Gold Coast Writer’s Association Author of the Week!

Gold Coast Writer’s Association Author of the week

author of the week

‘Our author of the week, is Jennifer Calvert of Ink and Quill, author and poet who just released her first book, Horns and Halos.
You can find this book at Amazon.com https://www.amazon.com/Horns-Halos-Mrs-Jennife…/…/1975928253 or Smashwords https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/746721

Her book, Horns and Halos is a collection of Jennifer’s poetry.
Poetry is fluid and interchanging based on emotion and perception. It allows both the poet and the reader to discover and interpret the words, for themselves.
Life is a lot like poetry, ever-changing, unique, flexible, forever challenging the mind, and flooding the senses.

Horns & Halo’s was written to convey this sense of self through both emotion and experience.
Horns& Halo’s connects the written word, with the real world. No bullshit, no sugar-coating, just upfront and raw…
BOLD AND STRONG

A bit about this brilliant author, Jennifer Calvert is an Australian poet/writer. Jennifer has a Bachelor of Arts, majors in Writing and Media. Is a mother of two beautiful young daughters, an Early Childhood Educator and is always busy creating beautiful, thought-provoking poetry.’

Such an honour to be GCWA’S author of the week. Such an inspiring and supportive community. So happy to be apart of this!

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Poetry by Amanda Eifert

” The Writings On The Wall Reveal You”

 

——
Am I real?
When you look at me,
Do you see me for me?
Do you care what you see?
I’ve only questions,
While you play your cards close.
I’m not going to cheat,
Peer at your hand because —
I’m afraid what I’ll see.
Such truths, I don’t want to gaze upon —
Unfaithfulness,
Only physicality, sexuality;
No emotion or affection,
No conversation in person,
No Voice stroking voice.
—–
Hands speak with our words,
Eyes glint and reveal,
Secrets you’d rather hide,
With sunglasses.
Staring at your hand,
Trying to beat my cards.
Poker face silent, emotionless;
All bets are off.
Time to show me your cards,
What the river dealt you —
Matters not; but for now,
Play how you like.
Fold if you’re scared,
Of falling into deep,
Of feeling emotion.
Your heart picking-up,
Thumping a beat.
——
But, perhaps, I’m a woman for fodder,
For a lonely night at home.
Perhaps, I’m not pretty enough,
Not thin enough for you.
Maybe, you know I’ll ask questions?
Questions you have trouble answering.
Maybe, you know —
I’ll turn the wanderer in your soul home,
And welcome you in my arms.
Maybe you’re not ready,
Perhaps, your only an ass.
A nice way of saying,
Other words I want to shout.
Perhaps, I’m only a date —
And one night.
Is this how you treat women?
I’m too strong for your tricks.
——-
You may forget my face,
My name, my body.
You may let me do the walk of shame,
Thinking I’m fooled by you,
The man I liked all along;
You may believe —
Finally, you wore me down.
And now I’m flattened,
Nothing left to sculpt,
Nothing left to shatter.
Smithereens, glass embedded.
You may have led me astray,
Made me consider:
I no longer think,
Some guys are good,
And some guys do care.
——
But when I chose you,
Maybe I didn’t realize,
I was choosing all wrong.
Maybe, I should’ve gazed above me —
Seen the ‘writings on the wall.’
Seen the woman in her glory,
Waiting for her own life,
On wings to rise and fly;
From your lies and tricks;
You didn’t shatter me,
I saw all the writings,
Every word on that damn wall,
I know all your horrific secrets;
And I read them all.

 

“The Darkest Faeries”

