Posted in Skin Poetry, Surge

Paper Thin

Sometimes, my heart is paper thin, easibly rippable

Consciously edible at the edges where life has frayed.

Hold my heart up to the light

See? There; a tear where a spike has pushed through,

Torn in two my fragile sensibility.


Sometimes, my heart is tough and strong

No words, however long, can break through this impenetrable wall

Of  solid, steadfast love.

Love that doesn’t call the shots, or plots

Against, or rails in disdain.


Sometimes, my heart is flexible

Fillable, with no constraints but a constant

Heartbeat, drum beat, skip to the beat

Dancing without fear of being shunned,

Never worrying about being number one

But giving without any need of payment, of any kind.


Sometimes my heart is sore;

It aches, and with every movement,

Pain fills the veins, and, with endless pulses,

Shoots fear and overwhelming anxiety into every cavity.

No desire to heal but to hurt, and hurt again, with

Constant put downs, rebukes, and history.


Sometimes, my heart is all four of the above.

One day strong, then flexible, sore, paper thin;

The din and shouting of the world makes me recoil,

Makes my blood boil as the spoils of crime against humanity

Rip paper thin hearts, leaving nothing but dust,

Leaving nothing but bricks and mortar

When have to sort, wade through, like treacle,

This abysmal mess that we have made, and, with a tirade,

We scream, we cry, we mourn the endless death and destruction.


But sometimes, my heart is a rally cry

That pushes me to say, to demonstrate all the love enclosed

In this beating heart.

My heart says “Stand up! Stand & be counted! Shout me loud and strong,

Sing my beloved song of hope and freedom

Against the hearts of stone, the cold, the unmoveable

Whose every move is to make them unnaccountable

Not doubtable, for all the slander, the hatred, that pits man against man

In this unforgiving sea of despair, no care but for themselves,

When so many, so many hearts are paper thin, rustling in the air,

Hung out to dry, no goodbye, but a shut door”



Yes, my heart may be paper thin;

It may be sore

But it is also tough, strong, flexible.

I’ll cleave no more to that which makes me disenchanted,

I’ll weave my heart strings with those whose love, whose colour for life

Is indescribably irridescent with beauty.


Let the sometimes be the all times.

Let the paper thin and sore be markers for how far we have travelled.

Let the flexibility of our hearts encase the fragile souls.

Let the tough, strong beats sound out, pound out, never be afraid to speak out.

Let the sometimes be the all times.








Posted in Skin Poetry, Surge


No sign of life When I held you For the last time. I listened for your breathing, imagining I felt your mouth move.   You were still warm When I carried you home, With my heart shattere…

Source: Puma

Posted in Skin Poetry, Surge



No sign of life

When I held you

For the last time.

I listened for your breathing, imagining I felt your mouth move.


You were still warm

When I carried you home,

With my heart shattered

And tears that choked my breath.


You looked asleep when I lay you down;

A towel to stop you from feeling the coldness

Of the kitchen work surface.

A towel to stop you from getting cold.

Your eyes still open

But you were not there.


Your fur felt soft, your smell as before,

Your beauty as you lay sleeping for the last time.

I couldn’t hold back my anger, at the unfairness,

At the suddenness, with God.

“You brought Lazarus back-why can you bring him back? He’s a cat”

I spat and I cried

I swore, I was, I am, still angry, reeling,

Inconsolable without

My baby, my puma, my “picklartus”


We buried you deep in

The earth.

And Thomas, your brother

Who had cleaned you, had lain on you to keep you warm,

Who could not understand

Why his brother would not,

Could not get up,

Came over, cautiously.

He sniffed the air,

The ground.

He knew.

And nothing we could say,

No amount of stroking

Would bring him back.


My bubba boy, my pickle,

My shadow, my teddy bear,

Wrapped in my

Heart forever.

Posted in Skin Poetry

Look Up

Though you try to denigrate, there’s no room to negotiate.

I know you will try to make me subjugate to what you want me to do.

I haven’t got the time for this, for this rubbish, this nonsense. And I’m in no need of your questions as you ration my words, trying to stop my words.

Yes, your words make me tremble, and I start to crumble underneath the weight of your whispered intonations.  But these insidious comments are now well documented, annotated inside my mind.

Yes, you make me cry, wonder why.

Look Up.

So much I want to say but I trip over the stream of words.

Look Up.

You’re never too small or insignificant- remember?

The most weakest tribe was recognised.

Look Up.

Hold onto your heart, hold onto to what I’ve already promised. Stand on the Rock, stand on the one thing that can’t move, though the sea rages with its furious waves, though the rain lashes down, pummeling,boring in,though the storm clouds are their blackest, when even darkness has no limits.

Hold onto your heart.

As the crocus and the tulip, who speak of majesty and joy, stand firmly rooted and are not ashamed of their beauty,look and be blessed.  Be still in your peace, be grounded in enduring love.  The radiant kalediscope is not marred by the wind or rain; the petals may fold in, but they do not stop being beautiful.

Look Up.

Posted in Skin Poetry, Thought process


If I could truly understand what mercy meant,

I’d be so much better at it.

How do I show mercy?

How do I react to random questions, or to people who are so different from me?

Let me think.

Mercy is about love, about grace.

What’s love about? Mercy.

And mercy means sticking by someone, not berating people who have a different opinion from you.

It means helping, it means encouraging, it means baking a cake, making a meal, phoning, stopping by to say “Hi”, it means not letting language be a barrier.

It means putting all your differences aside and loving, even when it’s too hard to love, when it’s easier to hate.

