Poem published in a pamphlet by Popshot/AITU and exhibted with its illustration by Rachel Lovatt in the AITU exhibition, Norfolk & Norwich Festival 2012.   http://popshotpopshot.com/AITUpaper.pdf  

Poem published on Ink Sweat & Tears. http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=3533

http://literania.tumblr.com/post/30391676316/a-poem   (in honour of Sam)    every book is holy, can be  a bible  so put your name next to mine  on the flyleaf  and spread the words

A poem created using only symbols from the periodic table. http://kumquatpoetry.tumblr.com/post/29399637462/poetry-prompt-3-mithros-mo-rn-in-gd-by-flo-reynolds   Fr O S Ti Mo Rn In Gd O W N Be Y O Nd Th Er I V Er: S U N Br In Ge Rg Ra Nd I O Se K In Ge

Except her eyes, purple sea anemones wedged under the crevice of her brow, everything about her was white – hair, skin, stick. She bled around the edges, outshone to insubstantial paleness by the neon orange jacket of the guard, who was holding her arm as they walked crabwise through the puddle in the gutter. There she caught her stick a split second on the platform and set the puddle all a-flutter like a windsock made of mercury. She sat stiff-necked, watching hawklike at something unimaginable - who knows? Maybe everything is dark and thick when you are blind, or white and misty - while we waited for the 3.57 to Basingstoke.   first published and cherrypicked on ABCTales.com http://www.abctales.com/story/arfellian/blind-woman-clapham-junction

I can’t bring myself to mention that the mince pies I bought for her two Christmases ago are still in the fridge behind the three- and-a-half boxes of chocolate brazils (that she can’t eat, now her front teeth have gone AWOL) and have probably gone slimy. And I can’t say that even the apple juice – which you’d think would be safe in its foil- lined carton – tastes dusty. To say so would be akin to remarking that despite the lithographs of Tintern Abbey on the wall and her favourite Celtic cross-stitch patterns she hasn’t been in Wales (albeit Monmouthshire – but that’s another argument she will win) since she left in 1953: in other words this would be asking for the lectures on how she followed her husband dutifully to Iran, the Congo, Saudi Arabia and even – God forbid – Ireland; and the story about how she saved her life (and more importantly her reputation) with a packet of Benson & Hedges when kidnapped by guerrillas in Bolivia. I won’t bring myself to criticise the drawer where she still saves bits of string for tying potential packages, old tin foil, balloons, and stripy straws that were...

First, you must plant your feet in the ground, and draw Up water by capillary action until your toes go pruny (this shrivelling is essential – it’s part of the magic). Then take a deep breathe and hold it. Stay as still as Saint Kevin until you have sucked in all the CO2, then breathe out The nitrogen and oxygen. You may find it easier To whittle out the unwanted air by whistling As you exhale. Step three is to wait for some bright Sunshine. Savour its warmth on your skin. Your eyes Will turn green. Keep them open, and stare into the sun. Now you are photosynthesising. You’ll feel a tingle In your bloodstream – try not to panic, ladies and gentlemen, This is perfectly normal. When you have photosynthesised enough To have built up some stores of waste products, Set aside your resins and gums. Now, here’s one I made earlier. Watch as I unscrew my ribs And open up from the sternum; you will see a hard and woody Centre. It’s dead wood. As I have expanded My core has died. But so that I do not become All hollow on the inside I plug My...

I read somewhere that folding a thousand origami cranes will breathe life into a wish, send it whispering into reality, blowing away problems with the breeze of its wingbeats, dispersing them as if they were as substantial as smoke. Impossible for me to part with the greatest treasure, my magic love you are. So every piece of paper that I’d shredded and torn and scrunched up in the misery of hearing your prognosis I unfolded and uncurled and used the impressions, so like the crowsfeet that make your face a harvest time  of the best life, to fold anew a billion birds, and even they were worth only a fraction of the value of you.   First published and cherrypicked at ABCTales.com http://www.abctales.com/story/arfellian/wish

He tricked me with pomegranate; somehow he knew That I couldn’t resist that blood diamond juice And the crunch of tiny teardrop seeds. My mother always said That he was no good, that he was all darkness, And gloom, and mildewed cobwebs; not like our webs That are dazzling in dew and dawn, our buds and berries, The Midas green of new hawthorn leaves. He drinks the waters Of the Stix, treacly and turbulent, not like our Chattering streams and adder-zag rivers. I missed the birds, the sound of the trees sucking up Sap from their roots, the rustle and tiptoe of Tiny unseen feet, the dances of the millipedes and The phosphorescent crocus pollen weighing down the bees Like saddlebags loaded with precious treasures. He, Hades, was winter and cruelty and death. Me, All runny honey suppleness and an April morning’s misty breath… But then he tricked me with that pomegranate. I cried. I remembered my mother’s words too late. Luckily it was All sorted out by Hermes, he was a true crème de la crème diplomat. But still I had to sojourn in the underworld. There is no garden here, except that around the Stix; All the...