——
The wings of a faerie, a delicate lace.
Transparent and glowing with,
Each faeries myriad colour choice.
You can see their wings flash,
When the sun begins to set;
When echoes of the rainbow,
Give one the illusion of colours bold.
But it’s the faeries who are —
As beautiful as they’re deadly,
Luring children to their faerie lands.
Turning your infants to faeries,
To live many ages;
To play wicked games, faeries play.
—-
They’ve no offspring so they steal,
A babe fed; left in their crib.
Mothers are distraught,
Be not surprised; it’s what faeries do.
You’ve heard the tales and watched,
As your mother, and her mother before her.
Still you cry and sob;
Picking-up your biggest kitchen knife.
Faeries are terrible beings,
We read false truth about,
They don’t actually want to help.
They’re evil when alive too long.
——-
Faeries so tiny,
Keep their race alive.
Promptly, wave their hands;
The wisps of their garments,
Sleeves like streamers trailing long.
Chanting magic ancestors taught,
They curse your darlings with bright wings.
And turn you and you husband away,
Searching for,
Your their stolen little ones.
Though your broken-hearted mother,
You keep up your fight.
You want your children to grow,
Not become an evil faerie;
Live a Millennium to burn.
——-
Faeries lead astray those,
Who try to capture them.
You who yearn for your babes,
To get your children home.
As faeries, your darlings grow in the blink of an eye;
Become adult faeries in days,
Not knowing they were humans young,
Merely, days ago.
——
Mother’s sorely missing kids,
Are wandering the forest for —
Where ancient faeries hide.
Faeries lie to stolen babes,
Say they were unwanted,
So the faeries gave them home.
And rainbow wings to one day,
Catch the eye of yet more babes.
Lost before a parent sees,
A child stolen gone.
——
Faeries change your young,
Dawning them with gossamer wings,
Knowledge of mischief and celebration.
A faeries life is of none-stop festivity,
With little meaning;
And no knowledge do faeries posses,
But the knowledge to take;
Those you hold so dear–
It’s why you burn their wings,
In the candle lit at night;
So, they will never curse your home,
And bring you a mother’s tears,
——
Why you learned to take your knife,
And kill the old faeries weird,
To end their malicious games.
Take back your children,
Undo the magic faeries formed.
You’ll burn and stab their wings all night,
Until your children,
And your neighbour’s young,
Are finally, safe at home.
So the faeries fade away.
Die out with no offspring,
Because of you;
Your child lives.
And never will you cry again,
From a fairy interfering.
You, most feisty mother,
For your perseverance, you have won.

Shadorma: “Women War Not Alone”

—–
Such times as,
The ones she lives through.
She conforms,
Yet wants more.
Sees hurt, it perpetuates;
Never healing whole.
—-
Self-harm and —
Hate common, if she–
Keeps hurting;
Harms others–
Hate with false judgement, it wins.
Woman, think thoughtfully.
—–
End the pain,
Close the doors so she,
Locks terror,
Out in cold.
An unforgiving night, reminds —
Her, fight gently.
—–

Keep working;
I know her battle,
It’s as old,
As the earth.
Men and women must fight for,
Prosperity.
—–
If only,
For a moment’s time,
Pax, and rest.
She is wise,
For seeing tomorrow’s pain;
Unburdens those lame.
——-
Light in the,
Darkness, shines, provides —
Glimmer of,
Hope, assured —
Fighting, with her words and sword;
Hoping for happiness.
——
Good prevails.
Light’s glow permanent.
Good’s older.
She drinks wine;
Thinking of mornings, sunrise —
Reminds her she’s loved.
—–
Leaves on tree,
Dusting her path yet,
Leaves mark the —
Passing of,
Seasons; each one she shines light,
Earth keeps turning while —
—–
She worries,
Weeping in bad times,
She doesn’t
Forget what,
Was fought for at heavy cost,
She lives; others fought —
——
For her now.
Because in their time,
They had few —
Rights at all.
Doing wife’s duty despite,
Desire for freedom — rights.
——
She looks for,
Light in the tunnel,
At the end–
Of the war.
She fights not alone; she holds —
Strength in her faith bold.
——
For her God,
Never gives up, for —
Women so —
Precious; God–
Created Man and her equals.
Partners; she’s not less.
——-
Complement,
She smiles because she —
Knows inner —
Completeness.
Remembers God’s son best knows,
Inequality.

Biography:

Amanda is a writer, blogger, and student in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. She has a BA in English Literature, a certificate in Residential Design, and is pursuing an online MFA at UBC in May 2017. She loves being creative and imaginative in her writing. She enjoys drawing and acrylic painting, dogs, hanging with her friends and family, Netflix, scrapbooking, and yoga. Amanda blogs at: www.mandibelle16.wordpress.com.

Poem’s by Lele Harris

Beauty of The Lost Mind

by Lele Harris

LELE

Is it the face among which I appear?

Is it the craft of clothing that I wear?

Is it the image of another soul whom I loved?

Is it the texture of my skin that I pursue?

Is it the spoken words which rattles my mouth?

Is it the pride of guilt who caused me pain?

Is it the song of my voice which leads another heart?

What is it within the beauty of my lost mind?

Changes Of Nature ; Seasons Of Change

By Lele Harris

clock

The sun shines.
The moon glows.
Peace is a great feeling when the wind blows.
The grass is green.
The flowers bloom.
The chirp of the birds makes your soul gloom.

