I have to try to shower everyday 

He says I have to try to shower everyday. He says I have to try to shower everyday because otherwise I’ll Feel guilty. Like I’m sick. Like I’m giving in and giving up.

He says I have to try to shower everyday or at least every second day so I keep my hygiene up and feel better about myself. Like showering is supposed to be an achievement. 

But sometimes getting out of bed is the hardest thing in the world and if it wasn’t for an overwhelming need to pee, I’d never leave it alone. 

Because bed is the safe space. It’s the place where the rest of the world dissolves into a lullaby. It a place where my back aches because we have spent so much time together, comforting each other. Plucking at threads in the sheets like the strings on a cello. Ba boom, bada boom. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and I eventually get up to pee. Sometimes I don’t even bother to wash my hands.

Because washing my hands puts me next to the shower; in front of the mirror that shows my bloated swollen face, puffy eyes of derision and the blank expression of a person filled with apathy. 

So I go back to bed, unshowered, hands unwashed, teeth unbrushed, pills not taken. I go back to my bed where even the sheets seem sick of my company but my apathy continues and I just crawl under the covers to hide. 

Some days, I hear him singing in the back of my head, like a repeating lyric on a scratched record. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and so I wash my hands after I pee. I take my pills. I am again exhausted. So I go back to bed with my sore back and aching muscles and a soaring aria of lethargy. 

And then at some point. Some time. On an unexpected moment, when his lilting voice has reverberated in my mind, in just the right way, I rise. I rise slowly and lumber to the bathroom. My footsteps echo. Ba boom, bada boom. 

I stare at the shower. It will take every piece of my flagging energy to get undressed. 

I comply. 

Naked, completely exposed and beyond weary, I hear the bed singing to me. But his song is shriller. 

He says I have to try to shower everyday and it’s already been three. I step inside and turn on the faucets. The scalding rain cascades down. I am so grimy that even the stinging hot water doesn’t cleanse me. And it leaves my wounded soul raw and red. But it hides the tears streaming down my face as my breath heaves to a familiar tune. Ba boom, bada boom. 

The chorus repeats in my head as I wrap myself in a towel. Because he is right. It *is* an Achievement and I have to try to shower everyday. 


Poetry challenge (Dec 9, 2016)

Words given: Brussels sprouts, unicorn farts

Time <10 minutes
Alice was drowning in doubts

Of her skill to grow fab Brussel sprouts

So she dug with a pole

And fell down a hole

And found wonderland stuck in a drought. 
She met a wizard without any cares

And a queen with violent red hair 

But she continued her walk

Never stopping to talk

Until she across a big pair
The Tweedle boys stuttered in starts

And hated that bitch queen of hearts. 

But they smelled really bad

And Alice became very sad

When they claimed it was unicorn farts
So she bottled that crap as a scent

Then started her rocky ascent

Returned to her field

Saw the crops had no yield

And became famous as Yves St Laurent


With hate, hope dies. 

~ December 


He was not to know that (Poetry Challenge #3)

For this poetry challenge, I needed to include:

  • Hippo-potenuse
  • Pedunculate
  • Never Ending Lubrication
  • Spherical

I decided the best way to address this was by a visual poem. Concrete poetry (visual poems) are one of my favourites because you use more than just language to evoke a response.

I hope you enjoy it.

He was not to know that.

He was not to know that.

Grippo the Hippo slid down the imaginary hippo-potenuse, uncertain if he would reach a stick bottom – which was spherical, of course. Of course, the stalk, (not stork) carrying the wet pedunculates like a laden tumour had never ending lubrication but he was not to know that.

My husband the pedant

(Poetry Challenge #2)

Pre-requisites – use the phrases “my husband the pedant” and “asparagus souffle”

Time given 2 hours.


Oh husband

Dear husband

My husband the pedant


The misuser of the words

the Malapropism advocate

you doth work your wisdom poorly.


Poorly like zucchini

or broccoli

or asparagus souffle


My husband the pedant

cooks so well

and speaks without thought

for rhyme or reason

or temerity.

The keeper of the Sheeps (poetry challenge #1)

I was given ten minutes to write this poem. Challenge given by Ian Medland.

Pre req: about keeper of the Sheeps.

A Life Well Lived

Grandma’s sitting in her rocking chair
Her face all wrinkled like a dried up pear
But I see a sparkle deep in her eyes
And I wonder if she’s still full of surprise.

Did Grandma have a rebellious streak?
Or were you a good girl – shy and meek?
Did you get caught going out at night?
Or kissing boys then running in fright?

Did you stand up for the rights of girls
Or be the glory in tiara and pearls?
I wonder Grandma about your youth
With the wisdom you’ve gained and your moral truth.

What frightens you now, and was it scarier then?
Did the years whiz by or did each take ten?
Were you happy with your life and where it went?
Did you value your time and where it was spent?

I look at you Gran with your weathered hands
And I’m sure you do more than just understand.
You have a wisdom that I’ve never known
And a strong sense of will that’s all home grown.

Can you share some of the world you’ve seen
And help me become a better me?
Because books are good but they aren’t you.
I am your future and I haven’t a clue.

Tell me your story and leave nothing out.
The life well lived or messed about
I’ll stay here right next to you
And we’ll just chat all night through.

I’ve so much to learn from your witty tales:
Just you and me and those juicy details.



List me the blues

That you see in the world

Show me the bright colours

With your meanings unfurled.

Blues are the saddest

of moments we’ve found

When blues are the winners

on the football sportsground.

Blues are the aquas

and turquoise of greens

And blues are the mountains

In Sydney’s postcard scenes.

Blues are to clues while

blue lines up with poles

The Pollack of artists is

to see and behold.

The blue heeler or

Blue in the berry

The blue sits ‘tween the devil

And the deep blue sea.

Here are more blues

For I cannot rest yet

Blue chips in stock markets

and Blue ribbons on chests

There’s no blue without

orange and yellow

And Little Boy Blue

Was a colourful fellow

With a bolt from the blue

We found blue care.

Beyond blue would help us

In our blue-blood despair.

The blue of the whale,

The cross and the card

The blue light disco and the

band “blue” who died hard.

Yet when I’m thinking

Of all that is blue

Tis this little blue planet

Which I most turn to.

So there is my list

Of the blues and the blue

Which ones have I missed?

Well, I now turn to you.








The Pit of Depression

Down down down
Into a quagmire of

Thick ooze congeals
Pressing on me.
I cannot breathe.
Unable to fight.

Asparagus fingers
Hold me under
The wet mass fills my nostrils
And leaves an acrid oversweet tang
On my tongue.

Stronger than the quiet between your toes.
Louder than the roar between your ears.

This solitude has its comforts
But like spaghetti,
Its tendrils are never ending.

I spiral slowly
Spinning toward the nothingness below.

The anger beats freshly in my chest
Curling open its lips
And unleashing an almighty roar
That is swallowed
By the eternal thick goo.

This is my moment. My epiphany.
It is my time to strike.
But then
Lethargy and ambivalence
Force me to succumb
And I am drowned by my

Previous Older Entries