The Muse’s Journal: Personal reflections

 This poem was written after learning about Poetry that could cross a few curriculum targets!  Poppies, red and lush yet so thin and lean They rise above the dirt below waiting – wanting to be seen In awe we remember – remember those that have died Each took a stride with great pride For their country Poppies, ceramic and stone – red like blood A sea of red surrounding like a flood Tears spilt on the precious land Planting seeds for future plans For hope and compassion Generations collect together in awe Acknowledging their own flaws  Accepting the past and the present Learning that we should be patient In this modern world Poppies – worn by all – a gift Mustn’t forget, but only forgive From earth to heaven above Remembering those that we loved Their sacrifice for us  

  The swish of my tail The twitch of my ears I lay low to the ground and pounce I twist and I turn I claw and I snitch I let out my call and meow My playtime is over I jump onto the bed Nuzzle the stranger's hand I purr and nudge her hand I keep her happy I sit by her arms Until I decide this isn't my place I move down the bed I fall asleep on her toes Relaxed.

  The rain drummed softly against Muriel’s purple umbrella, each drop a tiny heartbeat in the crowded square. Behind her, the white-marbled fountain whispered its own music, water threading through the air like a secret. She stood still amid the bustle, a single calm point in the storm, her gloved fingers brushing over the golden heart-shaped locket at her throat. Inside were two faded black-and-white photos—faces from a life she longed to replace. Maybe tonight… maybe this time… she thought, hoping the empty spaces would finally be filled. She checked her watch. Her pulse quickened. And then—there he was. Magnus slipped through the crowd with a purposeful grace, his hand reaching for hers before she could breathe. The moment his fingers closed around her glove, the world seemed to part for them, the path to the waiting hotel opening like a promise. Inside, the concierge lifted away her umbrella while Magnus gently helped her out of her long black coat. The purple velvet dress...

Another short story - I had plans to make this into a longer one, but other things kept me from doing so!    The sun slipped away behind a wall of bruised grey clouds as we left the city behind, vanishing so abruptly it felt deliberate—almost as if it wanted no part of what waited for us out here. London faded into a distant memory as I stared through the spider-webbed cracks of the rear window, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar or safe. Nothing answered back. The clouds cracked open instead, unleashing a downpour so heavy it seemed to smother the world. I turned to the side window with another sigh. Towering hedgerows pressed against the narrow, twisting road, swallowing everything but the path directly ahead. I couldn’t tell where we were going, nor where we had come from—only that the last town we passed felt impossibly far away, as if it had never existed at all. Between there and here lay only this suffocating lane, dissolving into a churned path of mud...

 This was written for the story that I am also writing, but I love the imagery so here we go: I slept deeper than I had in days—so deep it felt as if the world loosened its grip on me entirely. And in that depth, something opened. I say I dreamt, yet it was more than a dream, less than reality… a vision suspended between breath and oblivion. I was no longer myself. I was a blood-red phoenix , rising effortlessly through a sky so vast it seemed to breathe around me. Flames unfurled from my wings and tail—silken ribbons of fire that curled and shimmered, spilling molten embers that tumbled into the wind like falling stars. Everything glowed in shades of crimson and gold. Beneath me stretched lands I had never seen—emerald plains so lush they gleamed like polished jade under sunlight. Hills rolled like sleeping giants, rising and folding in endless waves, pausing only to give way to wide, serene flatlands. Rivers glittered like silver serpents, dividing the country into four perfect...

A Short Story I wrote whilst doing my creative writing course. The wind clawed at Dixy’s long ebony coat and tugged mercilessly at her short blue skirt as she raised her fist to knock on the heavy oak door. The sky churned above her—grey clouds twisting like something alive, waiting. Yet Dixy’s smile refused to dim. Today marked the beginning of her new, independent life. She smoothed her skirt to keep it from whipping up in the rising gusts, a shiver of excitement skittering across her skin. After all the searching, she was finally here. The door swung open. Fred filled the doorway, tall enough that Dixy had to tip her chin up, her heeled boots suddenly feeling less like fashion and more like vulnerability. The look on Fred’s face was…odd. Not anger, exactly, but something sharp and unwelcoming—as though she were assessing Dixy rather than greeting her. A flicker of the future, perhaps. Dixy dismissed the thought. She was a little early, after all. She extended her hand. Fred took...