Nature is there.
Nature is here.
The seasons of change when times are near.
The mind rests.
It’s time to think clear.
The silence of people talking will have you in a cheer.
Let your light shine through troubles.
Let your light shine through sorrows.
It’s all a gift when you see a smile.
The next time you pray rejoice for a while.
The heart is full of happiness.
The soul meek in joy.
Spring is here.
The changes of nature will now glow.

Positive People, Positive Life, Positive Vibes

The more I take a look around I either see a face with a smile or a face upside down.

Where is the happiness among those you choose to hang with, unless they are not the ones to play with?

What happened to the times you laughed, talked, & smiled? Was there not enough room for others to share your proud?

This may not be the only time you worked hard & thought of being a failure. You can not forget God lifts us up when our work is always heavier.

Try to remember that Joy always come in the morning. Is it not so of you having faith or are you in mourning?

Take my shoulder for you to lean on. We all need someone to help & keep us lifted up, just someone you can depend on.

Smile your day is already here. For God loves you more & more & you definitely won’t have to shed another tear.

Positive people, positive life, & positive vibes is what you need. No more of sad frowns & keep in mind God hears your every need.

Hello.
It is very nice to have the opportunity to have three of my poems of my choice published. I am from Mississippi. Each poem represents motivation and a time in which I was going through my toughest life situations and only God could bring me out of. I hope I get the chance to inspire others and make a difference in this world. May God continue to bless each and every one of you.
And remember to always Stay Blessed & Stay Encouraged.

Lele

 

Guest Writer On Ink & Quill: Adam Dixon

Todays guest writer on Ink & Quill, is Adam Dixon. Adam is the very talented and creative fiction writer at Adam Dixon Fiction. I was thrilled when Adam offered to write a short story, especially for this feature; LIVE A LITTLE.

Please follow the links and show your support to a talented new writer.

adam d
NAME: Adam Dixon

COUNTRY: England, United Kingdom

AGE: 24
Please tell us a little about yourself:

I was born in Carshalton in 1992 and gave grown into a scrawny, bespectacled nerd with a passion for history, literature and all things fantastical. I studied English and History at the University of Sussex and I currently live in Woodingdean, Brighton. It is my ambition to become an author as I have dreamed of writing stories for a living since I was a child. I write short stories in my spare time and I publish them on my blog Adam Dixon Fiction

When did you first start writing?

I first started writing when I was very young, probably around ten years old. Previously, I had had aspirations of becoming an artist, but I quickly came to realise that I preferred the creation of images through words and imagination rather than by brushes and paint.

What does writing mean to you? Why do you write?

Writing provides me with a creative outlet which makes me incredibly happy, and even more so when people respond to my work.

‘The sight of my ink-stained fingers and pages of scribbled words in front of me never fails to satisfy me.’

 

Do you write poetry, short stories and/or novels?

I currently write short stories because I am enjoying the discipline it requires. I am also working on a sci-fi novel which is very much in its early stages, but it is still very exciting! I’d like to try my hand at poetry in the future, but I find the idea extremely daunting, especially since I have discovered such talented poets on WordPress!

Where do you find your writing motivation and inspiration?

I am constantly reading, (a trait inherited from my mum), and it fosters in me a desire to write my own stories as well as providing a vast source of inspiration to draw from. I also find inspiration from conversations, television programs and real-life events. Anything that can spark an idea in my mind and get the creative ball rolling.

What are your current projects?

I am currently working on a couple of short stories for my blog. One is a crime thriller and the other is a supernatural fantasy. As previously mentioned, I am also working on a sci-fi novel. I am also a student with the Writer’s Bureau and am currently enrolled in its Creative Writing Course.

Writers/poets who inspire and influence your own writing?

I am a massive Stephen King fan and his work has inspired the darker side of my writing on several occasions. My favourite books to read are fantasy, and the works of David Gemmell, Robert Jordan, Christopher Paolini, J.K. Rowling and J.R.R. Tolkien, to name but a few, constantly inspire me.

Have you any published works, or do you plan on publishing in the future?

Unfortunately I don’t have any works published yet, but I hope to in the future.

Tell us about your writing process:

In the last year I’ve become a convert to the idea that “writers just write”, and by that I mean that if I want to write something then I have to sit down and write it. I find a slot in my day where I can devote my energy to writing and I put words on to paper. I’ve found that this helps me work through any stagnant ideas I might be having difficulty with and that the spectre of “writer’s block” doesn’t really frighten me anymore.

