Two Poems

Two Poems Featured in Bourgeon Online

Click on the link above to go directly to Bourgeon online to see these poems


2. No Cinderella

Many thanks to Gregory Luce for publishing my poems with Bourgeon.


The Boy With The Poison Pen.



The boy with the poison pen.

He visited as I slept
last night,
the boy 
with the
poison pen.

I thought I felt
a lonely spirit
watch us
follow us
in the woods
that day.

I tried to
leave him behind
but he clung onto
my chakra strings
and as I can be a magnet
for lost and broken things

he did not have to work hard
to suddenly jump in
while I slept
with his lethal inkwell
made from the juice
of a poison bluebell.

he pierced my lips,
tried to stitch them,
filled me with poison ink
so i couldn’t move

or speak
or think
as he smiled
with black teeth
and dusty naked feet

when he laughed
and said he wanted to
take my little boy
I fought the numbness
and dumbness

and I howled.
and I fought
and I roared
and I cursed
until I woke myself up
and I said ,

Boy,give me your cries
your hurts
your wounds
let me wrap them in
fresh leaves and
bury them
where the oak tree
reigns and guards
all who enter
your woods,

let me cry
your tears,
let me soften
your screams
so you don’t have to
jump into other souls’ dreams.

and then,
the boy with the poison pen
fell to the floor
and began to write
with his pen,
as I fell back to sleep
praying the dream
would soon end.

on my wooden floor
the words,
thank you,
greeted me
when i woke up
and a bunch of bluebells
lay sorrowfully
on my pillow

my lips were no longer stitched
i could move, walk and talk
and I sang him
a soft lullaby
under the last
flicker of light
of the moon,

and I heard him
laugh and sing
“ I am free now
as my pen
ran away with
your spoon”
Y’s Words 2017

Published in Blue Nib Magazine Halloween 2017

(Image from pinterest , “Memento Mori” by KimDingwall)


Meet Me.



Meet me.

Meet me at
the edge of the world
where earth merges with water
where green trees hang easily
staring at their reflections
in still faery mirrors
as they hold a space
for lovers like us
to hold hands
to hold hearts
to hold on,

and they drop
their favourite leaves
like pebbles into the lake
to celebrate
the loving promises
we will make
as my flower painted
hand you take,

Y’s Words July 2018

Photo: taken from Celts fb page and shared with me by Jennifer Shelby and it inspired me to write the poem.


the bowl of shamrock


A day for remembering

those who left our shores ,
those who carried loss and heart break to other lands ,
those who built new worlds with hopeful hands , 
those who never left their green island ,
always stayed at home ,
the many branches that have grown
from one small Goddess tree, ,
those who sailed on boats to be free ,
the battles won or lost, inside and out,
our ancestors and our roots,
the buried ivy lies ,
the bitter shamrock truths.

Ys Words 2018 (c)

Swan Drops



Whoever named snowdrops
obviously had never seen a swan.
I remember thinking this
as a child but I told no one,

today, one white head
stared silently at my
struggle, as if stretching
on Brigid’s cross, wing-like,

on February’s first day of wind
I fought to put clothes pegs on
blowing white bed sheets
on the clothes line.

swan drop nodded,
swan drop smiled
she hangs her whites
more graceful
than mine.

This poem was read by Tamara Miles on her radio show Where The Light Most Falls on Spirit Plants Radio. on Feb 25th 2018.