Sunday, 31 January 2016

Short Forms January 31st 2016

she stalls
wanting to die
but uncertain of her
ultimate destination. dreams
of Hell

© Rachel Green 2016

wet grass
the cat turns her nose up
new dog

© Rachel Green 2016

rolling over
I suddenly wake
tobacco oil on my duvet
somewhat unpleasant

© Rachel Green 2016

the time you died
and I panicked

trying to revive you
you slowly came around

I wish I'd left you then

© Rachel Green 2016

disturbed sleep. anxiety dreams. Vengeful editor.

© Rachel Green 2016

daily 30th January 2016

isthmus [is-muh s] noun, plural isthmuses, isthmi [is-mahy]
1. a narrow strip of land, bordered on both sides by water, connecting two larger bodies of land.
2. Anatomy, Zoology. a connecting, usually narrow, part, organ, or passage, especially when joining structures or cavities larger than itself.
3. Ichthyology. the narrow fleshy area between the sides of the lower jaw of a fish.

Tibby Shiels Inn
an hotel on an isthmus
wish I'd been single

Facebook Haiku

January 30: Yukon

online friend
sends pictures of the Yukon.
I'll never visit

for NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

sunshine in the window, rainbows in the room.

stuff done.

plastering at Liane's
no writing

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (6)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Saturday, 30 January 2016

short forms 30th January 2016

falls for
stuggy geezer
despite her intention
to stay single for a few years
free love

© Rachel Green 2016

thin clouds
fade to vanishing point
roads to nowhere

© Rachel Green 2016

the cat
sick with a cold
blocked up
her face looks like
she grew a walrus moustache

© Rachel Green 2016

sleeping dogs
dachshund corgi cross
takes up the whole sofa
Jack can't see much
but he know his bed
is unavailable
cries for mom

© Rachel Green 2016

novella going well. just too short

© Rachel Green 2016

Friday, 29 January 2016

zenith [zee-nith or, esp. British, zen-ith] noun
1. the point on the celestial sphere vertically above a given position or observer.
2. a highest point or state; culmination.

last day of the month
the zenith of working life
bank balance hits black

Facebook Haiku

29th yuletide/yule

silent city
a man celebrates his life

for NaHaiWriMo

lots of house cleaning today.

Something that made me smile today:

putting the cat's bell on the dog's collar - cue Trickster barking whenever she hears Amos. The idea is it'll stop them associating bells with the cat.

I wish I'd started writing this version of Gilded Cage a year ago. It would have been a full length novel by now. I have to finish it in 8K and I've barely started.

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (1100)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Short forms 29th January 2016

she misses Ma
despite never knowing
the woman who gave her a chance
at life

© Rachel Green 2016

dark clouds
racing across the landscape
broken trees

© Rachel Green 2016

Never by Name
Jasfoup is written out
of a story
but the brother can still suffer
for the sins of the father

© Rachel Green 2016

house cleaning
becomes priority
living like pigs

Lina and I bond
over the love of dogs
and walking in the rain

sunshine? "It burns," she says

© Rachel Green 2016

the idle cat. breakfast in bed.

© Rachel Green 2016

daily 28th January 2016

insouciant [in-soo-see-uh nt; French an-soo-syahn] adjective
1. free from concern, worry, or anxiety; carefree; nonchalant.

 she budgets for milk 

her insouciant husband 
on a week's furlough 

Facebook Haiku

Jan 28: yucca

clad in hemp sacks
sadness in an English winter
frostbitten yucca

for NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

Dog walking with Lina in the sunshine

housework, writing, gaming. The darn drawers still don't fit

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (1100)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Thursday, 28 January 2016

Short forms 28th January 2016

still her Da's kid
sneaks into his bedroom
to retrieve confiscated toys

© Rachel Green 2016

morning sunshine
through bare willow withies
a flight of sparrows

© Rachel Green 2016

still a struggle
but coping
the story is better
for a year in the writing

© Rachel Green 2016

two dogs
terrorise the cat
she's afraid to come down

Lina suggests her bell
may be the root of the problem
the dogs hear her coming

bell duly removed

© Rachel Green 2016

Her anxiety laden dreams. Money worries.

© Rachel Green 2016

Wednesday, 27 January 2016

pugnacious [puhg-ney-shuh s] adjective
1. inclined to quarrel or fight readily; quarrelsome; belligerent; combative.

the bullies of youth
loud mouthed and pugnacious yobs
I wish I'd known krav

Stabbed myself with a scalpel framing two pictures (not mine)

Facebook Haiku

January 27: yurt

woodland yurt
gives way to wooden roundhouse
commercial shaman

for NaHaiWriMo

Walked the dogs with Lina then later, walked then all to the shop on one triple lead

Something that made me smile today:

Subbed three art pieces to THE A5 MAGAZINE

I'm a bit lacking in poetry at present -- so much for 'a poem a day -- I'm about a week behind.

