Tag Archives: poem

Happy Valley


As soon as I put my feet on the grass of Happy Valley (near Croydon) I feel like dancing ūüôā …yes, it’s one of those feel good places!


Happy Valley

Unchoreographed and
clumsy like, they dance
together. It’s their
first time. They’re whistling
loud their tune to end

the years of solitude.
What patient beings!
But now they’ve ¬†earned their
prize – a missing piece
in life’s grand puzzle.

Theirs was a journey
unhurried, enthused
by love’s enduring
desire. Their reward
too is universe’s

raving applause. As
they dance together
in Happy Valley
they’re soon in sync with
eyes fixed on one’s kindred spirit.


Morning Bath

Morning Bath


The tide was out and a big white

cloud floated so near, that I stretched

my hand dreamingly and sincere,

to draw your silhouette with my left

index finger on this vast canvas.


I imagined how magical scissors

cut along the newly drawn lines,

and suddenly you stepped out,

laughing at my new trick. We walked

the golden shore, our noses filled


with fish scented air and enjoyed

the wind messing with our hair, whilst

watching hundreds of playful waves

teasing surfers, who seemed to know

their every move, as they sped across


the white glistening foam, holding on

tight to their colourful kites… ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† and then I woke up.

I went to the window and pulled up

the blinds and looked at two sparrows

splashing in their early morning bath.  


The photo was taken in April 2016 at St. Malo, English Channel.  


Heat…or better…A hot ‘n steamy summer’s day

P1030301The hottest day in Britain has come and gone (Wednesday, 1st July), phew…and no, in case you thought I’m about to¬†complain about the hot weather, I’m not, no no no, ’cause I WAS prepared!! Yep, ice pops came to my rescue, hehehe.

Actually, I’m STILL prepared for the next few days of glorious summer-sunshine ūüôā … hm, let’s see, disposable BBQs, beer, sausages, all the stuff necessary for gazpacho, beer, salad, courgettes, hand fan…and beer… uhm sun cream…oh and look there’s my old sun hat…haha very fashionable, still… so….yes….think I got all the really important bits for summer survival…


‘Heat’ or perhaps¬† ‘A hot ‘n steamy summer’s day’¬†


At the speed of light

you conquer me

leaving no time

to make up my mind:

shall I run or go on a spree?


Trickles of sweat

run down my face and back

to the crease between my buttock(s)

and I think,

Might cutting my hair

allow all of what’s left

of that steamy air

caress my neck

like my lover’s lips?

O please, that’s all I need to

get back in sync.


I’m gasping for breath

as I decide to wear a skirt

only to discover later, that I

relish the stares,

that follow my laboriously

shaved now snow-white legs.


How you turn this town into a place of swelter

and I’m so looking for shelter.


With rail tracks melting,

I arrive pelting

one hour late at my destination,

where it’s 2 degrees cooler,

where I feel like a ruler,

where I wear my hair up

embracing a soft breeze

and suddenly feel at ease


with you,

you naughty tease.


icecubes donw your back

Witches and Old Women


Mention witches, walks, wolves, midnight, nature, madness, superstition … and my ears grow instantly, changing into wolf’s ears…that made me think, just now,¬†of¬†the one who pretended to be a grandmother to that little girl an a red cap. So when I discovered that¬†Goya’s mini masterpieces of his Album D, The Witches and Old Women Album, were to be exhibited at the beautiful Courtauld Gallery in Somerset House, I knew I had to see it…and just in time, I managed to go and am really glad I did. Goya, already an older and deaf man, created the beautiful, powerful and strangely modern sketches between ca. 1819-1823.

old women fight too

Francisco Goya, Old women fight too, c. 1819-23

Coincidently, when googling long distance walks in England, I

content with her lot_Goya

Francisco Goya, Content with her lot, ca. 1816-20

found this witch walk¬†in Lancashire (about 50 miles) which features Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy’s poem ‘The Lancashire Witches‘ ¬†along the way…now that is one I have to do, yes, it is already on my (growing) list of things to do … I better get my broomstick out of the cupboard.

Here’s a short taster of Carol Ann Duffy’s poem:

One voice for ten dragged this way once
by superstition, ignorance.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Witch: female, cunning, manless, old,
daughter of such, of evil faith;
in the murk of Pendle Hill, a crone.

Heavy storm-clouds here, ill-will brewed,
over fields, fells, farms, blighted woods.
On the wind’s breath, curse of crow and rook.

