Posted in Poetry

The Magician: an abra-cada-bra poem.

I’ve just joined a local writing group that meets virtually, once a week. The leader suggests a few different prompts for each meeting, one of this week’s being a ‘magical poem’ of three stanzas with the rhyming scheme abra-cada-bra. I do like a challenge so this is my contribution below. Some of you may recognise the inspiration for this poem, the flash fiction I wrote, also called The Magician. You can read that in my collection of short stories available on kindle.

The Magician

I sense the fear
When nights are dark
And listen for the slightest sound.
What do I hear?

A quick footstep
Is coming near.
Her perfume carries on the breeze,
A startled deer.

My instincts spark.
Her hands are bound.
I make the lady disappear.
Posted in Poetry


Mummy, there’s monsters!
They’re under the bed!
They wake up at night and they creep.
Darling, these monsters are all in your head.
Now be a good girl, go to sleep. 

But mummy, those monsters
ARE under the bed.
They have eyes that glow green in the dark.
Those monsters just live in the book that you read.
Go to sleep or tomorrow, no park! 

Oh mummy, I hear them
move under my bed.
They snuffle and whistle and tap.
My baby, that’s just the wind that you hear,
making your checked curtains flap. 

Mummy, I feel them!
They pull at my sheets,
and I wake up shivering and cold.
My love, that’s enough now, I’ve tucked you in tight.
Go to sleep, dear, please do as you’re told. 

They stink, mum! I smell them!
They whiff and they reek.
They smell like old pizza and eggs.
I think that’s the cheese that you ate before bed,
so lie down, love, stop moving your legs. 

But what if they come out
from under my bed,
and gobble me up where I lie?
My love, if they come out from under your bed
                with their glowing green eyes
                and their creeping and snuffling
                and whistling and tapping
                and pulling and reeking –

Why, darling, you surely would die!
Posted in Poetry

Don’t Talk to me About Life

I look back with nostalgia
To when fibromyalgia
Was merely a good score in Scrabble
When getting up from my chair
Did not make me swear
And I could keep docs away with an apple. 

When at night I could sleep
Pain would not make me weep
And I could stand for a while without crying
When I still had the power
Each day to shower
And not feel as if I were dying 

But times they have changed
And it still feels quite strange
To use a stout stick when I walk
To now not be able
To sit long at a table
Or call up a friend for a talk. 

My life’s getting smaller
You don’t need a scholar
To tell you I’m fed up and weary
It hurts to get crafty
And I feel like a daftie
When life gets me sad and get teary. 

I know things could be worse
But life feels like a curse
Like I did something bad in lives previous
I’ve racked up some bad karma
When I cursed out Big Pharma
And now taking my meds is quite tedious. 

The future seems dark
There is no vital spark
To let me see naught but more pain.
So, I’ll get up tomorrow
Try to tamp down my sorrow
And do it all over again 

and again and again and again…