More writing today.

Put the chest of drawers back together and none of the drawers shut. I had to sand them all off again.

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (1200)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Short forms 27th January 2016

now the tale is told
from a new point of view
straight girl

© Rachel Green 2016

winter leaves
on rain spattered windows
a single ladybird

© Rachel Green 2016

January 27th
my sister's birthday
yes, we're close
we see each other
about once a year

© Rachel Green 2016

blossoms slowly
shared grief
becomes mutual love
single mums

budding relationship

© Rachel Green 2016

Writing. Sleeping in front of the computer.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 26th January 2016

nimiety [ni-mahy-i-tee] noun, plural nimieties.
1. excess; overabundance:
nimiety of mere niceties in conversation.
2. an instance of this.

she thinks she's drowning
in a nimeity of
niceness. Church outing.

Facebook Haiku


frost bitten trees
the yodel of a crow

for NaHaiWriMo

I've not really done anything today but wite and game. I did go to the shop at one point and apparently Amos cried so much that it woke Lina up.

Something that made me smile today:

The cat ate. I was getting worried.

Gilded Cage has shifted again - now the Gran is alive (and dolally) to provide the plot points now the mother is dead.

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (1100)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Tuesday, 26 January 2016

Short forms 26th January 2016

their dad an abuser
but the children had no voices.

© Rachel Green 2016

willow withies
reaching for the sky
wind-blown plastic

© Rachel Green 2016

I get a lie-in
until eight o'clock
woken by woofing
Lina's dog, confused Lu
wasn't up at six a.m.

© Rachel Green 2016

crippling headache
after falling asleep
mid sentence

what is it about writing
that switches off my mind
closes my eyes?

am I that boring?

© Rachel Green 2016

evidence of the cat: eaten food

© Rachel Green 2016

Monday, 25 January 2016

Poem 2016 / 20


Forget-me-nots reminded her of Aunt May
and ants in a terraced garden on Sunday afternoons.
A glass of orange squash and tea for Dad
in the antique china heirloom cups
with roses on the side. Not a real aunt,
the lady who lived next door when Dad was growing up,
living in Bromsgrove now in her mother's house
with the heavy tapestry curtains and the carriage clock
ticking away the minutes until school;
the heady scent of floor polish and beeswax;
embroidered antimacassars and tablecloths.
Her dad's cigarettes left smoke in layers around the ceiling
and Aunt May talked about people she hadn't known
and places she'd never heard of;
memory photographs with no shared connection
leaving blank spaces to be filled
with coloured pencils or chalk
on the paving slabs where the ants danced
on Sunday Afternoons.

© Rachel Green 2016

morning short forms 25th January 2016

of useful names
found in conversation
for genderqueer characters.

© Rachel Green 2016

scattered clouds
against the blue
two sparrows

© Rachel Green 2016

he cries
for no good reason
He wants some attention
but I'm busy writing

© Rachel Green 2016

writing steps up
to a half-decent level
fifteen hundred words

half being operative
I want to double that
every day for a week

time jump required

© Rachel Green 2016

the dog cries. She breaks inside.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 24th January 2016

vociferous [voh-sif-er-uh s] adjective
1. crying out noisily; clamorous.
2. characterized by or uttered with vociferation:
a vociferous manner of expression.

"go in the garden"
prompts vociferous dismay
"but it's raining..."

Spent the morning helping Liane at her house -- shaving doors and tip run

Facebook Haiku

January 24: yore

petty spurge
my father's father's cure
for warts

for  NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

lots of writing done. I have a week to finish Gilded Cage

Also first coat of paint on the dresser.

Written today:

poem - 019
Gilded Cage (1400)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Sunday, 24 January 2016

Poem 2016 / 019

Mangle Monday

Monday was washing, the fire
in the outhouse lit and the huge tub
of water filled bucket by bucket
from the rainwater barrel.

With the water steaming
the whites went in. My father's shirts
and wife beaters, the sheets from four beds
and finally the bathroom towels.

From boiler to dolly tub, agitated
by hand then retrieved with wooden tongs;
cold tub to rinse then into the mangle
before the last step of washing line.

Then the linens, the underwear,
dresses and trousers (and by now
the day is almost done again)
then time to get the washing in.

After she died in 'seventy eight
my father got a twin tub.

short forms 24th January 2016

slow pace
life in Cornwall
proceeds as normal as
it can be with an old demon
let loose

© Rachel Green 2016

no sparrows
to grace the garden
hungry cat

© Rachel Green 2016

overnight visitors
the dog on high alert
nervous barking
she's terrified of one
a gentle man

© Rachel Green 2016

too fat
from inactivity

pressure sores
on my stomach skin


© Rachel Green 2016

sanded and undercoated. her distressed future

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 23rd January 2016

selenology [sel-uh-nol-uh-jee] noun
1. the branch of astronomy that deals with the nature and origin of the physical features of the moon.

