A poem of mine, ‘Hands’,  has just gone up on Folia Magazine online – you can read it here.

The poem came out of a workshop a couple of years ago in Leeds, with writer and facilitator Rommi SmithThe starting point was smells – for me, the Vaseline Intensive Care in the first stanza (with the second part leading on from that). 

Folia’s aim is to “foster a deeper appreciation for the poetry of life, death, and medicine” – which was why I submitted this piece. It’s a poem which moves around in time, with a childhood memory of driving in the car with my Mum (and her hand cream), juxtaposed with a later conversation about her going through chemotherapy.

I hope my Mum doesn’t mind this being ‘out there’; in some ways it’s not my experience to write about (though the conversation was, I guess). She dealt with the process of treatment with incredible humour and courage – so I hope the poem evokes this powerful being, who can (and does) deal with whatever life throws at her.

NaPoWriMo 2.3: A Charm Against Losing It

Ding! Ding!

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a charm against something. And today’s 52 prompt was to write about losing something.

So – having recently been in a pharmacy – here is my curious prompt-fusion poem. It is, I realise now, perhaps a sister poem to one from NaPoWriMo last year – The Pies of Awareness – which could be the metaphysical bakery next door to the location this poem takes place in (or rather, doesn’t – or only does metaphysically).

Apparently this year I’m all about poems with a shop theme – maybe I’ll produce a whole High Street of metaphysical shopfronts in a collection…Hmm…


A Charm Against Losing It

As Spoken by Debonair MetaPharmasista, Crisby LeFross


Ding! Ding! Enter my Pharmacie, wherein

You seek – yes? – the absent medicine

Of moments missed by blinking eyes

Ideas to furnish thin grey skies

With Siamese Magpies.  Have a seat.

Take a load off those full-time feet.

Remove your shoes, your toes replete

On my laminate of real summer-park grass.

In one deep breath, I’ll (with a curtsey) pass

Across the counter’s telescopic glass

Your beaming, blank prescription.