In a post-truth world, who’s to say it’s not an accurate record? — A tale of forgetting and losing, rediscovering, then remembering why it was forgotten in the first place, but finishing it anyway. A year ago I came across a writing challenge that required me not to use my own words. Sounds like an invitation to plagiarise, but it wasn’t. Writer Somsubhra…

Intrigued by a prompt to write a poem based on whatever photos pop up in response to the word “poetry” on a photo-sharing site, I asked Pixabay for its “poetry” images and it gave me 6 full pages. Using them all would smack of ambitions to recreate the Iliad. I’ve…

There’s no limit to the lies people will… —

From opposite ends of the visible spectrum —

There’s nowt left to say —

Go wild to your own rules — If I take a poll of opinions I hold On the role that writing might play, They’ll differ by far like planet from star Dependent on time, mood, and day. Is writing the role for me and my goals? Or a wider perspective, smooth words or invective Designed to turn tides, make…

Winter days are short but winter skies make you take  time to stand and stare.

Mouth open, ears shut, mind closed — That question I was going to ask of you but didn’t, about the sounds of ideas Being tossed, turned, and clarified Promising to end in something special, more than they began. It was lost, not when the crow joined in Nor the rook, nor the jay But when they got…

What does it mean? —

There are other routes —

The difference between sending someone out and really knowing where they’re going — It starts early — the weekend ritual — a vibration through the dying hours of the working day. Ripples pulse outward, from the city centre through estates and villages, gathering momentum, ready to roar back in with the night. Dusk has yet to paint its first brushstrokes across the sky…

Pumpkins see the knife Not for long. It glints, moves close Then cuts their eyes out

The transformation of a landscape — The Plain of Holderness in the UK lies to the east of the huge Humber Estuary. I wanted to set a book there, but when rereading my notes from trips around the area I felt an undertow of a poetic cadence to what I’d written. …

Memories of childhood playgrounds — A place to go. Remember where? With cold, stone floor and dark, damp air. Remember? It wasn’t always there. Climbing up on the rafters high. A breath! Dust billows, thick and dry. The view’s not walking feet, but sky. Our childhood’s jungles all around. The disused quarry’s eerie sound. …

But high-fat fell to low in the morning — A writer I know of wrote ream upon ream of pandemic theme From virus dispersal To masks universal A saga from Melbourne to Cheam. When passing the baton this time And thinking up words that would chime He opted for buttery A word that is utterly Bereft of a partner in rhyme…

Oh… Nothing — There once was a prompt call to write About nothing — imagine my plight Words are my thing I don’t do zeroing And yet they still got me to bite. So I wandered along the big O Wondering just how far I could go I circled around With no stop to be found There’s…

From the right point of view, it’s simplicity… —

Tensions run high as Leo has serious concerns for his ears and Old Dog wilts under a heavy workload — Here I come, exploring this lovely new space. I’m looking for toys. I’m game for a race.

Tribute to a long time friend —

But it’s not what it seems —