Twelve ‘O’Clock Somewhere

She didn’t need a clock to know the time. She could tell by the piles of folded washing, the amount of toys covering the floor and her toddlers resistance to everything, that is was undoubtedly wine time.

Till Dawn

They swaddled her in the pastels of dusk, eyes falling with the rising of the moon. Her slumber so sweet; Sugar crystals formed on her eyelashes. Sealed with a kiss, on peach coloured lips, she was all but wrapped in a bow.


Do Da day

I left her little love notes, for when she could not hear me.

I played her favorite love songs, for when she could not read me.

I wore her favorite perfume, to accentuate every memory.

I kissed her oh so sweetly, so she would never forget me.


What is my name, when no one is around?

What is my name, when my babes are sleeping sound?

What is my name, when the washing is done?

What is my name, when I’m no longer your sun?

What is my name, when you call out in your sleep?

What is my name, when you’re in too deep?

What is my name, when you find another?

Will you ever stop calling me, Mother?


There have been moments in my life where writing has been as simple as breathing. An inhalation of a spontaneous idea has exhaled through my pencil and onto paper in the form of words. It is those moments, while often far and few between, which propel me forward. When the darkness befalls, dressed in fear, taunting me that skill, talent or even perseverance are all just make believe and that I’ve no right to move or be moved by the power of the written word; I breathe. I breathe in the memories of a poem I wrote that hangs on my mothers’ wall or a simple sample of words that captured a friends feelings and I remember that perhaps there is no skill or talent, but there is absolutely perseverance.

Some days, the act of breathing alone is conjured purely by perseverance.