08 September 2016

Last Man Standing

When there is no one left, 
And you are the last man standing,
When the battlefield is littered 
With the dead.
When there is no one left to watch 
As the dying sun dips under
The horizon, 
And you are tormented by the silence;

Sing, as the moon rises. 

20 August 2016


am new. Rediscovered. 
Found in your words, your sweet attentiveness - your lust for life. 

I am wild, soft, and so alive, in the arms of your thoughts, that stark, masculine poetry, the hours that you seek me, again and again... 

I am woman, mind, body and soul, gentled by your strength, and yet so savage in the dark of your need. 

For Only Me

It is always joy. 
I see his face and I am glowing, aching from not having smiled in joy for so long. 

For a time, I can be lost, naked, and burning, 
wrapped in the softness of his words; 
I am deaf to all else but the tenderness of 
that touch. 

A poem, made for me. 
Made for only me.


It's like a dark corridor, no doors, no lights, 
and all you can hear is the sound of your own footsteps. 
Just the constant soft tread as you walk alone, 
down the same, long corridor. 
Over and over again, until it feels like you're walking on the spot. 
Nothing changes. Except you. 

A Girl and Her Guitar

Sometimes I think I went a little too far,
From everything that used to be      
A girl and her guitar;
Ridin' with the wind, a Little Wing,
A Highway Chile,
Just playing my way down 
The long and lonely mile,
And carrying nothing with me,
But my guitar, my heart and my smile.... 

In A Word

Soft simple words. 
As though the words that he used were to touch my skin, 
the same gentleness of his hands, his caress, his lips.. 
A slow-burning desire that, in moments, broke apart walls that had taken years to build....

03 July 2016

On A Shelf

And when the time came
That they were no longer needed,
She wrapped up her affections 
In soft silk and ribbon,
And put them quietly away
Next to the shoebox of postcards 
From nowhere,
And the Scrabble box 
With six letters missing. 

12 May 2016

For Love

Of all the roles I have had to play,
My favourite was, his woman. 
To be the softness that was the core of his heart,
To be the shore upon which he was the wave,
To be the comrade in arms in his battles,
To be the humour of his darkest days,
To be the hand that sought his in comfort,
To be the body that he utterly possessed,
To be the soul of the poem he wanted to write,
To be the tears he could not weep.
For the wars and the bloodshed were relentless,
And the end was nowhere in sight,
But in my arms and soft songs, he could rest,
In my dreams, he could take flight. 
It is an art to love one who wants loving,
Than a love who wants to be rescued. 
It is a dream to be loved by a man with a mission. 
It is an infinite sorrow for the dream to end. 

Yet honour is short in supply, 
And for honour, he left my side. 
But for love, he made no excuses, 
And for love, would have made me his bride.