stories over stuff
First up, the update. I’m not actively writing poetry. No real reason, only the odd poem here and there has been forthcoming and I’m working on a couple of other things like freelance writing, finding a new day-job and working on a story I’m going to read at an event next month. Having said that…
So I’ve fallen behind with National Poetry Writing Month. The first week went very well, but over the course of the last week, I’ve only written three poems. I’m not overly worried, while the aim is to write thirty poems in thirty days, in the past year I’ve found that adding extra pressure on myself…
National Poetry Writing Month started in 2003 inspired by NaNoWriMo. I’ve done both, won NaNoWriMo once though I don’t participate much anymore. I do participate in both NaPoWriMo every April and OctPoWriMo (October Poetry Writing Month) every year too. I am a poet at heart and have been writing poetry since I was seventeen. Not…
Over I am I am over none of everything I don’t doubt, I want to sing but no notes come out melancholy blues give way to hues on the lowest spectrum we can fathom with the human eye. I am not everything but I am also everyone honest lies and bad decisions, good mistakes and…
Sixty A Day Already so used to the smell of tobacco at six I barely notice it permeate every surface of her house every hair on her head, that always reminded me of Tina Turner. Tap, tap, tap, another butt in the tray, flick, flick, flame, another lit in her hand. It’s dark in my…
First the poem; Symbiosis I’m pressing forward with questions and hours minutes and answer whatever you have I need and I will push for more. In this I am honest if nothing else. Existence is purposeless if I am to do nothing. At least we are loved by the universe every cell and atom an…
I say crying is good for you a release of endorphins your mind and body sorely needs. It’s a lie. Crying hurts, his now more than mine, every tiny tear stings, and my head hurts and hear aches as if I were crying, same as when I am crying. With you, for you, over you,…
A peice of fiction about the women who manned the Anti-Aircraft weapons during WW2. It was late into the night but Gwen was still awake, listening to the thuds of the rain on the tin roof of the dormitory. Staring straight up all she could see was the empty bunk above her. Molly was curled…
All opinions are my own and do not represent anyone else. Not even the cats.
