BRoken PoeTry


windows smashed upon the floor

jostling, dancing

trodden into

Swept up

off my feet

glassy splinters




Poetry can be a motley collection of words and phrases

Swept up into an image with nerve endings – and yet is it sense-less?

What about smell? Sound? Taste?


Broken – a symphony/cacophony of icy screams, cut short

windows smashed upon the floor – dark mahogany, stained with salty sweat

jostling, dancing – pounding bass vibrates my bones

trodden into – whiff of sour alcoholic breath

Swept up – the music recedes and light fills my room

off my feet – your perfume; a knockout

glassy splinters – entering, piercing, lost within

needle-sharp – attention | focus | concentrate |split

pain – ambient temperature, punctuated with white-hot light


Link to a soothing poem (yet to come… do you have one?)

Here is one I found; or did it find me?


Crying really deep down inside
tearing the core out
and staring at the worms in horror
how did they get there?
Spit out what is left over
and wash away the bitter aftermath
with tears

dark and locked in a dungeon
dry, dusty, and voiceless

Like the long stretch of barren beach
before the tsunami overwhelms
I drown in waves of sorrow
that flood my rumpled face

silently stain
as they release the pain
pent-up behind dam walls.

I crumble
and fall

and remember it all.

Cascade Poem

He melted hearts
He wanted the love
I wanted to give

Wide eyes saddened
Chin wrinkled in earnest
He melted hearts

Tears welled and spilled
tiny hands clenched
He wanted the love

My heart broke in itty-bitty pieces
Each piece fed him the love
I wanted to give


The first stanza holds the last lines for each following stanza… Fight to Write!

I probably took an hour to write this. It took seven attempts to get something that was even vaguely serious. I had to get off the computer and scrawl on a large piece of paper. I drew a picture of the structure to get it into my mind. Then filled the structure with nonsense, to find out what I didn’t know. Then came up with a formula. Filled in the formula with nonsense. Then made a serious attempt and did some editing to paint the picture smoothly.

My daughter looked at Ace Baker’s poem and wrote a four-line set of stanzas, straight off, awesome, in a matter of minutes. (See it on her blog, Radioactive Eyeball) My son grumbled about having to do poetry, carefully looked at and analysed Ace’s poem, and wrote a three-line set, awesome, in a matter of minutes, and posted it at Shaquin’s Blog. Am I feeling less than awesome? YES!

I enjoy figuring out the structure of things, and sorting out a formula.

I enjoy creating pictures – I turn off the rest of my mind, and things flow easily.

Doing this stuff? Is like paddling against the flow of the whitewater. It almost rips my arm off.

Short-term memory is needed in a certain area of the brain where pictures are not made. I have some trouble with mine! I am proud of my effort… and yet somehow wish to spare myself the pain. Long term memory will kick in, and my structures and formulas will stand by me as trusted friends, once they have hung around long enough to be accepted as more than passing acquaintances. That means writing every day.


I commit to the pain.


My name is Wisdom.

I am my mother’s son.

Too many stole my name

treated it with contempt

discarded it with savage grins

Now I wear it in pain.

My name is Horror

I am closer than your skin

My home is the cage your heart is trapped within

I am tended to by psychopaths

whose gilded tongues beguile

those who keep on choosing

to believe in all their lies.

My name is Shame

I am your name.

Your name is Honour

You have dug out from your grave

Faced the sunlight

With eyes pure and bright

Exposing grim remains

The evidence before the Court

kills off laughter

murders jest

Horror, Shame and Indifference

are sorely put to the test.

Wisdom stands to the side

Weighing up the case in hand

Grinners and beguilers

are hatefully held in contempt

as the scales tip the balance

and pain slips to the other side.


I picked up my worn leather bundle and hoisted it over my aching shoulder. Sweat ran down my nose, tickling on the way. Head lowered, eyes locked forward, I took the first heavy step, and the next… while the merciless sun glowered and turned up the thermostat.

Inside my bundle I carried my whole life. Forms of identity were lost early on this journey of necessity. When the cartwheel broke and the horse ran away overnight, I started the next day by leaving behind all but what little I could carry.

Each step hid the pain and left the memory one more step behind me. One day I would retrace my path. On horseback, riding fast, my bundle replaced with a weapon of iron.

The furnace for this weapon to be forged burned within my heart. The fuel shovelled violently in was slow-burning and would last my lifetime.

The only thing that could prevent this wrath from finding its mark, was a change of heart. If the heart of the one who stoked this fire, became unrecognisable as the hardened lump of carved stone horror that created such misery; that sent me into an exile of pain. This hardened lump has a shape that is not hidden from weapons forged in such flame.

Hate is my unforged weapon’s name.

Many of us walk alone down this path of pain. Time stops, and we turn as one, the day to retrace our paths has begun. The stockpiled tears fall from our worn leather bundles, caught into a whirlwind of vengeance, for those who kept on with their vicious game. The ones who judge them, are the ones from among them that walked away, the ones that refused to play. The ones who hoisted their own worn leather bundles and are here with us this day.

No rhyme or reason

The last one had no rhyme or reason. And if I leave out the title, the beginning of the poem ends up as a tweet! You know, on Twitter.

I am in a strange state of mind, very much physically tired in a whole brain sort of way. I had a big sleep and am heading off for an all night sleep.

One more before I go.


I want
to love
you, so I do
You never say
you love me too
Sometimes it hurts
Most times it doesn’t
It is a quiet love
mixed with hope
like a splash
of rainbow

Poem: Crying


Syllables this time: 2, 4, 2, 1

The Author, his Pen, and the Book

The Author, his Pen, and the Book. OM at HarsH ReaLiTy has outdone himself, in my opinion!

I Looove this portrait of an author.  From the startling incongruity of the BIC pen, through the four jars of coloured ink, filled with ingredients of life… to the ending which offers hope, and also an enigma!

via The Author, his Pen, and the Book.

PS. This is my first ‘Press This’ post, and I am curious to see how it turns out.

A cuppa tea poem from 2009

I’ve warmed up with a cuppa, and riffled through my old green writing folder…


I used to get up at 6am
  and boil up a pot of tea
 My sister would have plenty of milk
  and my brother loved sugar,
                Quietly stir in a teaspoon,
                                 or two, or three
     Now he has Lupus; systemic,
         and takes Prednisone
                  it's been a year, 2, 3, four.

My father slept in till 10am
      on Saturday mornings,
  and on weekdays I'd take him his tea;
   Black with honey, weak and sweet,
            Quietly sneak, gently place it
                   beside his bed.
          Regular as clockwork,
             He had no need of an extra strong, bitter brew.

Now my father's heart beat;
            irregular, not like clockwork;
      beats a different tune,
  and he has Warfarin,
        regular as clockwork,
              weak and bitter;
               even then it's a strong, bitter brew.

Why do I call my mother every day?
   What do I call her and say?
  I used to ask, "Can I have friends over?"
   and "Can the grandkids come and play?"
       we wait for her to come by bus,
                                 once a year,
                                  (maybe two.)
and my son and daughter
      take turns, bringing me a cup of tea,
   sometimes sugar, sometimes none,
             plenty of milk, or
             black and sweet
I hear them call, "Can I have friends over?"


Pain 24/7

This guy has some interesting info on pain.  It’s on YouTube, and has subtitles, and also a complete transcript written in the description.  So if you are blind, deaf or don’t want to view the video, or hear the audio, you can still read what he said in the interview.

He also says some things here –

What do you think?  Have you heard this sort of thing before?