Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day, mum
This poem is for you today
Just relax, sit on your bum
I’ll tidy up while you stay

You’ve always been there
Like any good mum should
Forever showing you care
Even when I wasn’t good

Now I’m to be a mother too
And I’m scared I won’t do well
But as long as I just copy you
It will all be fine, I can tell

So I really just want to say
Thank you for all your love
And for showing me a way
To make a child feel enough


Sonnet #7 – Realisation

Just when I thought that it had all ended
That my heart couldn’t take anymore of you
When I was past the point of being mended
I never expected us to pull through
But when I lay on that hospital bed
With you sat beside me on that hard chair
The nurse with the scanner pressed onto me said
If we look at the screen we’ll see our child there
Silently gazing at the life we had made
A tiny flicker showing the beat of it’s heart
And in this moment out arguments fade
It won’t be long until parenthood starts

In that life changing second we know it’s enough
To ignore all our problems and give you our love

10 weeks and 2 days old


72 days
and all you know is the home I’ve made for you,
the warm and comforting suspension
that is your place within me
1728 hours
and even though it’s such a tiny amount of time,
for all the people waiting to meet you,
it must be an eternity to you
103,680 minutes
and you’re only just starting to grow little fingernails,
even though I could almost fit you
entirely onto one of mine
6,220,800 seconds
and you’re changing my entire life drastically now,
we count the days until you’re here
so we can give the rest to you

My Bedroom

If you were to visit my bedroom
(don’t get my intention wrong,
now this is purely hypothetical)
you would probably assume
that this little space must belong
to a boy or man, any male at all.

Take in the various posters up,
Ezio Auditore looking cunning
in various poses and positions.
The image of an xbox on a cup.
DVDs stacked, dangerously leaning
against a book of gaming missions.

Let your curious eyes glide over
the impressive pile of games
beside a TV too big for the room.
Depicting violence on the cover,
war, fighting and anger in the names,
and an obvious sense of doom.

Notice the calendar on the right?
Just beside the hanging keychain
of the Assassin’s Creed logo.
The man in yellow, Walter White,
staring at the camera in disdain,
giving the room a masculine flow.

The only way you’d ever guess
that this room houses a girl,
would be if you hunted around.
Try to get past all the mess,
open some drawers to unfurl
the femininity that makes no sound.

The Place Where I Grew Up

It’s just a building

Two floors of tiny rooms

Two doors that have been slammed too often

Two bedrooms that captured our dreams

One lounge that’s seen a lifetime of fights

One kitchen with cigarette-browned walls

One bathroom that’s seen enough use

A garden to escape in

Three baby girls growing and learning within it

It sheltered us from the outside

Making the inside more intense

It’s witnessed teenage rebellion and skiving off school

The shock of a pregnancy in a daughter too young

The birth of a granddaughter and niece combined

Blazing arguments

Love and support

Temper tantrums

Giggling fits

Sibling rivalry

Sisterly love

Rebelling authority

Never ending help

That pile of bricks and mortar topped with a roof

Sat amongst others just like it

In such an unremarkable street

Holds together all that is our family

Contains a mass of memories

That no one else could appreciate

It’s not just a building

It will forever be a home

Be My Adair

Send me a hand-written letter

On an old posh parchment,

That’s thirsty for the ink

You’ve dipped onto your quill.

So I can trace the indents

That your pretty scratchings

Have made on an ancient page.

Send me to see your tailor,

So he can flutter around me

Armed with a tape measure,

Muttering various lengths

At his harried looking assistant.

While I finger all the silks

Holding colours against my skin.

Take me on a trip with you.

Have one of the footmen

Load our heavy luggage up

Into the carriage that horses pull

Across quiet cobbled streets,

To a quaint harbour, boat awaiting.

Because planes don’t exist.

Take me to your bed at night

And show me a whole new world

That exists between your sheets.

Open my eyes to desire.

Teach me the art of seduction.

Break all of the taboos

That have kept me in check.

Tell me tales of your past.

The whole century of it.

Don’t leave out any details for me,

Don’t spare me the violence

Or the twisted way you are.

And most of all don’t forget

That I’m the Lanore to your Adair

This is a sort of tribute to my favourite character in my favourite novel. Adair, from The Taker, by Alma Katsu. Not for the faint-hearted.

Falling Out of Love

I wonder how many times
I’ll write a poem about this,
finding words to be blended
together into relevant rhymes.
Describing whether I’ll miss
you now that we’re ended.

It seems to happen so often.
A relentless assault on what
is already a very delicate heart.
I swear that nothing will soften
the pain you’ve caused, a lot.
That we will forever be apart.

But then I feel a weakness
deep inside me, spreading out
and I admit, as I always do,
that life without you is a mess.
You could never resist my pout
and promise our love is true.

It breaks my heart to admit,
that this time it’s all changed.
The weakness hasn’t come
and I know that I can make it.
I don’t feel lonely or deranged,
in fact I’m the opposite of numb

It’s altered my point of view.
I won’t pretend I haven’t cried,
but this feeling isn’t enough
to make me ever go back to you.
And that’s the moment I realised
that I’ve actually fallen out of love.

It’s Not Enough, Not For Me

“Yeah I get it, I’m a dick, as always”
he says, following my brief comparison
of him and a character in a book I’m reading.
Lanore and Jonathan, lovers never to be,
her undying devotion to him
just as strong as his indifference to her.
I tell him he doesn’t understand,
that’s not the point I’m trying to make.

“No, I do understand, you always paint me
to be the bad guy, someone that you have
to just put up with. You want admiration.
You want people to think you deserve more.
You want to exist in a reality that doesn’t exist.
This is real life. I am me, you are you.
Deal with it.”

I follow up with a Shakespeare reference.
Sonnet 130 to be exact, I don’t write about
him in what others would consider a loving way.
I don’t list his perfections and beauty and
all the things I adore about him.
Nor do I compare him to unrealistic things.
The point of my writing is that I love him
for every tiny detail of his being.

“Stop it. Don’t you see? You’re doing it now,
comparing life to the writings of others.
You can’t hide behind beautiful words.
You can’t live in a world that you’ve crafted,
of various ideas and dreams.
Why can’t you just settle for this?
Why can’t you be happy with what we have?
This reality? This meaningless existence?
Why do you feel the need to search
for the meaning of everything around you,
for a depth that isn’t there,
a secret that doesn’t exist.
Why can’t this life just be enough?”

And I have no response.
Not even a reference to call upon.
A quote from another’s brain.
I stare blankly as he shakes his head
and walks away.

Ode to My Bump

My love for you is never ending;

unconditional, you must know.

I’ve only seen you on a screen,

but love is real even for the blind.

At the moment you seem to bring

mood swings of highs and low

and occasionally I have to lean

against your father until I find

my balance; my head spinning

with a sudden overwhelming blow

of sickness that can only mean

I need to make up my mind

on whether the loo is the thing

closest or if I can quickly go

into the kitchen that’s so clean

I’d feel like I deserve to be fined.

Sometimes I could just sing

and it still wouldn’t show

just exactly how I am keen

to hold you before mankind.

But first of all I need to wing

my way through not seeing my toes,

heartburn that tempts a scream,

an exhaustion of it’s own kind,

uncomfortable hours not sleeping

and telling myself, even though

I love you, my king or queen,

right now you’re a pain in the behind!