My poetry has been published in magazines, most recently in Drey Magazine which is published by Squirrel Press.  My first collection is due to be published by Valley Press in February 2013.

The sky darkened and the air filled
with the buzz of wings.  I thought
they were locusts, here in the city
on a Monday afternoon, but they
were jaunty little hats, little fascinators
with tiny feathers and scraps of lace
that struck to my fingers.  Then
a cloud of straw chupallas festooned  
with a rainbow of ribbons settled
on my knees, my calves, my feet.
Tutti frutti hats, with minute fruit
alighted on my shoulders, and on
my arms. The hats chirruped like birds. 

I laughed. 

A squadron of forage caps whirred
through the air in formation,
taxied up my back and perched
in rows.  Skullcaps, red as mushrooms
latched on to each other to construct
a satin breastplate.  Dull tweed caps
piled up on my head, skittered over
my neck and chin.  Steel helm
carapaces crashed ponderously 
onto my belly, down my thighs,
over my buttocks.  Black fedoras 
fluttered onto my eyes, across my cheek
bones, over my ears, into my open mouth.

I tried to scream.

I could not shake them off.  They settled to a susurration of
micro movements.  I heard them whisper ‘You are part of the collection’.

You’re a jar of organic acacia honey
You’re Inland Revenue windfall money
You’re a pair of shiny brand new shoes
You’re Nina Simone singing soulful blues

You’re the blue iridescence on the wing of a jay
You’re a telephone bill that I don’t have to pay
You’re the spark and flame of an open fire
You’re sweet lemon tea when I start to tire

You’re the crystal water of a Scottish burn
You’re the airborne grace of an arctic tern
You’re the moon reflected on a pond in the park
You’re candle light in a tunnel’s dark

You’re the feather bed where you and I linger
You’re the circle of silver I wear on my finger

I’ve made a cake for you —
a cake of words,
a cake of the absurd,
a virtually virtuous
gastronomic trompe l’oeil.

I toyed with tawdry saccharine
plumped up with hydrogenated,
cheap love fat
with added processed flour, 
additive enriched,
the kind the love deprived devour --
but I gagged at that.
I wanted to mix pithiness and wit
with something earthy, with true grit
and not resort to pre-packed supermarket shit,
machine made, one arm bandit slot machine arcade,
sugar coated, clown or fairy or Disney cake charade
that masquerades as love --

I don’t want a cake of Hallmark sentimentality,
made with sticky, sickly greeting card banality --
I want my cake to make a connection, not to the heart,
not to that two timing organic tart, that flirtatious, mendacious
blood pumping body part
but to the spiritual, to the individual you
to the goddess that resides inside.

Here is my cake:-

It contains no pinches, no measured spoonfuls,
no cups or ounces,
it has no frilly icing sugar flounces --
there’s no limit to the time it takes to bake.
It’s a cake that’s solid, fragrant and fruity,
a cake of rough and rugged, bawdy beauty,
filled with integrity and tastefully spiced
with weighty wisdom and vitamin vitality.

It contains:-
an expanse of unadulterated joy,
a whiff, an essence of eternal ecstasy,
it has azure rapture captured in its smooth texture
and honeyed passion folded into its velvet curds.

But it’s tinged with blue black sadness and burnt regret
for all the times that were before we met. 
It has the heat of anger and the saltiness of pain --
for there will be a time when we won’t meet again —and a hint of bitter rue, which is the loneliness to come,
and when it does,
dearest that is above all dear,
remember this birthday
and this verbal cake I made —
the taste will linger on your tongue.