In terms of my surroundings, I have realised that I can pretty much write anywhere as long as I actually get started. Complete silence unnerves me, so I like to have at least a little bit of background noise, be it the chatter of a café or some instrumental music on Youtube.

Do you have a specific writing style/genre?

I used to think that all I could write was fantasy stories, but since I started my blog I have realised that I can try my hand at a few other genres as well, with some degree of success. In terms of style, I seem to gravitate towards character-driven stories with a twist at the end, more often than not a dark one.

Do you have any advice for other writers?

‘Keep writing; it is the best way to stay motivated and maintain your creative energy.’

 

Please share your favourite piece/s with us and a brief description of the inspiration behind it:

I’m attaching a short story called ‘Live a Little’ to this email.
I asked Jen during our correspondence whether or not she would like me to write something brand new for this guest post, and she said that she would. The inspiration for this story came to me when I was getting into my Dad’s car we both automatically reached for our seat-belts. A mocking voice in the back of my head suggested that I “live a little” and remain unbuckled in my seat. I didn’t like the sound of this voice and I had no idea where it had come from, but I noted it down in my phone along with what would later end up serving as the final line to this story. I filed the idea away for a few months and decided to complete it for this guest post.

Live a Little

By Adam Dixon

I can still remember the night that I died; it’s seared into my mind like a cattle brand, white-hot and permanent. I can still hear the sound of my own laughter in my ears coupled with the cheers and encouragement of my friends. I can still feel the bitter wind tearing at my hair and clothes as I waved my arms above my head. I can still see the painted lines on the tarmac racing past in a blur of white. I’d never felt so alive, and I’d never been so reckless. It was all their fault.

The party had been a riot. A mutual friend had just joined us in the ranks of the over-25s and we four were still buzzing from it. Jen hadn’t wanted to leave, but Bradley had insisted. He never would back down once he’d got an idea into his head, and Jen never would resist him for long. I’d have happily gone home, myself. If only I’d said something, then maybe all this wouldn’t of happened. But I didn’t, and sometime after midnight myself, Jen and her older brother, Steve, all piled into Bradley’s car and set off down the motorway. We were laughing and joking, singing loudly and badly to whatever was on the radio and passing a bottle of vodka around. The familiar burn in my throat and the rush of alcohol to my head was as exhilarating as ever, and I soon got in the mood to find another party.

But it was then that I noticed how drunk Bradley was. He was blinking rapidly behind the wheel, grinning like an idiot and slurring his words whenever he spoke. He hadn’t seemed that bad before, but then again we hadn’t really been watching him. I’d told Jen to keep an eye on him, damn it! At one point Steve said something which made him laugh and he sent us careening across two lanes! The motorway was deserted, of course, but still…

After a while I asked Bradley to slow down. He wasn’t listening because Jen had her hand on his crotch and was whispering something to him as she caressed him through his jeans. Steve was being a nuisance; he seemed to think that because I was drunk I would be doing the same. I can still feel him nuzzling my neck as one hand clumsily pawed my breasts and the other slid up my skirt…I can still hear the ‘crack!’ as I slapped him, too. Christ, that was satisfying, and it succeeded in finally getting Bradey and Jen’s attention.
“Oi, what the hell are you playin’ at back there?” Bradley thundered, glaring at me via the rear-view mirror. Steve was stunned, rubbing his cheek and staring at the back of Jen’s seat.

“Oh, Lisa’s just bein’ a spoilsport, babe!” Jen mocked, rolling her decorated eyes and flicking her perfect hair. “Looks like she doesn’t wanna have some fun with Steve. Can’t blame her, really, he is an ugly bastard!”
“Oi!” Steve protested, still rubbing his cheek. He wasn’t that ugly, but drunk or not I didn’t appreciate him being so forward.
“C’mon, Lees!” Bradley said, annoyed. I hated it when he called me that! “What’s wrong with old Steve-O, anyway? C’mon, live a little, for fuck’s sake!”
“Shut up, Bradley,” I spat, but secretly I felt bad for hitting Steve. That was the effect that Bradley had on people: he was too bloody good at making you feel like the bad guy.

The next few minutes consisted of Bradley and Jen laughing about how uncool I was and how much of a stick-in-the-mud I could be. I angrily disagreed with them, of course, but it really got under my skin. Steve didn’t say much, he just carried on sitting there looking like a kicked puppy. Maybe it was the drink, but I was suddenly determined to prove them wrong.

