Rivers Of Consciousness

Don't worry, be happy. Who knows what may happen?

Archive for the tag “Uni”


More prose poetry that I submitted for assessment at Uni, with a little more focus on character this time 😀



The people complement my chains, awe in their eyes and rounded mouths. Such divine jewels draped along her throat, they whisper. Cliff-edge collarbones descending into diamonds. They don’t know these chains are my shackles. I wish my throne would devour me. It would absorb me, cavernous, casting me down between wise oak columns to fade amongst the moss. There I could lay, canopied by broad leaves with Orion as my guardian. Oh, how I love the dawn, but it has been so long since our last encounter. My palace is my prison, my king my captor. The chains snake through my hair, dripping past my ears, ensnaring my wrists. A festival delights outside my door, but I cannot add mine to the high spirits. My presence would silence, a syringe draining their pulsing electricity. I would be watched by wide eyes, studying my every move as I shimmered through the street.

As children, there was no I and Them. It was We and Us, brave hunters of the forest prowling the thickets for wolves. Adorned in feathers and tough old boots, we’d yell war cries at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, charging across pastures with cardboard weaponry. We were emperors of the tree house fortress, defending our territory defiantly from our rival neighbours. We leant on the hands of time, so keen to pass through the gates of Adulthood. We were carefree and careless. Little did we know that those gates would slam behind us. I soared with my prince to the other side of a sunset, in a tale they sing their daughters at night. But my golden tower doesn’t shine on the inside. A thousand green eyes cannot replace the emerald foliage I crave.

My pedestal leaves me out of reach from those people. Disconnected, and, disjointed. Alone.



Image sources:
Crown – http://diamondjubilee.hellomagazine.com/imagenes/queens-jubilee/news/201206291103/queen-elizabeth-diamonds-display-buckingham/0-6-58/queen-diamonds3–a.jpg

Castle – http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large/golden-castle-in-spain-rianna-stackhouse.jpg

Not Yet

Another attempt at Prose Poetry, one which is definitely going in my final assignment. I hope I’m getting this prose poetry stuff right, because it’s so much harder than I expected! Enjoy, let me know what you think 😀



Your name rolls across my tongue to meet the barricade of my teeth, crushing impulse with sense. A shimmer in the eye distracts from my deep nasal exhale and you stare, brows twitching with an air of concern that gives you away. But hush, hush. You leave a finger print on Cupid’s Bow, as only you could. The bow is taut, poised for passion or perhaps pain.

My pride is turned away from your gaze and I narrow my eyes to the spinning letters dancing on the departure board. My tears pour back up their estuary to their humble spring, a spring bubbling from nerves and synapses. Your nose nudges the curve of my neck and sighs. I can feel your palm, warm against the dip of my spine while the other traces my shoulder blades. I have never felt more complete than while here in your grasp.

Pressed together, encircled in your aura. Your breath tickles the delicate twists of my ear as you whisper; This is not the end, not yet. You have buried into my flesh, impossible to extract. Your absence wounds me, soothed only by your voice. A single tear is the downfall of this mask, dissolving it until all that remains in my hands is the solution. Not long, not far. We’ll make it. Forehead to forehead, your pupils fling the curtains wide and search my eyes. Dawn cracks with the first rays of a smile and somehow, I believe you now.





Image source:

Fiction Assignment: Phoenix

This fiction piece has been written for my Uni assignment due next week. If it feels familiar, it’s because it is a re-worked, developed and expanded piece based on work posted here under the same name. Hope you enjoy.


stained glass

With a slow groan, the front door returned to its frame with a thud. It unsettled the house, lifting the dust particles to dance in the light beam until they drifted back to their dormant position, and also on to Mia’s face. No-one had crossed this threshold for years. Her eyes scanned the grand entrance, pupils dilated to fight the blindness of gloom. They came to rest on the ornate coat stand, which once served as her prima donna in the puppet shows she set up for her family, donned in her grandfather’s trench coat that had carried a lingering scent of clay-like mud. The stand used to gleam under her grandmother’s watch, polished to perfection, but those days are long gone. It now stood bare, coated not in military finery but instead the dulling flakes of dust and, more recently, ash.

Her step echoed as she progressed steadily forward, towards the back of the house. As she passed, her hand instinctively trailed along the smooth marble banister of the curved stairs, caressing the end post the way so many of her family members had done before. The ground seemed to shift as she dislodged years of neglect, kicking over charred wood and what was once a vibrant Persian rug which had suffered flame-bitten wounds, disfigured by destruction. The darkness withdrew the deeper into the house’s belly she walked, overpowered by the sunlight that splintered the shadows. She stopped.

