I grew in my mind
a poem potent and pure –
which I then forgot


cc by DaveBleasdale via Flickr

Cry, wolf


Unbottle the howl,
wring your throat of choking rage,
rend skies, smash eardrums –
though your heart is weak as wool,
cry, wolf! Fear is for the sheep.


cc via Pixabay



I do not do well with a rule-book, no!
I prefer to be whimsical and free.
I struggle when counting syllables, so
metre’s a mystery to me. (Oops.)

As a child I derided the rhyme scheme –
“something trashy from a bad birthday card”.
I’m so shocked and appalled that I could scream
to find out that it’s actually quite hard.

How many haiku could I have written
in the syllables I’ve hurled at this page?
I must keep to one theme like I’m smitten,
a ceaseless squeak from the back of the cage.

So when they told me to write a sonnet
I thought “on it”, but – dogonnit! – blown it.


By Rebecca C! cc via Flickr