” my
Sweet smiling doll, that I had loved
Unconditionally, was
Bundled with blankets and sheets and
Thrown away; but I will always
Remember her beautiful smile,
Her exquisitely lovely face
And her being there when I was ill.
Suddenly
I hear Bird Song
What do I call these ocean colours
When the night-time lingers and the days
Begin with shades of grey? I listen
To the air around me hoping it
Will tell me something but, like the
Ocean, it tells me nothing of what
The day ahead is going to be.
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Then, suddenly, I can hear bird song,
Pretty little chirruping, rolling
In on waves and a clean surge washes
Over me and I realize that,
When the light unfolds, after the long
Lingering night, there are many shades
Of colour, far more brilliant than
Before, like a rainbow reflected
In a blaze of light across the sky.
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Vagrant Man
Only single buds will burst their
Skins and green the tree where the fields
Once were, with deep rooted thistles,
Buttercups and clover. Only
The scarecrow, that vagrant man with
A glint in his eye (that’s neither
Friendly nor harsh) will loiter by
Flats being built in the fields where
He stood all day long keeping watch.
People forget the scent of late
Summer, as it fades in the fields,
And shades of green in the hedgerows.
But the single buds that burst their
Skins, that green the tree will catch the
Eye of the vagrant man who will
Look up and say, “People need homes
And I’m going there – I’m homeless
Now and I’ve done my time on the land.”