Seahorse baby.

I’ll be your seahorse, baby.
your long eye lashes,
cheeky chubby cheeks
flirtatious dances; hide and seek.

I’ll be your seahorse baby
I’ll carry your eggs
I’ll sing to you darling,
you just lay down your head.

Put down your worries
put away your woes,
cause I’m cooking
a big batch baby.
You just watch me go.

We’ll have a Josh, Jemima
and a Peter too.
A Roger, Rebecca
a little baby Roo. A Mai
a Mia and a Maya, too.
All the must have names
in tank twenty two.

Look I’ll be your seahorse baby,
I’m your number one, I’ll hold you
darling, till we're all done.

Flat pack

A flat pack version of my former self,
lying in a pile, one screw missing.
Two point five children, searching for instructions
lost somewhere along the way. Me waiting
disassembled, what fits where, who knows?
Screwdriver resting in dusty drawers, lost.

No longer wild and free, I wander, lost
inside a regulated rectangle, willing myself
to speak up, while his allen key pokes me. I know
what he’s trying to achieve, but parts are missing.
Is anyone looking, rummaging for me? I lie waiting
praying someone, somewhere finds the instructions.

‘I won’t be dictated to by instructions,’
my husband claims. Once lost
now found, at the computer. Me waiting,
stuffed under the bed, a flat version of my self.
No-one has really noticed I’m missing
A faded impression of what I once knew.

Memories made from mdf, he knew
what was promised, intricate instructions
to hold me together, forgotten, missing.
Fighting through a foreign language, he’s lost.
I admit I have with-held myself
lying still, coded and cold, waiting.

He strokes my silky soft surface, waiting,
fingers fondle my lengthy legs, I know
what comes next, I’ll finish myself
off later. Part A fits part B, old instructions
are followed. Feigned ignorance looses
appeal, as once again the final piece is missing.


My cheeky Chippendale is missing
that fantasy is cracked at the edges.
I’m left with a bit of rough, splinters, waiting
to be removed. I haven’t completely lost
faith that my stripper will come, I know
he’ll smooth me away from here. Instructions
won’t be needed, I’ll please myself.

First Day Blues

Mr Teacher standing tall
fearsome guardian of pens.
You tower above me
mere parent of Liberty.

Mr Teacher by the door
blessed with a generous gift.
Not an apple it's true but
she's precious with eyes of blue.

Mr Teacher so out of reach,
can you see? She gazes up
at your hardened face.
Should I leave her in this place?

Mr Teacher, key in hand
will you help her mind expand?
Or will she become an absentee
my small daughter, my Liberty.

Volcanic Veins

Realise the release I crave
alone with a blade.
Words fired at me,
magma travelling
through volcanic veins.

Sat here in the heat of the sun
your eyes glint metallic grey.
Sharp and unnatural.
Learn to look away,
interrogation is ugly.

Your voice, nails on a blackboard.
I watch boiling blood under my skin,
pressure building
from the noise,
of your lecture.

Gaining in momentum
demanding freedom.
Heat,
building up
all over my body,
needs to get out.

Heart pounding,
I panic,
as my jumper slips,
skin exposed.
One day you’ll notice
scars from my
careful carving.

Sometimes I’m scared
that you won’t.

Public Cancer

Her hair
shaved off
her womb
cut out

Smile strapped on
media flashes
bounce off
her naked scalp

Community spirit
shines a blinding
light in her eyes

Camera vultures
hover and swoop
poising to rake over
the pickings
of her bones

Three Time Goddess

Smooth bare back, nipples lie dormant,
rose buds awaiting sunlight.
Tentative clouds float by, cool air circles.

New moon emerges.

You approach me, dressed in white
pure and clean; snowdrop
after the darkness of winter.

Crescent moon sheds light.

Limbs expectant, full with
experience. Breasts bountiful,
providing sustenance.

Full moon smiles down.

You embrace me, moist,
fecund. Lily in summer sun
nourishing nectar, glistening.

Waning moon retreats.

Saggy wrinkled, deflated sacks,
swinging low. Weighed down
with cold wisdom.

Darkened moon.

You hover behind me, awaiting my fall.
Cover me, with your story blanket,
a place to leave my skeleton leaves
dry, dusty, comforting.