“I’m not boring, I can do anything you twats can!” I said after downing another mouthful of liquid fire.
“That so?” Bradley asked, still laughing. “I don’t believe you, Lees. Look, you’ve still got your bleedin’ seat-belt on for a start! Why can’t you live a little?”
“Fine!” I had practically ripped my seat-belt off at that remark. I immediately felt it was a bad idea, but I ignored the thought. Big mistake.
“Oooh, look at the balls on you, babe!” Jen had twisted round in her seat to flash a big, stupid grin at me. I felt like we were back in the school playground. “Betcha won’t do anything else though! Betcha wouldn’t lean out of the window while we’re movin’, would you? Nah, course not, you’re too much of a wimp!”
“Just watch me, bitch!” I said and moved towards my window. I remember clearly the struggle I had unwinding the stupid thing, and the memory comes to me in slow motion.

It’s torture to recall it, to remember how I gripped the cold roof of the car with one arm as I leaned my torso out into the night. I even lifted my leg and rested my thigh on the thin glass so that I was more out of the car than inside. The wind buffeted me and tore a gasp from my lungs as I steadied myself. I remember squealing like a giddy child as I raised first one arm, then both into the air as my soul rejoiced at my freedom.

“You see me now, you arseholes!” I screeched at them, laughing deliriously. “I can fucking do anything!” They were laughing too and even Steve was cheering. It was fantastic. It was fatal. Leaning out of a car travelling at ninety miles per hour driven by an intoxicated monkey in a shirt has consequences. Nobody saw how close to the edge of the railings Bradley had gotten until it was far, far too late.
Now I’m trapped in a lonely existence on this barren stretch of asphalt, doomed to watch speeding cars and fester with impotent rage.
Live a little, they had said….
They all wear their seat-belts now.

Guest Poet On Ink & Quill: Al Lane

I’d like to welcome my next guest on Ink and Quill, Al Lane, from Al The Author, a writer of poetry and songs, for both children and adults. As Al says in his interview, he like most writers, is searching for his voice. It seems his children have helped him find his niche and passion, which I can really relate to.

al

NAME: Alistair Lane. Al to my friends. We’re all friends here, right?

COUNTRY: England

AGE: 38

 

Please tell us a little about yourself:

I am a writer, of stories, of poems, of songs, of whimsical ditties and heartbreaking ballads. Of haiku and rhymes, for children and adults, on Star Wars and superheroes and zombies and love and clouds and puddles and cake. Of words that will lift and inspire… and (sometimes) words that don’t quite work. That clunk and crash.

‘But without the permission to make mistakes, we can never really free ourselves from our shackles. Stick with me while I’m finding my voice.’

 

When did you first start writing?

I like to think I’ve always had something of a way with written words (certainly more so than my verbal ability!), but the inciting incident was the birth of my eldest son six years ago. We started reading to him from an early age, as many parents do, and the rhythm of those rhyming picture books (especially Julia Donaldson) got into my system. It infected me from top to toe.

Reading to my son was an amazing way to bond, and something that he really responded to (his reading ability now is incredible)… who wouldn’t want to be able to generate that reaction from their own words? So, I started trying to write rhyming picture books, and developed from there into children’s poetry, short stories, and poems for adults too.
This has helped me to “find my voice”, but also it helps to keep things interesting, to constantly challenge myself to write in different styles, for different audiences. I have just started a screenwriting course for this exact reason.

What does poetry mean to you?

‘Poetry is the distilled expression of a moment. It encompasses the history of the universe, and the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. It is the universal and the personal, the bludgeon and the rapier, the heartbreak and the rapture.’

 

It is a way for me to communicate the more interesting (I hope) ideas that pass through my head, and give them a form that (I hope) merits attention.

I’m also a big believer in keeping poetry accessible. I’m an intelligent person. I don’t need to demonstrate this by using obscure, fancy words, and don’t react favourably to other poets who write this way. (Anything that distances the poet from the audience bemuses me, for one.) I’m all for layers of meaning, and finding the perfect word, but there’s a reason that many people profess not to like poetry, and such intellectual snobbishness perpetuates this.

I believe that one of my strengths is the ability to keep things simple, while also conveying wider themes. Although I’m serious about my craft, I don’t take myself, or my poetry, too seriously. Profound messages can be put across behind a veneer of fun. For proof of this, check out how often Dr Seuss’ quotes are used for writers’ motivation!

What might inspire you to write a poem? How does a poem begin for you, with an idea, a form or an image?