When we learn to live merciful lives and not “I want everything yesterday” lives, lives that are greedy, full of me, me, me, then we might get somewhere.

Mercy is true, compassionate, understanding, more than tolerant, and full to the brim with love.

Posted in Skin Poetry


It’s been a while since we spoke about anything in particular. But it doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten who you are, it’s just that….I mean that…

Can you believe the time that got left behind in space,at my place at a quicker pace than we could ever have imagined. In what seemed to be another chapter, another line, you told me that you missed me, that you still hold that kiss that we shared, showing the care and devotion that never left our sides.

Don’t forget who we were; we were a team, a partnership, a way forward, never discouraged, with intention to mention that we were in love. 

That we are in love.

Messages bounce back and forward with no room for pause in the electricity, the synchronicity that pulls us together, that binds us, combines us on the road we travel, the paths we stumble on, the lanes we run along. 

Pictures of me and you are encased in the sim card of my phone, my mind and they play, a cinematic explosion of life, snapshots, music and scenery describing the intimacy of our hearts.

Beating, marching.

Ring, ring, pick up and answer. 

Then I hear your voice, recorded, held in a capsule, never changing.

Easing the time we’re apart.

Posted in Skin Poetry

See Me

See me, see who I am.
Not what I was but what I can be.

And the beat of your heart steeps me in love. It’s the love that never dies, never lies, no compromise, I’m not tied to you but I hold onto you. Because I want to.

Because you see me, see what I can be and my life doesn’t mystify or make you turn your face away from me.

In reality, you chose me, you looked at me and saw me. You saw beauty, beauty behind the insanity, selfish ambition me, saw the whole and the breadth and the unique me.
You saw me and you said “You mean everything to me. Even more than that, you are gorgeous, your smile lights my heart up, makes me hold you close, wrap you in my arms for eternity.  And even eternity with you would be too short because I am absolutely, head over heels, foot poppingly in love with you.

You saw me. You saw me.

You. Saw. Me.

When I first heard what you thought, when you saw past the dirt, the dust, the stuff that I can hide from everyone else. You saw all that and still, and still the words tripped from your mouth. No, not tripped. They poured, like honey, like wine, like a river of chocolate; not sickly sweet or cloying, but they flowed and ebbed at my feet.

I knelt down, embarrassed, trying to hide.

You couldn’t mean it, the words you said messed with my head but instead of being condescending with tender hands you lifted me. The thought struck me- why me- why hold my hands when all the land was full to the brim of more nobler kind, the people who made it their aim to live like saints with no seeming taint to marr their skin. I’m not akin to them, in fact we couldn’t be more further apart; their start in life set them where they are now; how could I be like them.
No, you said, that’s not how it works, not how I work. No-one, however hard they try, will ever come close to who you are.

You saw me.

You see me.

You love me.

Posted in Daily Prompt, Skin Poetry


A Carpenter’s song called “Masquerade” beguiles with the line

“Are we really happy with this lonely game we play? We’re lost in this Masquerade”

Pretending isn’t easy. Pretending to be something you’re not takes some practice.  Actors have to use this tool, to be something they’re not, to help their watchers believe in everything they say and do, every action, every reaction.

I get that, I really do.  But when you’re faced with something that you can’t quite put your finger on, because you know, deep down inside that the person opposite you is just pretending. And they’re pretending they don’t realise how every word, each movement, every blink of the eye speaks volumes. Pretence has become part and parcel of their lives; it’s the meat on the bone, the cherry on the cake.  And it doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

When you see loved ones, dear ones pretend that everything’s “ok”, everything’s “fine”; when you see the pain it causes them to even talk normally about normal things, with a normal air and you know that every intonation makes them wince in pain, makes them gag, because they know that ain’t the truth.

Of course you try to help, guide questions, invent scenarios for them to be able to say “I need you to do something” and, even when they see what you’ve given them, they’re so sapped, so drained that, although they try, something inside them makes them pull back, attack, deflect the picture back to you, to try and make you not see through what you already know.

Pain reflected, injected, into every breath, without any let up, they’re penned up inside their own cage, enraged by their weakness, their meekness, their lack of strength to tell whatever it is to take a long walk off a short pier.

You look, try not to stare or glare but, with a look, a touch, make sure they know their glow has not gone out, that if they need to scream and shout, you are there; you’re not going anywhere.

But, for now, this moment, this second of connection brings an action of unconditional love into the emptiness of pain, the knowing that, once again, you’ll ease, you’ll not refrain from ever being there.

Posted in Daily Prompt, Skin Poetry


“One more slice my dear?”

My stomach grumbled, though it could’ve been just a warning sign for me to refuse. But my host, so generous in her portions, was legendary for her delicious creations. My tongue was well and truly tied.

“I’ll cut you a teensy bit. You won’t even notice it on the plate ”

Oh. The second part of that sentence wasn’t completely true.  You’d certainly know it was there. In fact, Tim Peake could’ve seen it from the International Space Station. With his eyes closed. In his cabin.

But I couldn’t refuse this slice of gorgeousness. Clouds of smooth, white, yet slightly crisp meringue beckoned me, with a soft, lilting voice. Luscious lemon oozed from beneath, without any sight of a soggy bottom.

My host winked her twinkling blue grey eyes and, leaning close , placed a gentle kiss upon my cheek. Her generous heart, filled with years of tears, fears, hopes, dreams were part and parcel of each delectable bite.  She poured them, mixed them and served each portion with joy.

How could I refuse such a demonstration of pure happiness?

Would you?