Disorganised New Year’s Greetings

When a friend wrote some thanks for a good year he used a phrase that caught my ear and eye.  ‘I have found my people’. It’s a good feeling that, being amongst folk you both like and admire and I’d have returned the compliment if I’d been more organised… or less busy…

But anyway the phrase stuck.  So here’s a bit of acrostic fun for those times when you’re deeply grateful for where you are.


I began somewhere else,

hopelessly distant from here,
another time; our
versions of
events may differ.

from those first aimless
outings I knew you

my heart and mind are like

power runs
equally between us and we are
open to new
leaving prejudice

John, a poem

I’ve done two things I don’t normally do here.  One is a serious rewrite of a thing I wrote a month or so ago, that I considered finished. (It was titled A past friend.) The other is to indulge in nostalgia, usually I’m the optimist that drowned in the half filled bath.


We were friends, comrades,
you had my back
and I knew how your imagination worked.
Our pasts were shared
in my red-wine fast-forward
when you told me
your dad committed suicide;

Somehow, we two introverts,
turned out together
to be louder, dancing to March Violets.
I forgave you your Queen,
you overlooked my Nephilim.
We found common ground
in quantum mechanics
and the price of beer.

I read your stories,
shared my writing and reading.
(You treat my boyfriend as a stranger.)
So after working late,
we got into a gig for free. Again.
Because they were nearly done.
But we both liked the tunes
and the DJ set that followed.

I wish I’d known then
such high-nights are finite.
That next week’s band would really suck
in the worst way.
But that gig, I knew the live stuff
from a friend’s mixtape
and you knew the name
of that radio track.

That one song, late on,
that caught my mind
with its cartoon-fast imagery and defiance.
The tune’s still with me,
it’s grown, taken root; I live around it.
And every time I run away
I listen to that band.

But where did you go?


I think sometimes, this season, these holidays seem so tightly defined that you can’t breathe and the walls close in on us.  So here’s a poem about desertion if you’re just the tiniest bit glad it’s all over.

Peace and love to you all.  Bx



The days between my equinox
and their New Year
hold the past and the unknown.
Our house is a stagnant limbo
of too little sleep.
Our hearts are too fat,
too tired.

My answers lie outside,
in the desertion of planning,
answering the need
just to walk; aimless.
An animal desire
to escape the trap;

Near our house the woods
are manicured, tame;
a child-friendly theme park
half-honouring violent nature.
In this England
only the weather
remains punk.

With coats and pyjamas,
a smear of toothpaste;
we are heathens.
Glorious, gay and wild.
But last summer’s dens
are now stripped naked;

Only the holly remains.
On her spiky leaf-faces,
rain beats irregular time;
both plain-chant and trance.
It is at once ancient
and too funky
for today.