The Frost Maid (a mid-winter tale)


Born perfectly formed one cold, cold night

her crystalline features sparkled in the early light

Her beauty stole my breath

my warm air dying in the cold that dawn

my warmth melting into the ice clad ground


My heat is gone

taken by the frozen one who stole my heart

I tried to give her my warmth

to no avail

Her heart was made of ice


She took my breath and my warmth

it made no difference to her, but oh so much to me


I grow cold

so, so cold

Lost to this frozen landscape

the crystals forming over me

I am cold now

cold and ice

no heat left in me

She stole my all


Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will start to thaw this earth

Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will melt her frozen heart

Perhaps one day the sun will rise

will melt her heart and soul

 Perhaps one day the sun will rise


But it will be too late for me



Sometimes (a poem)

Sometimes the bravest thing I can do is to walk down the stairs.

You probably don’t realise that,

as you charge down behind me,

only to be slowed by this healthy-looking woman hugging the handrail as if her life depends on it.

“What was with her?” you might ask

as I reach the ground and hit my stride, taking off across the safe flat land.

You can’t see inside me

You don’t know what’s in my head

Six years ago it happened

A momentary lapse

A sudden change of life

Six years ago

I slipped on the stairs.

I bruised my butt

And I bruised my brain.

They call it post-concussion syndrome

Fancy words for what happens when your brain bounces inside your skull

Officially, I have fully recovered.

I am  healthy and normal

All my readings are fine

(as if I were ‘normal’ before)

When they assess your brain after a concussion there is no benchmark to who you were before… that was never tested. You’re ‘normal’ and ‘healthy’ if you fit the medically proven range…

(it doesn’t matter who you were before

you’ll never be that person again anyway)

Six years have passed, and I have apparently healed.

I function well.

You might never guess I’ve been severely concussed

(some scars can’t be seen)


don’t ask me to ceilidh dance, or lie down flat on the floor, or spin around a lot



don’t ask me to rush down the stairs.


Turn up at the page

Or ‘a note to remind myself’


Sometimes the words flow like water.

Sometimes they stick in the fingers, defying all efforts to force them out.

Turn up at the page.


Sometimes Awen flows like rivers, flooding the soul with inspiration.

Sometimes there is a drought.

Turn up at the page.


Sometimes the muse visits.

Sometimes she is delayed elsewhere (perhaps stuck in traffic).

Turn up at the page.


Sometimes the keyboard glows with meaningful words.

Sometimes the blank screen glares accusingly.

Turn up at the page.


Sometimes every word feels effortless.

Sometimes no words come, however hard the struggle.

Turn up at the page.


Whether the words come easily,

Whether the pen runs dry.

Turn up at the page, my friend.

Turn up at the page.


Re-blog: Year 2: Day 36 – Salad Bar

I love this poem by Charlotte Cuevas – it is one of my favourite poems. It sticks in my brain with good humour and keeps me thinking…

Little Pieces

don’t invite friends
to a salad bar.

What kind of bar
is that?

After we’ve been sitting around
pouring our hearts out
about the unfair standards of clothing sizes
and the outrageous expense
of gym memberships
and society’s expectations
for what our bodies should look like
and putting flavors in our water bottles
to make ourselves drink more
and we’re trying to teach our kids
about loving themselves
no matter their size

it’s just exhausting.
And we deserve donuts,
I believe.

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Re-blog: Year 2: Day 123 – Permission

These are mostly definitely words worth mulling over… and perhaps even (gasp!) acting on…

Little Pieces

Don’t ask me if they’re any good,
the words you pressed into my hand-
I can’t give you permission.

I can tell you if your package is presentable,
and in what manner it was received-
but will you still give lopsided gifts
with crooked bows
if I tell you they are?

A magazine can tell you if you’re lucrative,
and it might sing like heaven to hear it
or sting like hell-
but will you still work for free if they tell you
you’re not worth a cent?

Have you not earned the right to speak
by being alive and having something to say?
And if I tell you to write because I think you should
would you write what I wanted to hear?

You must give yourself permission
because the rest of the universe already has-

What flower hasn’t died for you to stand there wavering,
waiting for permission…

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Living poetry

“Let yourself become living poetry” Rumi

What would it take me to do this?

What changes would I need to make to live this way?

How can I let go and let the poetry flow?

Pondering the empty page

Pondering the empty page,

Wondering what to write,

Thoughts fly through my head

Too fast to capture.

Oh, to have wings to fly

Or feet fleet enough

To catch them…

Instead I sit

And dream.