Category Archives: writing

Cat Observations.

Things that get their attention:

The sound of a finished crisp packet
The neighbours
A sudden movement of my foot
The seagulls in the morning
The swifts at dusk
A fruit fly in the kitchen
The westerly wind
The easterly wind
The lift coming up
The sound of the other one eating
The sound of the other one pooing
The sound of the other one investigating
The sound of a finished crisp packet


I really love watching TV but last night I got my verbs mixed up and washed the TV instead. It was soon covered in soap and stopped working. With nothing to do I picked up a book that was sitting on a nearby shelf and started to read. I found myself transported into another world and all because I had washed the T.V by mistake. Now I’m going to read everyday because I can take this other world with me wherever I go. Reading is great.


I used to be a dish
in a restaurant.
I used to carry fish
to tables in a restaurant.
But last night I fell
Now hopeless, I dwell
in pieces
in the bins of a restaurant.


Sometimes you sting me to tears
as I cut through your sharp layers
and then you sizzle gently in hot oil
leading my senses to sweat and uncoil


The fans she had of many colours were useful for keeping her cool before and after the performance but it was the other type of fans she longed for, as once again, only one or two seats were filled for the show.

13 Ways of Looking at a Scarf

In the darkness of summer
the scarf collects
the musk and dust of the
cupboard under the stairs.

An abandoned scarf
in the forest is
for a snake.

The loyalty of the crowd is wrapped
around their necks as they
prepare for battle.
Red scarves versus blue.
United ’till I die.

He wore no visible scarf
yet he wore
the weight of the world
on his shoulders.

Had she not been
quicker, as the branch
took it’s grip, that scarf
would have strangled
her to death.

A scarf on the grass.
The snowman gone.

The scarf hangs from the window.
The girl is free.
Until tomorrow.

Her life unravelled quickly
like a crocheted scarf seized
by a curious cat’s claw.

The children wore scarves
on their heads for the performance
to make it seem they were
from far-flung places.

He refused to wear the school scarf.
He refused to conform.
He was a patch of blue in a uniform grey sky.

He was hung up on her.
Like football scarves
on a pub ceiling.

The bonfire melted the scarves and the icy silence
from the glowing faces.

I fell down in exhaustion
like a scarf fallen from a peg.


Moonrise in a ditch
An itch by a bramble
I am impelled to turn back
But onward
I ramble

Conscious of the ocean
I rest on wild grass
I am impelled to simply listen
But my awareness
is sparse

Creatures steal
I feel the elements fuse
I am impelled to become the darkness
I have lost my senses
to booze

Moonrise in a ditch
In which I curl up and sleep
I was impelled to get home
But I have collapsed
in a heap

The activity that led to this poem: Grab the closest book. Go to page 29. Write down 10 words that catch your eye. Use as many as you can in a poem.


Her hair wasn’t braided how she had hoped it was going to be braided so because of that she never had her hair braided again.


We walked out of the movies. He said that the film had been watchable yarn and listed some of the problems with it. I bit my lip. I didn’t like people talking about the film at the movies just as I was walking out. We went for a burger, sat on plastic seats opposite each other and still he went on about the film so in a rage – and quite out of character – I threw my diet coke in his face. He retaliated by throwing a punch: the burger falling out of his mouth as he did so. He kind of missed me but it still hurt. He walked out after that. We’re still friends though. I’ll never forget what he said about the movie though.


He knew today his legs would carry him home, carry him the five or so kilometers that he had planned to run. The sun, coming up over the marshland slowly, catching the water, glimmering golden, extinguished the presence of one or two biting mosquitoes as with each step and each second he created a new moment, becoming somebody he had felt like before but never been before as the dust and debris of night fell to the path. He ran in a fairly large circle under a blue sky, running rings around the scorched overgrowth and the still lagoons of water: dark water by green, muddy, mossy banks where the odd bird with long legs was picking at the ripples. With each lap the temperature climbed and like the sun he rose to the challenge – his legs carrying him home. Towards the end, sweat fell from his face like waves of adoration from a cheering crowd and a seagull swooped near the finish line. He caught his breath in the shade radiant and regenerated before heading to the supermarket for cat litter and fresh coriander.


