Poetry

Picture Thinking

The mere mention of an object, hint of an idea, suggestion of a concept

and my mind has plastered it all over my thinking space:

magazine cut-outs, posters, video stills,

reels of film. Solid as the wall in front of me,

just behind my eyes. It’s odd that it’s invisible to you.

Elephants come charging in from The Jungle Book,

pink cousins visiting from Dumbo,

onyx bead eyes from a National Geographic photo I once saw

and a few others dancing around up there, with the word ELEPHANT

in grey, wrinkled lettering floating above their heads.

No one ever talks about how they think,

I didn’t realise this associative image gallery

wasn’t the norm.

Uncategorized

Pre-orders are up for The Origin Stone!

Hello everyone!

My latest book, The Origin Stone, is being released on March 31st this year!

theoriginstone_finalcover

Here’s the first page as a sample:

Part of the reason we moved was because of our animals.

Our old house wasn’t big enough for them, especially when we got our nanny goat, Mrs. Swanson, who wandered next-door one day and ate our neighbour’s washing. Unfortunately, the old bat came home early and saw the mess. Furious, she threatened to have her taken away from us. Ru, my older brother, attempted to ease her anger by explaining we’d named Mrs. Swanson after her, but it made the situation much worse.

For three tense months, we looked for houses big enough for us, but nothing was in our budget. Then Great Cousin Maggie died, leaving the house empty, and several weeks later when her will was being carried out, dad got a letter saying she’d left it to him.

We all thought it was unusual, seeing as dad hadn’t been in much contact with her, but we were desperate by then, and moved in without question. He and mum fell in love with it straight away. It’s big enough that she’s now got her own home studio, and dad’s client base has expanded dramatically. Even Ru loves it, giving him six acres of land to explore for his bug obsession, including the woods at the back of the garden.

I’m the only one that hasn’t taken to it yet, but Ru keeps suggesting the move just stressed me out more than I thought. I hope so. I don’t want my uneasiness to bring them down too.

The clock chimes in the hall, and our young crow, the Grand Vizier, who’s snoozing on his perch in the corner of the room, opens one eye and looks at me. I hold my arm out to him and he flies over, landing gently on my shoulder. I scratch behind his neck, relishing the silkiness of his feathers. “Ravenswell. Ravenswell,” he croons to me softly. I blink at him; that’s the name of the house.

“You learnt that already?” I say, holding up my bowl of noodles for him to snatch some as his reward. “Everyone else really is settled here, aren’t they?”

 

Pre-orders are now up, so if you’re looking for a new young adult read full of mysterious creatures, conspiracy, parallel worlds and a race against time, check out the link below:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NCD1DM4

Poetry

Visions

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

When you’re a creative,

full of ideas wider and richer

than the colour spectrum,

the question is always asked with curiosity and just a hint

of amusement, as if they know that somehow your dreams will be unattainable

even before listening

to what they are.

And then they will pretend, at first,

that they haven’t judged you.

They’ll smile and give an encouraging nod,

before injecting the poison

you thought your were immune to.

‘You won’t make any money doing that.’

As if dreams are valid only

if they make a jingle in your purse.

Doubt creeps in.

Are you sure that’s what you want to do?

It’s not worth anything. A waste of time.

A waste of you.

 

No.

 

No, you say,

reminded every day by other creatives

that doing what you love

is definitely worth something.

The fact that it puts a smile on your face

and makes your heart sing

is worth something.

You are worth something.

Maybe not in coin.

That can be attained in other ways,

part-time jobs to keep you fed and watered.

But to keep you alive,

to keep you you —

only listening to yourself will do that.

Claim yourself.

Say, ‘I am a writer.

I am a writer, and if the only person I write for is me,

then that is still fine.

I am a writer,

and I enjoy being me.’

Poetry

Twisted pence

It’s the twist that makes you jump,

makes you fidget, makes you squeak.

 

What’s this, what’s this, what’s this?

Turn the page, turn up the sound,

 

venture to the next checkpoint

and check in with yourself.

 

Is your pulse racing, your head perspiring

bumps on your arms like a goose?

 

Tick that box while your stomach’s in knots

and tip your hat to the creator.

Poetry

Brush faces

A woman stands, eyes intense, hair

in an up do, silver but young.

Gold pins mask dark shadows.

Next, her friend, tall, drawn,

slender with even more slender neck.

Plain face, ruddied with exertion.

Then, to the right, one with haughtiness

etched on her nose and the arch of her brows.

Black hair neat, pearls about her neck.

On the end, mouse hair with soft brush,

thin mouth that has been long silent,

and eyes wide as they are sad.

Poetry

Outside In

Her fingernails have grown into long yellow keys,

toenails rusted locks that refuse to open.

Her eyes are not windows into her soul,

but gateways to the outside of her circular thinking.

Cobwebs make up her thick woolens, and as she waits

on a black three-legged stool to be chosen,

she pulls a blanket of fog around her shoulders

to keep the dry out.

Weather complains that she is messing with his schedule again.

 

Poetry

A display at the exhibit

Twist it good,

squeeze the dye from the rag

and paint broad strokes

over their eyes.

 

Tease them, taint them,

make them crave

the taste of inking,

have them savour

the sharpness on their tongues.

 

Tempt them with

cherry-laced vinegar

that leaves a permanent stain

on white memory,

and finally gather

their multi-coloured tears.