Dandelion seeds


I will write of shiny things
And perhaps one day
I can reach out and touch
a heart enough to say
‘I liked what you wrote today;
You made my soul sing’

I’ll talk of trees,
Of branches and leaves
I’ll regale with a tale… or two
Of rainbows and sunshine
Birds and bees
The sun, the moon

I’ll form words so bright
To share with the universe
Echoes of starlight
Reflected in their eyes

There will be no goodbyes
Only celebrations of tomorrows
As the breeze blows them to me
Floating on waves of warm air
Like dandelion seeds

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time…

She was slight, and ever so pretty, with wings of rainbow gossamer and golden cotton wool hair.

She would elegantly glide betwixt the wildflowers under starlit skies; settling on fragile petals for mere moments before taking off to continue her midnight meanderings.

‘They’ mustn’t see her. Oh no. They would try to capture her – her beauty being a treasured trophy to behold.

And so she flitted and flirted; a glittering apparition sparking otherworldly tales.


You save your seed for the perfectly pert with the pixellated pussies – shoulda paid more money, honey, to get the full on sex experience.

I’m sorry, but we’re all out of Kleenex; because I’m working all day and all night, and I couldn’t get to the shops to replenish the stock, but those socks I bought you last Christmas; the ones with the days of the week?

The ones you now use, weak in a daze, for your brief encounter, before a quick toss into the wash basket for an encounter with my briefs, are clues to your solo songs; a mish-mash of sticky footwear glued to my silken thongs.

I see you had fun on Monday, when I was out playing bridge and you had to scratch your itch.

On Tuesday, your ejaculate was an immaculate smiley; drips and squirts to top the finest graffiti.

Wednesday you were sleeker, yet weaker; little dribbles that faded to jaded scribbles.

Thursday was the day I came home early, found you surly; diverted from the pearly paste you longed to waste.

Friday – more sloshing for the weekend washing amidst my smalls; lashings of splashings from your replenished balls.

I wear the weekend with pride upon my own feet; preventing you from beating your meat as I retreat – a damsel in distress, seeking solace from the stress; gyrating on the wildest revolution of the machine.

The cycle is complete and yet the final evolution is to come – I make puppets out of Sunday.

Once upon a time

Your soft mouth closes around mine, full lips swelling as hot passion overwhelms us, both gasping as we inhale each other, tongues dancing a torrid tango.

Teeth clash as our ardour grows; fingers grasp hair, tastebuds tingle.

Finally tearing ourselves apart, we gaze deeply into each other’s eyes, dark with desire, sparkling with lust.

Hands grab desperately at clothes, rapidly undressing each other, running eager hands over soft naked flesh.

Opening my eyes, I catch a glimpse in the mirror of a weary old lady sitting in her rocking chair.

Rivulets of tears cascade down her cheeks at the distant memory of once upon a time.