It was a sunny day and the sunshine was reflecting off cars that were jam packed into the car park by the beach where the people were squashed like sardines on the sand due to the high tide and the sea was foamy and filled with all the human crap so we decided to go to the mountains where it was hot but at least empty and we sat with nature and felt sad at all the humans sat on the beach with their rubbish and pollution but it was sunny and we were together in the quiet and wisdom of the hills and mountains, the sunshine reflecting off the forests and lakes and a goodness growing gently inside of us.


‘Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down.’ – Ray Bradbury

Pizza in Orio

Trying to dodge downpours we delved into dinky bars for drinks and drifting dialogue before we leapt into the din of drinkers and diners at the pizzeria Kaleta. Down, we immediately sat – delightful feelings approached us as did ever more delightful waitresses who demanded and danced and drove us to distraction as did the menu. Mitad a mitad (half and half) was the order of the day. Delicious pizza, decidedly hot and delectable wine for John whose eyes drifted and darted amid the deafening noise of the diners.

A second pizza was ordered which surprised the waitress. The rain still dashing down windows as diners left and we continued devouring and disbelieving I was as John disappeared his vegetable pizza without breathing. We left leaving the young dreaming faces behind the bar as they danced at the tip john had decided to leave. We fell into the drizzle and the darkness back to the dry hostel and to bed to drift into the dead of the night.

Monkfish in Orio

Two blokes, obviously British, turn up to the restaurant (Bodegón José Maria). They don’t know where to sit, they sit outside for a bit and then they go inside. One of them is immediately mulling over which wine to order – the other seems less interested. They are the only ones in the restaurant but they sense the quality hanging on the walls and the history of the building. They order a quality wine, smell it and then for some reason put it to their ear. One of them – the older looking one – seems deeply affected as he takes each smell and sip of wine like he is experiencing some spiritual touch at first hand – divine and delirious spring to mind. The other one drinks quickly with less fuss but doesn’t drink as much water as the older one.

A salad arrives, they call it a Fifty dollar salad for some reason and they make conversation with the waiter, which is nice. They laugh a lot and seem at one with the world and themselves. Either that or they are drunk. Some other customers quietly enter the restaurant. Their main course is barbecued Monkfish – their eyes light up. One of them is relieved it has no bones. They pull orgasmic faces as they eat and make sounds of deep pleasure. They eat the gristle and the burnt bits and mop up the sauce with wholesome bread like starving pilgrims. They leave no stone unturned. They talk a lot about food and wine and the past and the present. They are like two ships out at sea on their own journey, two birds in the sky or two identical leaves falling in a forest. For this moment they seem like the best of friends who know exactly what they want and how to enjoy themselves.

They order a cheesecake for dessert and tell the waiter that the town is nice and the food: excellent. The older one is unimpressed by the cheesecake though but tells the waiter it’s great anyway. Maybe he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

The bill comes and they are surprised at the cost. €56 for the monkfish alone for a moment, derails them: a wave under their boughs, a predator in the sky, a breath of uneasy wind in the forest. They soon get over it and leave smiling wide and with purpose look for the waiter to say goodbye and to shake his hand. They also thank the chef who is outside cleaning the barbecue before disappearing into the Basque summer night. They seemed like good people.


The rain tapped the windowsill gently before the thunder implored it fell harder as through the open window came the cold smell of the storm, raindrops came inside glistening, the windowsill now applauding.

It was the aftermath of a hurricane (across the Atlantic) that had turned the English summer on its head. “We haven’t seen the likes of it in August before.” came a voice from downstairs.

The garden, which had been filled with shouting children, was now bowing in the force of the storm. The children watched from the bedroom window. The rain became so fierce they pretended they were out at sea, the water striking the side of the boat. I’ll be Captain!” said the boy. “I’ll be a pirate” said his sister. I’m gonna go and play on the computer” said the youngest.

A Misunderstanding

Boom Boom Boom! Went the cannons. Except one hadn’t worked.
‘This cannon has no fuse!’ shouted the officer in command.
A gunner spiked the cannon – disabling it from further use.
‘What did you do that for!’ screamed the officer in command.
‘I thought you said this cannon is no use.’