She had not braced herself for the sight before her.  The earth fell away, leaving her on the edge of a crater where once her kitchen had stood proudly.

Read more…

Summer Daydream


Postcard Perfect

After a stressful few weeks of Uni, the sun decided to come out and play, and so three of us paid a visit to a local beach. We ignored the biting wind and pretended it was summer again, the weather teasing us. My poor camera had been neglected recently, so it was great to get back behind the lens (and a little in front of it, too!). These are a small selection of photo’s from that day.




A New Friend


Pastel Sky


Sunset Over Wembury Beach

Feb 13

All images are my own, please do not reproduce without permission.

Shielded From Snow


In a city tunnel, shielded from snow
Your lips sealed the terms, so now you are mine.
I am never going to let you go.

Your nervous laugh, shy smile, they let me know
That fear will not crush. Yeah, we’ll be just fine
In that city tunnel, shielded from snow.

Your roots anchor me, so now we can grow
United, unbroken, fingers entwined.
I am never going to let you go.

My chilled bones accept your welcoming glow,
My winter’s frost shattered by eyes that shine
In a city tunnel, shielded from snow.

Sincere expressions, it’s not just for show
You now break the boundaries I designed,
So I’m never going to let you go.

The bear’s courage, gentle grace of the doe –
Steady hands guiding me through troubled times,
In a city tunnel, shielded from snow.
I am never going to let you go.


A villanelle from December which I submitted for assessment, I’m pleased with the result I got 🙂

Image source:

Together Again

old couple

I smile at you now as I always have,
cheeks pinched by nature’s fingernails.
Your eyes don’t see me well anymore,
but somehow, somehow you know I’m still there.
My lungs’ vapour squeezes through my parted lips,
spinning fluidly into an arabesque and then,
Invisible to the eye, yet mingled with the oxygen
pumped to you by life-saving devices that have never lived.

I am haloed by an amber glow.
It’s a warm palette against my iced skin,
tinting me the shades of the old oak tree by the river,
when it would erupt a last-ditch attempt at radiance
with blazed leaves, fading out with a flourish
to reveal the charcoal skeleton beneath.
Your frail fingers caress my face, knuckles bulbous
like the gnarled branches from that winter walk.

Our children are talking, chattering, babbling;
trying to stamp the silences that seep slowly
through you into the room’s monotony.
They know, though they will never say.
They see me too, clasped in your hand, obscured by your tag.
Sympathetic smiles and a bittersweet kiss signal the goodbye,
tears gathered in the hollows of a throat, choking them and you.
Don’t cry darling, it won’t be long now.

One click, as resonant as a gunshot and yet,
more dignified.
My arms are open wide: I’ve waited a decade for you.



Part of the collection I’m submitting for assessment.

Image source:
Edited by me.


There’s softly whispered rain on blanket grey,
And hinted forgiveness which you must try.
I told you I’ll be back for you someday.

Hold tight your hands and bow your head to pray.
When your eyes open you will see blue sky,
Not softly whispered rain on blanket grey.

Do not forget and so do not delay.
Who said sinners can only speak a lie?
I told you I’ll be back for you someday.

Don’t let your head give in or heart betray.
The wise worship sunlight but won’t deny
the softly whispered rain on blanket grey.

Finer flowers have fallen to decay,
the bittersweet memory of last July,
I told you I’ll be back for you someday.

You don’t believe me, as much as you say,
Turning cheeks again from your blinded eye.
In softly whispered rain on blanket grey,
I promised I’ll be back for you some day.



My first ever attempt at a Villanelle.
I’m not sure what to think. Maybe I concentrated too much on the structure and not enough on content.
Was fun to play around with though 😀


Image source:


Who are you?
Your hair is loose and light while mine is fire,
The vixen’s bushy tail twisted around my waist.
Your face is open, young, pure as cotton,
While mine is wary beneath the war paint.
You sing and twirl and ruffle feathers,
While I stand stern. Unmoved.
Hackles raised.

Your sides are stuffed with luxurious love,
While mine are the keys to Lucifers’ lament,
The taunting lure of others’ temptation.
I am encased in wire and lace,
Satin thread woven to keep me in place.
Their eyes scan my silhouette, lingering,
But, respectfully, never for you.

