Tuesday, 4 April 2017

Day Three

Look; an entirely appropriate sun,
As we gather ourselves to gleefully mourn
The Bad Should Ought Must.

A controlling parent, an ego state,
Habitual hangdog habitat,
The Finger-pointing Frowning Angry.

She cared for us destructively, nurtured
Us with blows about the amygdala
Shoulders up, hands on hips.

In six short weeks we've murdered her,
Redeemed the child that can't wish/hope,
No way! Begone the Please Don't Know Won't.

Be something else. Curious. Changeable.
Become the Yeah! I Want Wow Fun,
And bury her everyday in I Love Yous.


  1. 'Blows about the amygdala' - we've all been there before. Superb.


A Fiction

This evening I silently drift In the pleasant fiction of peace Here upon the very field On which no end of battles Have been waged In ...