The Abyss

the abyss

Original Photo :  Kristaps Bergfelds

Standing on the edge,

Looking into the abyss,

I’d seen the light succumbing,

Long before it came to this,


I heard the words unspoken,

And read the empty page,

The whispered breath of reason,

Was the truth I couldn’t engage,


I’d seen the dancing figures,

In the flames that died away,

And seen their passion ebbing,

In the languor of their sway,


I’d smelt the scent of history,

That wove between the trees,

Brought down by leaves of empathy,

Like a wreath around my knees,


For the sanguinity of optimism,

That berates a barren shell,

Is the despondent melancholy,

Of despair I cannot quell.


be there


Original Photo :

You took me to places,

That I’d never been,

And showed me the faces,

That I’d never seen,

You taught me to savour,

Every teardrop of rain,

And taught me to heal,

When I drowned in the pain,

You taught me to run,

When the path was uphill,

And taught me to walk,

When I had no will,

You taught me to love,

To never have enough,

And taught me to give,

When I felt I’d erupt,

You taught me the wisdom,

Of living life well,

And to know that you’d be there,

Every time that I fell.

You Are….



Original Photo :


To me, you are….

The breath of a whisper,

On a warm summer breeze,

The scent of nostalgia,

On a freshly aired sleeve,

You’re the feel of a touch,

On a cool cotton sheet,

And the texture of grass,

On the tips of my feet,

You’re the stars in my night,

And the sun in my day,

The light in my darkness,

And my guide if I stray,

You’re my reason for living,

My need to succeed,

And if anyone hurts you,

They will see that I bleed.


If This Is Love It Hurts……


Photo :


Every time you touch me,

I feel my body tremble,

And every time you reject me,

I feel my senses crumble,

………….If this is love it hurts.


Every time you kiss me,

I feel my soul explode,

And every time you deny me,

I feel my heart implode,

………….If this is love it hurts.


Every time you love me,

I feel no time elapse,

And every time you spurn me,

I feel my world collapse,

………….If this is love it hurts.


Every time you leave me,

I feel you’re coming back,

And every time you’re missing,

I feel no light, just black,

………….If this is love it hurts.


You Should Have Listened To Your Mother

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. A weekly snapshot of mischief and mayhem created by over 100 creative collaborators. A 100 word piece of fiction based on a weekly changing photo prompt. All given shelter under the wide reaching umbrella of Rochelle Wisoff- Fields. Get yourselves over and have a go.

tree2bcrookPhoto Copyright : Madison Wood

A shimmy of torch light snaked across the field, like an army of tiny fire flies gathering on the horizon. Too dark to see faces, he pictured them well enough; furrowed brows, wide eyes. They’d search all night, they always did.

Teasing his hand across his lips, his tongue came out decadently swirling around a finger. The still fresh blood tasting of salt, lead and innocence, perhaps even a hint of cherry. Picking up his rucksack he looked back at the costume he’d left in the tree, whispering in the darkness,

“Your mother always said I was a wolf in sheep’s clothing”





 Photo Copyright : hans van den berg


If I started to weep,

Would you ask me what’s wrong,

Would you open your arms,

 Make me feel I belong,

Would you wrap me in warmth,

And heal me with heat,

Would you kiss away tears,

Let my fears all deplete,

Would you let your hand fall,

And let it tease over skin,

Would you watch my chest rise,

Feel the hard nub within,

Would you lower your mouth,

To the bud that awaited,

And drink from the chalice,

Till your thirst had abated,

If I asked you for more,

Would you know what I need,

Would my sorrow be sated,

Would you let me concede.


This Old House

Time again for Friday Fictioneers. Over a 100 people each week join the merry band of devotees to create a 100 word piece of fiction based on the weekly prompt. You’ll not be shot for going over nor for stepping sideways and finding that your fiction suddenly rhymes (sorry).

I haven’t had chance to catch up with the majority of last weeks entries or to answer the comments on mine, I apologise on bended knee, but life, work and crap got in the way. I promise to do much better this week.


old-wallpaper-mary-shipman (1)Photo : Mary Shipman

Papered lives and layers of time,

Ghosts in mortar, spirits in lime,

Layers of love and life and loss,

Echoes filled of what once was,

Coloured hues with faded lustre,

Patterned still but lacking structure,

Hints of laughter and hints of tears,

Hints of hope and hints of fears,

The kiss we stole, the hidden smile,

The secret look, the wedding aisle,

The child we made, the man we raised,

The house we built, the home we craved,


And now all that’s left is the paper trail,

That hides beneath its faded veil,

But when we’re gone and turned to dust,

You’ll see those layers and remember us.