“The house is full of cards and flowers.
On the dinner table, the tv-stand, the kitchen counter.
The cards are taped to the door.
You don’t get to see them,
but they all mention you.

The house is full of flowers.
Big ones and small ones.
They bloom now that spring’s here.
All different colours and shapes.
You can’t smell them anymore.

Your picture is on the shelf.
A radiant smile against the grey.
You’re with them again.

The house is full of flowers and cards.
All addressed to me,
while they’re meant for you.”

A.V.

the fox all burnt orange brown and soot footed
sat there in the middle of snow field

she had been watching me plod
and scratch my way across the same icy white surface

suddenly she stood and sprinted up the switch back of our common trail and made the tree line

stopping twice she marked me just before disappearing into a patch of thawed trees and dirt

eventually i made my way over to where she had vanished and checked her tracks in the snow

as if they might reveal some greater mystery

do not bother god with your petty little prayers your world weariness and concerns

instead step outside and wander the woods

ponder the melody of swelling rivers

the chemistry of change within the maples and birches

kneel as one season yields to the next

god applauds the woman who builds her own church

the man who seeks his own salvation

The Mars Opportunity Rover
Conked out in 2018
After fourteen years a wandering
Across the dusty plains
Over fifty times
It's life expectancy
The plucky little *******
Rolled on
Finally succumbing
To a massive dust storm
Separated from the sun
Of course
It never uttered
It's famous last words
They were gleaned
From the final data dump
But the internet got hold of it
And in its throat
It had a lump

Oppy didn't
Self anthropomorphise
She did not know what that was
She just died
Scared cold and lonely
In service to her god's

Not reason
but the attitude
that decides whether
you feel bad or good

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

Some things shatter, some things bloom—
A heart breaks open, makes more room.
The glass may fall, the petals rise,
Both telling truths behind a disguise.

A whispered lie, a sudden fight,
A fragile dream that lost its light.
But next to ruin, soft and wide,
A seed begins to stir inside.

Not all that breaks is meant to die,
Not every “no” means asking why.
Some endings come to clear the way
For something better not to stray.

A friendship fades, a season ends,
Yet in the cracks, the sunlight bends.
And somewhere loss becomes a tune—
Some things shatter, some things bloom.

So let the silence find its place,
Let sorrow come with quiet grace.
For what we lose, we sometimes gain—
New roots are watered by the rain.

It’s not all fire, it’s not all doom.
Some things shatter,
Some things bloom.

I see the endings in their birth,
The wilt curled in the bloom,
The echo in the first soft word
That hums of pending gloom.

Yet on I go, with knowing steps,
Down paths that twist and burn
Not for hope, nor fate, nor faith,
But just to feel the turn.

It’s not some tragic grandeur,
No noble, aching art
Just a quiet urge to prove myself
The fool I knew at start.

The world
I can neither change
nor in any way save
but I can
give comfort
or hope
where I engage
and looking back
from the faraway
of time, I'll deem that
the life I've lived
is adequate
with nothing wasted