Voice in My Head.

Scream. That’s all.


What I Wouldn’t Give for Saturdays


For Saturday mornings, when the only pressing dilemma is where to buy buth packets for lunch from.

For Saturday afternoons of cold showers in the shade of a rambutan tree.

For Saturday nights when all the friends that you’d ever need are all in one room.

All Blogged Out?

So WordPress tells me I’ve been blogging for 7 years. Although the last two years don’t really count for much.

Makes me almost miss writing.

But do people in SL still write on blogs and read? Or is blogging like so 2008?

I breathe.

I’ve strayed so far from myself, I had forgotten things. Of all the pleasures I have started to rediscover, poetry is the one closest to my skin.

Indian Summer – Eileen Carney Hulme

Like a deep blue wave
of passion
you shore into the room
where I sit waiting quietly,

We have moved through days,
loss, pain
to hold this moment,
this picture postcard seascape
of gentle harbouring.

You say
‘I knew you were here
I could smell you’
and effortlessly I sway
to seal my fate.

You taste of ocean,
avenues of grassy dunes,
like a magician
you pluck a tiny pebble
from my hair-

Ancient survivor, sun-kissed
on this summer afternoon,
I step out of my dress
into your dream.