The Way To Her Heart

Photo by Min An on

You can keep your flashy car

And generous bank balance

Your house on mansion row


She wants a poet to tell her

He loves her, by speaking to her

Of the moon and stars


She wants to hear endless poems

Of heartbeats and soul stirrings

Of sleepless nights full of yearning


She wants to be pursued

Not in bars or clubs or restaurants

But through the forest


Along paths only the two of them know

Ending up in the ramshackle cottage

They call home


It won’t be full of riches

But flowers, love, magic, books

And him


Keep your expensive jewellary

Your diamonds and pearls

Gold, silver, platinum rings


She wants daisy chains and blossom boughs

Seashells, acorns, fossils

Feathers he’s found


She wants ballads sung, and stories told

Of how they will always be together

And never grow old

Photo by Pixabay on

There’s more than a little touch of Beltane magic about this one, I think…Belated Beltane Blessings, all ❤

Resolution (Triolet)

Photo by Madison Inouye on

I hope to find what I have lost

And re-forge myself anew

Though mindful search incurs a cost

I hope to find what I have lost


A life to live, heart to defrost

A doubting mind to subdue

I hope to find what I have lost

And re-forge myself anew

I’m a little late sharing this as it was written, unsurprisingly, over New Year. One of my aims for this year is to practice writing different poetry forms, and step outside of my comfort zone. If I remember correctly, I might have tried writing a triolet only once before…

Who holds the keys to spring?

Photo by Hrvoje Abraham Miliu0107eviu0107 on


I long for mid-teen temperatures

A soft, gentle breeze

To beckon spring in

Watch winter leave


To blow out the cobwebs

Lighten the air

To chase away shadows

Paint all in spring cheer


With an artist’s palette

A perfumier’s scents

Swap grey slate for pastels

Spices for floral fragrance


The earth will warm and awaken

The sun strengthen and shine

Spring at last will settle

I do feel it is time


Written for: Weekend Writing Prompt #297 – Key | Word count: 71

A Patchwork Quilt of Words

Photo by Erik Mclean on

I sew bright scraps of words

Binding them together

With the threads of memories,

Hope for the future,

And handfuls of love.


So that whatever comes

You will be comforted

Beneath this quilted heirloom

Of words and wishes

Held lovingly safe

Here in my heart.

Musings from (or of) a Muse

Photo by Anjana C on
I try to keep her grounded
But her avian superpowers
     Mental flapping and fluttering
Resist the attempt

She dreams of spreading her wings
She wants to soar

Written for: Weekend Writing Prompt #275 – Avian | Word count: 29

Searching the Ruins

Photo by Pille Kirsi on
Piling up the rubble and sweeping the dust
I tidy the ruins
Of an anxious mind

Fractures in stonework
And shattered glass
Visible to be me but no-one else

There are ghosts here
Haunting memories of bygone days
Whispering words of judgement and doubt

The truth is different, I know
Smoke and mirrors distort and contort
Warp, bend and buckle what is, was and may be

They need these ruins as much as I
For without them
Neither of us would exist

So I dwell here in these echoes
Keeping company with shades
Ever searching for the fact in their fiction

Cold and Grey

Photo by Vlad Bagacian on
Give me the cold and grey
The picturesque monotone
Of a watercolour painting
Brush strokes in variations of
British weather

Enchant me with silver skies
Charm me with hard granite and rocky outcrops
Offer me storm clouds as love tokens
And downpours as a sign you're missing me
Give me the cold and grey

Written for Weekend Writing Prompt #264: Picturesque | Word count: 54

Sorta-Sonnets…can I write one?

You might have heard that over on Whispers and Echoes, we currently have a very special open call: Sorta-Sonnets from Guest Editor, Bartholomew Barker.

The call has been open for a few weeks now (and closes on the 24th June 2022), and since then I’ve been wondering if I am able to write one. Those who have been here a while will know I do try and write some poetry, mainly free verse, sometimes haikus. And I have been lucky enough to have had some of my poetry published. However, I have never in my life written a sonnet. But can I write a sorta-sonnet?

I’m going to try.

Bartholomew Barker explained in the submissions call post what the rules are for a sorta-sonnet:

  • 14 line poem
  • under 100 words
  • no rhyme

Nice. Simple. Clear instructions. And best of all, there’s no need to get to grips with a particular meter and rhyming scheme. It sounds do-able…

So here’s my first attempt at a sorta-sonnet:

Photo by James Wheeler on

These Words

I craft worlds out of words
That only exist in my head
These words build cities and
Grow gardens, make history as
Well as bake cakes
These words that create
Transform into people, with
Thoughts and actions all their own
And so my words become theirs
Or is it the other way around?
These words...their voices
My craft...their art
My daydreams...their adventures
All inside my head

The Power of Little Things

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You’ll find them in the liminal spaces

The cracks in the pavement

Where the sea meets the shore

Those places between

Here and there

Whispering words from another place

Where the dark gives birth to the light

Where dreams are born

Hope’s hunting ground

Where those who dwell in the margins

Unseen, unheard, unnoticed

Can make thunder with a single breath

And enchantment is carried on the wind

And rain drenches the land in blessing

Where songs are spells

Where paintings on cave walls

And carvings in stone

And drawings made in sand and soil

Tell tales of the future

Where emptiness, waiting to be filled,

Is the cauldron of inspiration

And a blink of an eye

Holds the secrets to all creation

Mysticism in the Mundane

I collect tea dust and biscuit crumbs

Letting them gather in the bottom

Of jar and tin

Like sacred ingredients for a magic spell I don’t know

Sometimes I stand and stare at these grains of mundane makings

For there is no awe there

Just puzzlement, mystification

One morning, with the dew still clinging to the leaves outside,

As the first rays of the sun are just beginning to enlighten my little world

I finally ask myself, “Why? What are they for?”

And I hear a voice soft and calm, like a rainfall of moon and starlight at midnight, whispering,

“Wait and see, my pretty, wait and see.”