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Category Archives: Writing

Dear Doctor…#Poem#Poetry#Prose

Dear Doctor

What pain do you seek of me,
in screams that can be heard?
How can I make it crystal clear,
with each, and every word?

My medication, poison pills,
upon prescription slip.
Tis all that you will give to me,
T’ help with bumpy trip.

Sodden I do slump in place
in tears that I have cried.
What will the treatment cost me now,
if not the suicide?

My veins should I give to you?
For payment in my blood.
Or would you just inject a drug,
I rather think you would.

You say that I am just unwell,
my mind it needs to heal.
Then medicate me to the hilt,
til nowt there is to feel.

Emotions that’re now suppressed,
always will break free.
Fix the problem at the source,
supply the therapy.

But this thing to me denied,
the reasons are unknown.
And then you go and wonder why,
I feel I stand – alone.


A § M


Poetic Release

When one first went the writing and poetry session at Echo it was set within my mind that how to write would be taught. Instead was found a small pile of poetry books and very little else.

The hour passed with the reading of a poem and then being asked on the thoughts and feelings that was elicited for that piece, “it’s ok” was not an acceptable answer. The lady running the session made it clear from the start she preferred poetry and that is what she would bring to the group, as for us we just had to write.

One did not think that in less than a year the therapeutic effects of the release of thought would be in the preferred form of poetry or prose. Calming the language down in order to have more impact through pace and emphasis on a word or line allows the anger to subside as well.

Sometimes a poem will start in the dark, stay in the dark and end in the dark. One has quite literally read a poem one week and never seen a person from that group come back to another, my words having taken them somewhere they did not want to go.

It’s not like I start out with the poem plan – lets make this one really dark, they go wherever my mind needs them to go. And the next poem – Dear Doctor – is a release of my frustration with the ever decreasing hoops one is being shoved through. I had to write it out before seeing the Dr today so I did not end up saying something I should not have said.

The frustration I think still came over when I was talking, but it was not directed at him.

Neither is my next poem – Dear Doctor…



Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
rain is landing on my hat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
lightning strikes to scare the cat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
in little brook there swims a rat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
through the soft mud, splat, splat, splat.
Pitter Patter, pitter pat,
make a splash in puddle flat.

Drip by drip and drop by drop,
from hat falling, plop, plop, plop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
in sheltered doorway, little stop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
floats on past a bottle top.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
soaks the litter by the shop.
Drip by drip and drop by drop,
back to home – with a hoppity hop.


A § M

My First Writing Competition Entry


The sun shined down on the sand of this little cove, seagulls screeched overhead, joyous chatter of children and adults alike mingled with gentle music piped from the carousel as it spun around. The smell of the sea, chips, popcorn and candy floss waft around the rides and stalls of chance. Fond are the memories from when I first arrived.
Now the music is of a blaring kind, each of the rides trying to compete with one another for the attention of the modern youth. The smells wafting around the stalls are still the same, but not – the chips don’t smell as good as they did and the aroma of overdone burgers has been added, along with the odour of sweaty onions; progress smells like grease. The games of chance have been changed to games of luck, tat replacing the goldfish that once did hang from the beams.
The rides themselves have changed from gentle, simple, fun rides for the family, to stomach churning thrills, their sole purpose to bring back up the burgers quickly scoffed before going on. Somehow I missed the transition, or maybe it happened that slowly I failed to notice, but in any case I did not see it till I was old.
Age itself is not to blame for the outlook, it has changed. Greed has set into what was a business for family pleasure. The old rides pushed to the side, or replaced altogether.
One thing that has not changed with the passing of years, that is the season itself. Three quarters of the year the fair stays open, with the rides spinning and blasting out their music for most of the day and all of the evening. Then the holiday makers call it time, too cold, too wet, only the few dare to brave the coast in the latter months, or those of the winters end.
The fair takes on an eerie feel in the season known as closed, the sun oft hidden by huge black clouds, perhaps with the flash of light and rumble of thunder. Even the sea takes on a more menacing look, waves get bigger and carry the sand in the water, making their soul look dark, as they roll and crash against the shore. With these storms come sinister shadows, jumping from whence they hid with each flicker of light from the sky. I look upon them glad to be hidden under this big heavy canvas, sheltering from the whipping wind and driving rain. This is my home for the night, my refuge.
For many a year I have hidden here, out of mind, peaking through the hole in the canvas. My colours have faded, my paint chipped and now cracked; the rain runs like tears down my cheek.


I was pretty once, the star of the show.
With my piped music, small faces would glow.
But now I’m forgotten, cast to the side.
Oh how I would love it, once more, on me ride.


500 words, rather journalistic, Influenced by Bill Bryson? But it was a start. My next story written is more flowing and at 250 words was more of a challenge, it missed the deadline for the competition entry it was written for, so will be saved for another.

This is the start of many one thinks, clunky it may be, but one hopes it will inspire others to give writing competitions a go, especially free ones.

Just have fun.

Reflections…Week Fifty One

canstockphoto8630797This is the last blog of 2017, and for my part I have completed my goal of blogging on a weekly basis for the entirety of it. One has even surpassed what I thought was a challenge by doing multiple blogs in a week and in doing so surprised myself with the gusto one has approached it. But not so much with this one.