I take part in a number of poetry/ haiku challenges – I enjoy taking the prompt words and bending them to my own shape. I will play with the words in my head, looking for an interesting angle to take, trying to avoid the obvious where possible. Often, especially with haiku challenges, I write a whole stream of unrelated haiku, using the words in different ways, some comic, some serious, some direct, others more layered. I enjoy the mental workout this gives me.

For unprompted work, the ideas can come from anywhere – lines from TV shows, films, print media, books, something I hear on the bus, fun turns of phrase that my boys come out with… I make a note of the idea on my phone, and work it over in my mind, seeing if it develops. Some don’t. I have numerous ideas recorded on my phone that will never go anywhere. But if something sparks, or I get an idea for a refrain… then I will develop it into something more substantial. I literally had one line pop into my head while I was in the shower last night – “these words, alone, to woo” – and have written a poem around that theme, with that as a recurring end line.

All of my ideas revolve around words, and ideas. I am not a visual thinker (even for picture book texts that I’ve written, I have no strong ideas of what the characters look like). I love language and playing with words, and follow them down alleys and cul-de-sacs to see what might become of them.

Which writers/poets inspire and influence your own writing?

My favourite authors are Neil Gaiman and Douglas Adams. They are both huge influences, in terms of style and sense of humour.
In terms of poets, I have binged on children’s poetry in the last couple of years. Allan Ahlberg and Julia Donaldson are probably my top picks there. I do get frustrated by the number of instantly forgettable, single joke poems that persist in the world of children’s poetry publishing. We can do better for our children. Joseph Coelho is a notable recent exception to this trend.

I have a range of poetry books and pamphlets that I dip into – I read different poets every day, for different reasons, studying their turns of phrase, or the way they use rhythm, or rhyme. In the reading pile, I currently have: Roger McGough, Shel Silverstein (big fan), Roald Dahl, Jim Carroll, Billy Collins, Spike Milligan, Ogden Nash, Michael Rosen, TS Eliot, WH Auden, John Hegley, Emily Dickinson, Philip Larkin…

The poet who has had the biggest influence recently is definitely Billy Collins. I binge-purchased half a dozen of his books. I’ll never finish them, because every time I read one of his poems, it inspires me to write one of my own, riffing off a phrase that he has used, or an idea that he’s created in me.

I should also give a nod here to two musicians, whose lyrics have a very poetic quality, in differing ways: David Bowie, and Nick Cave. The combination of music and poetry, in such hands, is intoxicating.

Has your idea of what poetry is changed since you began writing poems?

I don’t think so: it’s such a personal, malleable thing anyway. My appreciation of poetry, good poetry, though – that’s a different matter. The more I read, the more I appreciate.

Tell us about your writing process: Pen and paper, computer, notes?

Everything starts on my smartphone. I commute to work on the bus, and use that time (plus any snatched moment around the clock) to draft and edit poems and story ideas, texting them to myself with each revision. I don’t like typing them up on the laptop – there’s something about seeing the words on a computer screen that’s too final, when the text may not actually be ready yet.

I sometimes make notes with pen and paper, but that tends to be at the brain-storming phase, taking a word and expanding out the possibilities contained within it, until I find something that fires my imagination.

When my phone needed repair last year, I didn’t write a single poem in the week I went without it. My process, as well as managing my life, is totally dependent on it!

Please share your favourite piece/s with us and a brief description of the inspiration behind it:

This is my favourite recent poem: Al The Author: Ten Tired Parents I met the author of the children’s rhyming picture book Ten Little Pirates at a writer’s conference last year, and gushed to him (at the bar!) about how much my youngest son loved his book… We became Facebook friends, and I made a joke at the time about writing another one in that series for grown-ups. As happens often, I didn’t do anything with that idea. And then, recently we were invited by friends to come and spend the weekend with them while they were on holiday with their young children… I wrote this on the way home, with all of those previous elements coming together at once. Some of it may be autobiographical!
I sometimes adopt personas for poems, or write about ideas or positions that I don’t agree with, or haven’t experienced. Not this one. This one is very personal, and self-explanatory – a haiku on first meeting your newborn baby –

Haiku: ‘Tight and Warm’

baby

Newborn fingers grip
Warm, soft skin seeking comfort
From here, I am hooked
This limerick is in a similar vein –

Limerick: Birth

child

On the wonderful day of your birth
I was the happiest person on Earth
Now you teach me each day
In your own special way
How much this life truly is worth