When the wife leaves Without closing the door

In the shape of a tree,

my scar is painted with code.

Through the letting of blood, I wait

for the sound of my screams.

But what I do not plan for

is the mashed up sycamore spinners,

the trampled copper conkers

and the singed bramble bushes.

Graceless and broken,

I get high on the thoughts

of owning myself; the plumage

of starlings embroidered

on an intimate mind. 

running free

Climbing trees, juicy mangoes

pliant flesh and ashy elbows

to be running free through the long grass

and burrs sticking to legs, gaze widening

no thought for shiny brown skin

causing hate, no thought for others

just green

Englishness

white starched lace dress

sweat between breasts

so out of place it’s painful

at one time, just exotic plants

traced on paper, here

they touch their wide glossiness

English paleskins

burning red

intruders but still

the belief of ownership

I learn to watch, watch and learn,

to stay safe, to stay alive

I know them better than themselves

and yet I’m the primitive one,

the spicy savage

a transaction in their day.

All of Nature is Connected

In case you’re a kid who doesn’t have the right equipment,
and just in case you’re growing too big for your bones and
have to walk around in second-feet shoes,

take a moment to nestle in the autumn chilled grass,
lean in close, breathe in the slack conker smell and squint.
You might not have a magnifying glass but you can still

recognise kin. Ladybirds, beetles and ants.
Creatures of the earth. Overlooked and taken for granted,
caretake as you learn to nurture yourself into bloom.

The Situation is Ruined

The bride stays calm in her three tiered dress.
Pretending not to notice the munchkins
slicing into the her bodice or the gingerbread man
chewing on her trailing lace.

With each full toothed grin, she hopes she dislodges
the sharp prongs of scorn cutting
into her skull from her tiara.
Hopes she flicks off the droplets
of bloods staining her veil.

With the dark cloud gathering
and the guests running for cover
she stays at the altar, mouthing her vows
to love, cherish and grieve the little girl lost
and wasted on marzipan and sugared icing.

Compassion for all parties involved

In a gondola steered by a bunny with pink
ears and white feathered wings, I rest.

Serene and floating upon a turquoise body of water,
I keep my eyes closed, keeping out the light,

keeping out thoughts of failure.
Let me just drift into the unknown

where there may be green shoots to suck
and damp grass to tinkle my toes.

Who knows, what’s around the bend.
All I know; I’m wearing my favourite bow,

my rubber giraffe is sinking like a ship
along with my rocking horse of dreams.

Fear on the Playroom Floor

An oversized, blue fluffy bunny
is the things of nightmares.
Garish, stalks the playroom floor.

I hide behind the enlarged
building blocks, hands over ears and heart
busting my chest. Afraid

the bunny will hear me, find me
and beat me. Beat me for being me.
I didn’t do anything wrong.

I fear this fear. Not knowing
where the next blow from the taloned
paw is coming from and why.

Not knowing if my existence
is an affront or punishable offence.
I dream of other floors

with soft cushioned landings
blankets and warmth, like
under autumn leaves breathing orange.

A Million Tiny Sherees

I feel like I’m holding a million little Sherees
in my arms and each one with a need to be fulfilled.


I’m lost, not knowing what to do for the best,
who to listen to the first. All are fragile and in pain.

They’re little me’s at different times in my life.

The little puffy afro-ed toddler.
The dreadlocked housewife.
The first school bunchies kind of kid.
The jet black straight haired newborn.
The baldy divorcee.

Mini Sherees all making noise
vying for my attention, craving love
wanting to be seen and healed.

I’m afraid one will slip through my fingers,
or I’ll break the neck of another.
It’s a huge responsibility to carry myself
alone. And not allowing one single Sheree in.