Mostly a visual artist, frequently a poet. Not a novelist, however many times I attempt it, but I'm getting there.  I draw the things I don't have words to write about and I write the things I can't put into pictures.  Here's some of my work!

Myrtle’s Memorial

written at a Creative Future workshop at the Custard Factory on Monday 16 May 2016 in response to a strange blue painting of a box with what looked like three breasts, an extreme ‘outie’ tummy button and a rectangular slot… When they were writing her eulogy and designing her gravestone, her husband Fred insisted they be truthful about her. “Don’t make her out to be something she wasn’t!” he said, chopping chicken for sandwiches, “And be warned: I’ve asked Monty Overthrow to design her monument.” Monument? The children – Bill (fifty-six), Clare (fifty-one) and Everard (forty-six) – raised questioning eyebrows …Read more

A House – Midway Between Earth and Sky

TO TERRY written at a Creative Future workshop at the Custard Factory on Monday 16 May 2016 in response to a suggestion to imagine, then write about, such a house I thought of a house that hovered, with a stairway of vines anchoring it to a vast forest below and a stairway of clouds ascending to Heaven, then laughed at myself because that is where I live, in reality, in our little sanctuary on the third floor, where I go home to the one I love, and where we sit and talk, embrace, comfort each other, laugh till we cry, …Read more

From Pole to Pole

What Keeps Her Here She held on till the daffodils split their sheaths of green the flowers too large to have been so contained and then had to wait for the forsythia Goodness knows why They have such a horrid Yellow Like instant custard Next it was the lilac Her face in it, tickled, enchanted And so, before she knew it was her birthday and the roses, the red roses would not let her go demanding that she sit an hour or two admiring how they bloomed and seduced with perfume unlike any from a bottle Autumn! It must be …Read more

Fifty-five Years of Me

A life of Morse Di-di-di dee-dee-dee Of dots and dashes Less often, lying a full-stop Hunched, Holding an awkward position Against cushions that stab A Quasimodo I make of myself With a book or two or four or three Water and a headache pill Curtains heavy shut People-banning Angry with almost everything Or more often I race, a dash Through rooms With duster armfuls of laundry clean linen Polish windows, wash curtains Leave naked glass for the sun to rub against Sing, and smile, and shop online Cook delicious dinners Tagines with fresh apricots Almonds with horrendous little carbon footprints …Read more

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