Birds and tattoos and Cheeky

Arazeli g1ot a tattoo. Yes (!!!), I thought and, I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.¬†A better gift? WHY and HOW on earth could another person’s tattoo be a present for me you wonder? Well, first of all, it happened before. Many many years ago, my then other half came home one evening, after spending the day with some friends in town, crying enthusiastically cheerful – evidence of having downed a couple of pints on the way home –¬†Hey little one, got a bonnie wee surprise fer ye! We’ve a new addition to oor ye-an’-me-an’-a dog hoosehold!! Oh no,¬†I feared the¬†worst. Tentatively I asked, But where is it, whilst my eyes scanned for signs of a puppy or kitten hidden under J’s T-Shirt or a holy cardboard box, the means of transport for a hamster perhaps, or a bird, or a chameleon or other lizard-like creature, which I really wanted back then. And as my eyes wandered upwards…slowly, I saw ‘it’ and I can tell you now, I had to look twice.¬†What on earth is ‘that’, I thought, before screaming, Butpepelepew2, but…you’ve got a tattoo…a cartoon tattoo,¬†and my eyes finally rested on the black and white¬†and extremely charming French skunk Pep√© le Pew. Pep√©, notorious for constantly looking for l’amour in Paris’s streets during spring time, was laughing at me, seductively, through the recently applied cling film, which was tightly wrapped around J’s left upper arm. And J said, that this tattoo was my special present.

Secondly, ever since I saw a tattoo for the first time, as a young girl, I knew that one day I’d be displaying some beautiful inky art somewhere on ‘moi‘. So, Arazeli’s tattoo was a gift in a sense that it brought back my long forgotten wish to get one and it made me think of that perfect first design and that perfect first bodily area that should serve as its canvas…ah…yes…by the way…this whole tattoo thing is NOT even the slightest possible sign of a (mild) mid-life crisis! (ha, I would say that, wouldn’t I?).

As of today, hurray hurray, I finally know which design and where to place it leaving only the when to be decided.

What: Birds. Why? Well, I’ve always loved birds. I remember that back home in Austria, I used to wake up and fall asleep to their morning and evening songs. And in the neighbours garden, in an old oak tree, that stood amongst other trees, I think acacias and chestnut trees, there lived this beautiful woodpecker whom I enjoyed listening to as he pecked the bark to get some grub from underneath it and whilst listening I imagined how he’d pull out a long worm from the freshly made hole in the oak’s thick trunk just below its branches. And then in winter, there were little robins and sparrows and blue tits, who’d come to our birdhouse and my grandmother’s windowsill, where we’d left some seeds after breakfast to watch them feeding.

After I’d moved to London I missed our garden and the birdsong but soon one white bird with a yellow crest and orange cheeks, became my feisty friend. I called him Cheeky. Cheeky, who came from a bird¬†rescue centre soon felt 1 (1)comfortable in his new home. And what clever bird he was. He knew the first chords of the theme song from Eastenders! What talent, I thought, and from that moment on I’d spent hours on end sitting in front of him whistling, determined to teach him a new song. The first time he imitated my tune I nearly fell off the sofa.¬†From then on, as soon as I came home after work and I’d whistle our song, and Cheeky would jump onto the side bars of his cage, raise his crest, stretch his head towards the main door, climb out of the cage (the door was always kept open) and fly straight onto my head. There, he would preen my hair or hammer softly on my head before roosting.¬†

So, my first design will be a flock of 5 little birds flying towards … not telling… use your imagination!

When I found the pictures of me and Cheeky I thought of the following …


How upset he was 

squawking and walking 

up and down the sofa 

when he’d noticed

my shaved head.

How he ignored me, 

punishing me for having 

to now sit on short sharp 

bristles, that replaced 

his curly nest. 

How he screeched at me!

Did he look back to when

he preened my curls

carefully drawing them through

his strong beak

thinking I was his mate?

I remember the day 

when he returned stalking 

around my head again and 

I felt his warm feet and

knew I’d been forgiven.¬†

United again Cheeky gently

pecked my head 

perhaps searching for the curls 

he’d once preened and I wondered:¬†

Did he forget?

Soon after and sitting on my

shoulder he puffed himself fluffy 

and grinding his beak

he fell asleep before

returning to his perch.

Remember Remember the Fifth of November

Having managed to see a big firework display on bonfire night at Blackheath Common last Saturday, I suddenly remembered that some years ago on that very night we lit a fire in our fireplace for the very first time.


Guy Fawkes Night


While seventeen burning crosses

were carried through the streets of Lewes

we lit our first fire.


It was only a month earlier

that our chimney had been swept,

a chimney pot and bird guard fitted.


Smokeless wood logs

were lying carefully arranged

inside a wicker basket

ready for their

final resting place.


A poker, log grabber, ash shovel and brush

hanging from their stand

next to old newspapers and a box of firelighters,

were the only other conspirators.


Eager to do our part

on this cold and rainy bonfire night

we scrunched some newspaper into

loose balls,

placed them with two logs

inside the cast iron basket,

following only our own novice logic.

Then we lit four firelighters.


In front of the orange blazing blissful heat

we embraced staring mesmerized at the

dancing figures appearing in the fire

Before they transformed

into thick dark smoke

rising up to the fire alarm fitted to the wall

on top of the stairs

awakening our bewilderment

resulting in frantic waving of wet towels

before the noisy device as we burnt to

silence the deafening noise

running around headless

to open every window and door

to let our neighbours know of the failed attempt

and let the dark smoke escape.


Remember remember the fifth of November we always will.