  In a picture on a wall There is a boy so small, A boat behind him sits Wooden boards behind him fit Into the dingy ready to sail. Mute-white material to hail To the top of the tallest mast. On the mantle-piece below All sitting in a perfect row Many knots that link from mast to bow Like a common knowledge you have to know To know all these knots remembering The simplistic terms for sailing. Here we are today sitting by the river Now that small boy an adult – the giver Of that vital information With determined concentration How a boat is rigged From head to foot and ribbed To set sail upon a water clear And how we can pretend to be A simple brigadier I watch him with much delight My own knots not so bright My small dingy low to the ground The wind clipping metal – an interesting sound I enjoy the sailing Not the boring rigging On my own I could sail afar Much better and quieter than the car.

  This poem is about a lost toy He sits on the end on the bed, Soft, cuddly, blue fur A cloak around its neck His sad eyes pinning. His tail detaches, but on a string. A tiny pink bow upon it hangs Gloomy, glum, always glad to see a hand towards him come. Best friend lost, and come again Pages smell of coffee stains. Stories told with him by the side Of a tiny child. The lantern reminds of times gone past Singing on streets for Christmas  Dark, mysterious, and yet Lit by a guiding lantern set. Dusky, musky smell to his fur His mane wiry black New or old - never ageing Used and loved by many. Memories of Halloween, Cape, Broom, Witches Hat, Dressing up as cats and skeletons, Wondering streets and wanting treats. Sad eyes as he returns To the end of a rumpled bed. Perhaps tomorrow will be his turn In cuddled next to boy. 

This poem was written for my RP sim and for my story that I am currently writing!  This I pray in your name The earth, the moon and the stars Let it all glorify you. The tall mountains rise Above the smoking clouds From the ice to the grass below Waters that reflect your beauty Shimmering from the light above Swirling around the lands like mist and majesty Clouds that litter the tips Wind that twirls around the trees Circling and entwining all below Taller and taller they grow Responding to your call A host of butterflies swarm near Flowers too, forming and blooming Colours never seen before Bowing before opening wide As if to magnify your name Pure radiance built in front of my eyes Lead by magnificence and hands unseen Into the darkness bubbling Like children we go Conquering fear and fright Facing our god in this tranquil site

This poem is about my Grandparent's house in the Lake District (UK)   The yellow door at the top of the hill Don’t ask the number, I just remember the door. Wipe my feet as I enter Greyhounds bounding down the stairs Straight out back as the birds soar. Kitchen to the left – sun reflecting On the orange-covered cupboards Holding matched cups and saucers; Ushered upstairs by ghosts – creaking as I go The pictures that litter the walls Taken by enthusiastic walkers. Photos of the hills outside, Tapestries done by hand, Tiny figurines stand on the sideboard As if waiting for us to leave or to dust them; To rearrange or to make sure A teddy bear seems to nod in accord The brightly coloured furniture stands Low, saggy, imprinted With the pungent smells of oldness Coldness and emptiness surrounds Only memories and despair Surrounding the house and withholds The rolling mountains outside lead me to wonder The secrets yet to be found Hidden within the house – The house with the yellow door...

 Welcome to my blog. This is a poem that I first wrote as part of my creative writing course. It is what made me inspired to write more and want to write more.  Two Blue Shoes Two tiny blue shoes Fit two tiny feet Once upon a time When a son was young. A bridge miles away A smile enters my lips Across a waterfall The pit-pat of those shoes On the slate wall Times before school Shoes were worn and used, Wobbling little legs. Now steady and slim With black lace-ups All grown up and trim. Toddler groups attended New friends made Tottering til he found his feet And then he fades. Happy smiling child In his new blue shoes; Before the world weighed On his wide shoulders