Ambrose was once a great
advocate of selenology
but grew old, and forgot

Neither Jack nor Trickster ate today. Trickster was ill in the night but perked up on our walk.

In a bit of pain today. Couldn't concentrate on writing. I am fail.

Facebook Haiku

January 23: yoke

night cries
beautiful vixen won't let go
screaming fox

for   NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

DK's new 'rad' hairstyle

Falling down the stairs the other day has damaged by toe to the point where it's difficult to walk.

I was never really into train sets but this is amazing; You Can Now Explore the World’s Largest Train Set Using Google Street View

Sanded the reclaimed chest of drawers and undercoated it

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (600)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Saturday, 23 January 2016

running into Da
coming back from the mine
what's he been doing, out so late

© Rachel Green 2016

bright spot
behind the grey clouds

© Rachel Green 2016

the cat cries
desperately hungry
she hasn't eaten for two days
turns her nose up at everything

© Rachel Green 2016

tail down
she's been sick in the night
worried I'll be cross
doesn't want breakfast
I hope she cheers up

© Rachel Green 2016

overdue novella. She tries really hard

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 23rd January 2016

sitzmark [sits-mahrk, zits-] noun, Skiing.
1. a sunken area in the snow marking a backward fall of a skier.

Apple batteries
climbing its product mountain
beware the sitzmarks

Facebook Haiku

January 22: YON/YONDER

moving lights
over the mistbound marshland
northward geese

for   NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

Cards against Humanity with Rosie and Bubbles

The scariest TV show when I was a kid Television drama "Escape into night"

Amazing Land Art Simon Beck

Written today:

poem - 17
Gilded Cage (1000)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Friday, 22 January 2016

2016 / 018

The River's Depth

He showed her where the trout lie
fat and sleek in the calm spot
behind the river stones,
cold and slippery to the touch
and in the tall grass by the riverbank
showed her how to tickle them
until they jumped in her hand.
She could never catch them
and when he caught her using a landing net
slapped her leg so hard she fell.
But the broken ankle put her off
and forever afterward
he blamed himself for her vegetarianism
and her preference for the company
of ladies.

Short Forms 22nd January 2016

old scar
on her left palm
from before memory
loose screw on her childhood pram

© Rachel Green 2016

morning frost
on the top of the compost
dead worms

© Rachel Green 2016

the cat, hungry
won't eat her food
no interest
even the best brands
won't tempt her

© Rachel Green 2016

early dawn
outside the window
a sentinel

the telephone wires
invisible in the darkness
just the pole

always watching

© Rachel Green 2016

A brace of dogs. Poor cat.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 21st January 2016

presenteeism [prez-uh n-tee-iz-uh m] noun
1. the practice of coming to work despite illness, injury, anxiety, etc., often resulting in reduced productivity.
2. the practice of working long hours at a job without the real need to do so.

her work discouraged
presenteeism -- illness
shared by all workers

early shopping while I had the car

Facebook Haiku

January 21: YOGA

downward dog
produces surprise and dismay
angry cat

for NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

Getting to grips with the story at last

ordered some sanding discs and a paperback copy of 'White Lies' from Amazon

TV, gaming.

Amos does not like being brushed.

Written today:

poem - 17
Gilded Cage (1150)
Rolling In (250)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Thursday, 21 January 2016

Poem 2016 / 017

Boythorpe Wood

Paw prints in the mud
frozen by January cold.

She stumps along, shoelaces
trailing from her purple boots,
the lead looped around one wrist
and held tight. Ice cracks
under her tread and the trees
moan softly in the wind.

Distant barking.
The sun comes out.

Rolling In

Bernie stood at the very edge of the water, where the waves barely brushed the tips of her Oxfords before drawing back, staring at the white horses at the edge of the bay.

Mel crossed the wrack line and approached, her sensible flat shoes making little impression in the damp sand. Reaching Bernie, she stood in silence for a moment, hoping she didn't have to speak first. She was afraid the tears would start and never stop. After another minute she realised her hope was doomed to be dashed. “I'm sorry,” she said, finally.

Bernie looked at her then, her gray-green eyes turning the emerald hue of the channel. “You've nothing to be sorry for.”

“What will you do now?”

“Anything I like. Travel, maybe. Nothing to keep me here now, is there?”

“I'm still here.”

“Only until July, then you're gone as well.”

“You could come to Manchester.”

“What is there for me there? I'm a country girl, remember?”

“You never know what you'll find. It's a new age. The dawn of Aquarius.”

“Whatever happened to free love?”

“It was never free. