Tag Archives: poetry

Creative Writing Workshops


   Writing Circle

I am now running a writing circle, which meets on Monday mornings, 10.30am, venue given by request (Hull/East Riding of Yorks area) for contact details see Lavender Fields website. A small group of amateur writers are meeting to share each others work, offer support and critique, share publishing or information, and, of course, to share good company, good conversation, a love of words and great coffee (and cake!). We are already improving our writing and getting new ideas by helping each other – some having obtained publication as a result.

poster venue tba

Come along and join us and:

  • Write to improve your life & wellbeing
  • Learn techniques for tapping into your creativity
  • Turn issues into inspiration, problems into poetry
  • Write away your stress
  • Write your own personal history or herstory
  • Write that novel they say is in all of us

Expert guidence is combined with group critique and support in comfortable and sociable surroundings (good coffee and cake an essential part). Occasional writing workshops are planned for the future including journal writing, short stories, poetry, and … combining poetry and

journal art.                                                                  for blog

Personal development workshops – or as I call them – Goddess workshops – are also in the pipeline. These will be categorically fun, spiritual, and empowering; they will be themed, using art, stories, mythology, archetypes, and personal experiences. Themes may include archetypes such as dragons, the triple Goddess, seasons, unicorns, the Green Man, flowers, faeries and much more. Some of these workshops may be online in due course. Watch this space.




City of Culture


To celebrate Hull being awarded this accolade for 2017 I enclose here some poems that express my love of the area. Some I submitted to help the bid, others are just heartfelt. see just another canvas page for my feelings about home, Hull and East Yorkshire; or read – further down – The Green Man of the Wildwood or Changing Moods – my meditation on the beautiful River Humber

Remembering Albion 

I remember this land

Its bones are my bones

Its moods my own.


Though I dwell in city concrete

And in fear, the trees retreat

Let me ride this fiery dragon

Across Albions’ ancient fields.

In dreams I breathe the northern lights

As I stalk the limestone heights

I bathe in muddy estuaries

And drink at sacred springs. 

Let me sleep between the standing stones

Trawl the patterns of its stars

May I pluck its peaks and weave its roots

Dance barefoot on the beach.


As I celebrate the moment

In the changing of its years

With its bones of rock and diverse moods

I remember this land and me.

The Kingstown Tale of Freedom

A cup of hot chocolate

With added double cream

East touches West in

A confectioners dream


White sugar/brown sugar

Both taste as sweet

When sprinkled in the cup of life

As multi cultures meet


Take a slice of brown bread

A fluffy bun of white

Share a friendship sandwich

Forget the ethnic fight


Weave a piece of white silk

With a deep amber stitch

Create a world of difference

In a tapestry so rich


Paint a snowy canvas

With rich ‘umber paint

Clean the city’s brushes

Of hatred’s taint


Seed a crop of daisies bright

In a terracotta pot

Plant a sacred garden

And stop suspicion’s rot


Play a tune of harmony

On jet and ivory keys

Blend the notes together

For the diversity reprise


A forest of snow white yacht sails

Midst a pile of rusting trawls

Create a festival of love and light

As ‘Ull and Freedom calls

Sea Mist – my relationship with the East Yorkshire coast


In my time I loved to walk beside the sea

And dancing surf, with seagulls, and bobbing crab net buoys.

I loved the old boats, the harbour walls, and feeling free

From city grime, poison fumes and techno-toys.


Once, on a cliff top, with crumbling, muddy sides

I spied the comic flash of puffin flight

Streaking past, diving to greet the rolling tide

And rise again with fishy prize held tight.


A sandy point with rustling spiky dune grass

Stitching it in place like carpet tape or string,

Is broken by winter wind and wave, till, unable to pass

It remained unreachable till Spring.


Sleepy coves with white chalk stacks

Where gannets gossiped on every ledge.

The smell of bird lime and salt dried bladderwrack

Reminded me that life is hard at terra-firma’s edge.


Sun warmed hours hunting crabs in brimming

Rock pools like watery time capsules.

Standing at the waterline skimming

Sea-smooth pebbles, until the hot air cooled


And a full moon painted a silver pathway;

Or storm clouds marbled its ebb and flow in shades of bold. 

Such dawns: two mighty elements merged in hazy grey

Till sun rise blushed the waking sea with gold.


How I loved those moods from mirror calm and still as bliss

To raging anger; and days when I resigned

Myself to sly, insidious sea fret mist

Drenching every aching inch of skin with freezing brine.


Now, as I walk those cliff tops, or feel the sandiness

Between my aging toes, the changing facets of its flood

Echo mine, strangely restless

And surging, in the tides that drive my blood.

The Green Man of the Wildwood


Another poem based on my dreams and love of mythology: enjoy the thrill of the dark:

J 15 Wildwood She stepped through the looking glass and into the Wildwood

The Green Man of the Wild Wood

With heart torn and screaming

You flee to the woods

To escape from the nightmares

That freeze female blood


But trees appear friendly

When met in the day

At night senses fool you

And lead you astray


A shimmer of nothing

In the corner of sight

A flicker of movement

In leaves by starlight


The glimpse of a shadow

Across the path’s track

A shiver of coolness

Hairs raised on the back


The clunk of an antler

Against the tree bark

The crunch of sharp hooves

Drawing near in the dark


The feel of strong arms

Around shoulders held still

A shiver, a tremble

A bright tear you spill


A whisper of warm breath

On cheek, calms the heart

Now pierced to the core

With a hunter’s sharp dart


The touch of rough hands

Across skin soft and fair

A kiss, a caress

And you drown in his stare


Beware Hern the Hunter

Cernunnus to some,

To Woman lost and yearning

With wild love he’ll come


He’ll woo you with sweet words

By moonbeam made true

And bind you with promises

Come morning you’ll rue


Don’t step in the forest

Without thought or guide

The Green Man will find you

There’s nowhere to hide

Mythumbrian Dreams


I started writing poetry in my teens – typical, self-indulgent poetry about love and teenage angst, as you’d expect. Interestingly, at school – an all girl’s grammar school – I was considered ‘not very good’ at expressive writing. I never wrote a thing between then and the millennium, because of those dismissive comments. I started writing again as a way of coming to terms with the breakdown of my marriage. Since then I have had several poems published and one story – so far! Isn’t it terrible how one teacher’s casual comment can limit a person for decades.

I write now to celebrate who I am, my roots, my ideals, my philosophy, and to explore worlds beyond my reality – though, one might ask – what is reality. There are some theories of mind that suggest reality is what we make of it – how we construct it in our thoughts: if we can imagine it – it must exist – somewhere.

Many of my recent poems are a combination of my roots in East Yorkshire and mythology – hence the title Mythumbrian Dreams. Here are the first two for your, hopefully, delectation.

Darkest Immortal Destiny

Is it my soul’s destiny?

Is fate cruelly testing me?

For I’m losing my heart

And it’s keeping me apart – from life’s reality.


When he visits my dreams

My desire reaches extremes,

It’s like catching the moon,

He can’t get here too soon – such fragile eternity.


Beyond his sweet kiss

When he fills me with bliss,

I’m a cat without a crutch

And lean into his touch – my wicked lovely.


Can I endure his embrace

Without losing face?

He makes me forget all the pain

But shall I remain – quintessentially me.


Will I fall off the edge

If I believe in his pledge?

When our love we exchange,

And mind and heart are estranged – in night’s conspiracy.


I sing loudly, love’s rhyme

As I drift out of Time;

Through night’s fervent realm

His touch is my helm – into insanity.


My heart takes flight

Searching the ink dark night;    

I’m lost; cleaved by love’s knife,

He’s my lodestone and life – its entirety.   


Allure captures my fears

Like a shudder of breath after tears;

Yet his radiant shadows anoint

Those fears, to disjoint – my frail equanimity.


There’s nothing left in this world                               

As through the abyss I’m hurled.                                               

Night after night                                                               

Revelling in his delight – come, darkest mercy.                                                                                      


Whatever this thing is

I will die for his kiss;

But death isn’t the end

For my soul so intends – to risk my mortality.

(Written in deference to the Wicked Lovely series of fantasy novels by Melissa Marr)

Changing Moods – a meditation on the River Humber  

The moon shines on the surface

As the river runs its course

Her silver face refracted

In its remorseless driving force


Across the sinuous river

Cloud shadows slide in view

Marbling the surface

In shades of pewter hue


The wind shakes up the wavelets

As currents cross its face

And queries ride the ripples

As the river changes pace


The water churns beneath the bridge

That throbs with speeding tyres

On parabolic curving arcs

Spun between concrete spires


Soft snow transforms the mudflats

Into leviathans lying low 

In that silent, frozen river

That dreams of long ago


When in its youth it pounded

Carving out the land 

Into vales and dales and flood plains

Grinding rock to sand


The river in its broad expanse

Meanders the cornfields tall

Till it reaches the mighty ocean’s

Arms, following the seagull’s call