Category Archives: Lightning Strikes

on me way gone

i met her at a chip shop

she was standin’ outside

she ‘ad a bag a chips

i said can i‘ave one

she said who do you think i am

with one curl of her salty lip

one hand on her hip

that was it

i was smit


not a haiku


a witness statement


a whimsy statement

flimsy at best but


could’ave happened, innit!


thx BG

what is the meaning of barbara?

who the hell do you think you are?


the echoes follow me like stray bogs snapping

the meaning is barbaric

and mean

they mean it to be mean

and to wipe the name from my being

making me nameless and nothing

like my very existence is this question/accusation

hung up ugly for all and sundry to see and to shun


barbara is strange / outlandish


i grow up strange and foreign-language absurdity

i give out sporadic flashes of eye-lit verdancy

no-one understands, see, i am shameless


barbara is emerald wit eloquence and foresight

watch out

weren’t expecting that?


barbara is a symbol such as

awareness love wisdom


light knowledge truth


how dare you….!


i claim you!

barabal – i give you my word i promise

bairbre – i avow you are nothing strange nor hellish


go forth and practice barbara

the protectrice against bitter

fire brimstones / lightning bones

reveal sincerity of feeling, sister


btw april 14 2021


Barbara: meaning strange or foreign / greek/ Bairbre /irish/ Barbabal / gaelic/

root of the word barbaric

spiritual meaning: symbol of knowledge or truth

precious stone: emerald

Barbara: protectrice against fire and lightning


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name. 

Hung outside in, Kitchen

NaPoWriMo day 5


Hammered! Into copper-tongued clarity nothing

______matters, does it? Stuffed! Into cotton mouth

answers bluest call, shatters juices more from apple cored.

_____I wince. Panting quietly, my idiotic grin incised.

I can’t remember a taste as metallic as this

_____wishbone ( aptly gnawed) between teeth and trees and faith, passing

flowers have some honey, so does sun, and

_____isn’t that enough? Listen! This is just what

the bees whisper to breezy Spring’s

_____hips, thighs drunk, heavy, rippling, fizzing on

estrogenic tides. Sniffles caught on hazel twigs, drained and skinned.

_____Sorry! I lift my head and toes from this mess, taking intricate

steps. I lift kettle and cauldron down

_____gently, without much clack, fire quietly electricity, lightning cracks,

dying for some scalding liquid sympathy. Sun comes in

____at my waist, pouring pats on porcelain vase on table centre

My mind wanders out the window and teacup

_____strikes formica, gruffly asks a spoon to dance.

When has a morning been dressed as flayed as

_____this? Smashed passion for mama’s cooking, damp dents

in pillows, twisted patterned sheets…….dissipates……

_____The storm inside abates, beaten in syrupy circles

washed out in sea flakes and oat cakes

____a string of fresh laundry strung outside.


not a haiku

April 5, 2021


This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem. If I used Roethke’s poem as my model, for example, the first line would start with “I,” the second line with “W,” and the third line with “A.” And I would try to make all my lines neither super-short nor overlong, but have about ten syllables. I would also have my poem take the form of four, seven-line stanzas. I have found this prompt particularly inspiring when I use a base poem that mixes long and short lines, or stanzas of different lengths. Any poem will do as a jumping-off point, but if you’re having trouble finding one, perhaps you might consider Mary Szybist’s “We Think We Do Not Have Medieval Eyes” or for something shorter, Natalie Shapero’s “Pennsylvania.”


Here is the poem that chose me…

Here Are Some Thorns, Splinters, Fishbones


Home for a pan-fried mackerel dinner, 

           my mother watches my chopsticks stumble

around the 가시. Full after a few bites,

           I remember a story. When I was a baby 

I choked on a fishbone at my grandparents’ house. My dad 

           wasn’t there. They yelled at my mother 

for not inspecting each flaky bit of fish I put 

           in my clumsy mouth, not teaching me 

the maneuvering of spiky slivers with my tongue, 

           how to place the needles next to my plate, 

extract white meat clean. Ever since, she peels and holds 

           skeletons above our meal—fossils before me.

Still, I am bad at pulling bone from fish, cutting

           skin from pears, which means I’ll never 

get married. But what about the nights where my mouth 

           drips with SunGold kiwi, looking over 

at my love, my lips smacking unabashedly.

           Me cupping the furry layer in my palm, and you 

standing over the sink eating it whole. 

           What would our mothers say? We laugh while I tell you

the story of how once, a splinter burrowed 

           into the meat of my thumb, and I kept it there for weeks.

Told my parents the splinter came out on its own

           while I hoped my body would absorb the slender spear

and disappear the 가시 painlessly.

on landing

thought I was flying ~

down through clouds

~ but this is smoke!

Sydney is burning





reporting from Sydney airport – in transit north

, on the news, it seems unreal or at best, distant.

i am a witness.

from this stage, i wave

to the rest of the world

this is real! this is acrid. this is thick. this stinks. this is toxic. this is shocking.

please please be shocked. Please please act.

here i stand. witness to this

not waving, but burning