Your features are familiar, but what is your name?
Cherubs envy you, and in turn stab my back.
My podium, my pedestal is too high to grasp,
I’ll fall with a gasp while you can fool in the grass.
I used to contain your childish laugh, but now,
I play prey to salacious hunters of the night,
my heels burning. But you, you are safe;
Life’s wheel turning has not tainted you yet.

I am enemy to my body, as it is to me,
But it remembers being ripe with youth,
it remembers the light hair, deluxe care,
the serene virtue that you have.
We have met before, haven’t we child?
In some far distant land of pasts and promises.
For the closer I look the more it is true,
Your eyes have I, mine too have You.


Experimental poetry piece for Uni, based on playing with a ‘you’ persona

Image source:


Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,
And no rage may vanquish yours.
Your eye sees all,
Knows all,
Ends all.

At your feet we bow and caress with guilt,
Quarry to your lethal spears.
Weeping, we kneel,

Your splattered tears burn our faces,
While your smile scalds us harshly.
Divided we stand,
We fall.

You have been betrayed, dearest Mother,
Your stewards have failed you.
No excuse for
Futile pleas.

Exonerate those who dissatisfy you,
Or be bound to their shackles.
Cleanse us,
Save us,
I beg.


I am by no means a poet, but we have moved on to this form in our course now and I’m interested to see where it takes me.
This weeks writing task we simply had to write a poem, trying to be aware of sounds and imagery, and if possible use an extended simile.

I’m quite pleased with the result 🙂

An Object Lost

Writing Task 3: Writing through Objects (one we have lost)

I peered into her bag, content at seeing my phone, I.D and bank card nestled amongst her purse and receipts. All was well. I raised the glass to my lips, tipping the amber fire down my throat. We fluffed our hair one last time and ventured into the night, joining the students town-ward bound. The hours slurred into each other until I became aware of cotton on my cheek and numbness in my limbs. Yep, I had ended up at home, face down on my bed again. With one eye closed, I sought my phone and other essentials. A flash of silver on my hideous bottle-green sofa betrayed its whereabouts, a moment before I gave in to the alcohol-induced slumber.

I finally surfaced from my comatose state some hours later. I sat up, regretting the harsh movement as my stomach rebelled. As the spinning room levelled out, my hand curled around my phone on the sofa, brushing the cool plastic of my I.D which I shoved inside the purse I had left neglected on the floor.  My hand reached back for my bank card, anticipating the thin grooves of my name to glide against my fingertips like braille. Instead, they were met with the rough upholstery of my ancient sofa, coarse rather than smooth, fabric rather than plastic.

In that instant I was wide awake. My sleep-fuzzed brain cleared as I scrambled for my bank card. Running into the hall, I yelled for my friend in panic. Her bag was turned inside out, the floor searched; every crack and crevice in the house which the card could’ve scurried into was inspected. All to no avail.

The realisation hit me like a slap in the face. It was Lost. My card, my lifeline, my money was unreachable. My heart was pounding double-time as I tried to retrace my steps, working myself into a state of anger, frustration and confusion as I paced back and forth.

“What are you worried about?” my friend asked coolly, not even glancing up from her glossy magazine. Apoplectic rage started dangerously bubbling, about to erupt with colourful curses when my brain registered the question, stumping my wrath as it processed the words. Well, what was I worried about? If it didn’t show up, then I would just have to cancel the card. I would lose access to my money for a few days. The thought makes me tense even now, but why?

Why was that piece of plastic so vital at that instant? I had my roof over my head, food in the fridge, a warm bed and clean running water. Whether or not I had money in my pocket or numbers on an ATM screen, I could sleep knowing that I will survive tomorrow. I will not starve. I will not catch pneumonia. Typhoid is not going to visit me anytime soon. The worst that will happen is missing the offer on those Jaffa cakes. Life will go on.

Why are we that concerned with the digital money we never touch, the pieces of paper and metal we do, and the pocket-sized plastic? Yes, they are necessary in our culture for the basics of survival, but after that, the excess is not a matter of life or death. As I contemplated this my shoulders felt less tense, my breathing shallower. Being rich doesn’t enhance our survival rate much beyond those of average wealth.  Money doesn’t make the sea smell saltier, a baby’s laugh sound sweeter or a kiss feel more passionate. We will not die if we have no money for a day or two. We worry if there is nothing to worry about, so programmed are we to concern ourselves with trivial matters. What are we really worried about?


Image is my own, October 2012

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