Yesterday I went sea fishing with my brother, it went less than planned. The tackle and bait shop we go to is no longer there, it is being replaced with flats, this caused a diversion to an alternative. Time seemed to be slipping away as the journey progressed, to the point that we changed destination for the fishing to suit the tide time.

This is a place I like going to and although the pier was in no fit state to be walked upon it somehow had sentimental value for which one cannot explain. However when we got there the pier was no longer in the sea, rather it was on the coast line piled up behind railings. After talking to a local fisherman we discovered it was pulled down for safety reasons about three weeks ago, thus making it a sombre visit, and at the moment un-fishable.  One hopes that the spider crabs that the locals catch won’t be negatively affected.

The weather was also making a turn for the worst, with an ice cold nip to the increasing wind. This was not the warm sunny day forecast.

We headed back the way we came. Checked out a new spot, ruled it out, went to an old spot that has been good for bass before ruled that out due to the exposure for the wind and decided to cross back over the peninsula to get some wind defence.

We looked and looked for a new spot and eventually ended up, at the place we originally went for bait, at Rhos-on-sea, sheltered from the wind. Halfway back home. Eight hours of driving to get an hour and a half away from home, you could tell my brother was not pleased.

Spot got to run on the beach for a bit, and we ate with a cuppa before even thinking about setting up, as high tide was another hour away, and by then we could not be bothered to be tide chased with our equipment. So we just waited.

This spot has been a poor show for fish before and we had almost given up on the location. It was chosen for the shelter above all else, just so we could fish.

It has been ages since last having a day out to try and catch dinner for the next day and as Spot and I played on the beach I asked the sea to be kind to my brother and let him catch some fish. It was less of a thing for me as being at the coast was allowing me to chill for just a little while, as the coast always does, and Spot loves the beach.

So as the tide came in we got ready, spot for a nice change, was able to stay in the car as it was parked right next to us, curled up in the footwell, where the heater had warmed her towel and the carpeting.

First cast had been in the water less than five minutes when my brothers rod stated to nod up and down violently, not one on the line, but two. Next cast he did was pulling a fish up within a minute, and the same again with the next.

As he took the fish down the steps to the water to release the fourth fish, they were undersize, I thanked the sea for visibly cheering him up. Then my rod started…

For the next Five and a half hours we had fish after fish, the best session ever, even beating some boat trips. True we returned over forty, but we came home with five whiting each, enough fish for a couple of meals.

My arms and shoulders at the end were aching, my nerves on fire and lacking strength to real in two small fish on the line that should have been done with ease. I had to stop with them as my arms went numb and the fireworks started in my legs. My brother called it time when he reeled in the next fish. We packed up and headed home, straight into the wind, and now heavy rain, we had earlier left behind. Somehow it had missed our little spot.

The concentration on the rod tip light now over, my body could release the headache for the trip home. Today I have been in pain and struggling to stay awake. I hate what is happening to my body right now and the way it seems to be punishing me for doing things I like to do. But it’s got another thing coming if it thinks it is going to make me stop. All the doctors want to do is increase what was my anxiety meds, as it is also a pain medication. It’s funny how I am going to be over the maximum dosage for the anxiety it’s not working for, because it is now for the pain. The pain it may very well be causing. And the medication I wanted to stop, because it’s not working.

The merry-go round of the doctors continues…

Oh, an update on my story that was entered into the Brighter Futures writing competition that was scheduled for America’s Thanksgiving day, that was then altered to the Christmas Party, that was then, I would say delayed again due to there still being only two entries, I would say delayed as the winner was not declared, Is a winner!

Not quite, so is the other one as well.

I wonder if my request to withdraw my story if it had been cancelled again, so it could be entered into another competition, had anything to do with the decision?

At least the disappointment of the whole affair is over now, and the story will be published in the next couple of days. I hope all who read it find some enjoyment in it.

If you don’t, tuff, I am still proud of my first writing competition entry.

The fireworks of the new year have been going off as this long winded entry has been written, so it is with love and peace that I sign off the Reflections of 2017.

Happy New Year!


Black buckled boots that old ladies wear, polished, clean and smart,
walk with the brown leather shoes that old men wear, with pride in their heart.
Tan lines of stress marble the surface.

Tassels on toes, with every step jiggle and sway,
child with soles flashing, around checkout will play.
Exhaustion on the mothers voice.

Sandals paired with socks are made to walk alone!

Trainers are common, rarely are clean.
Except fro the old folk, who keep them pristine.
Even the soles show no dirt.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Doc Martin’s on mans feet are worn,
paired with ladies battered pink Converse, looking lovelorn.
Neither look happy.

Then there are walking boots, my choice of footwear,
from supermarket to hilltop, they go anywhere.
— But here they do sit.



A § M

Blank Blank Blank…#Poetry#Poem#Prose

There is nothing to write,
I’ve been at it all night.
Here is pen, and pa-per,
and there’s notes, to re-fere.

But with no inspiration,
there is just desperation.
I scratch head for a thought,
brings forth nothing, nada — nought.

I stare unto the page,
for what seems like an age.
But nothing will come,
and nothing is done.

I scribble at the top of the page.

A § M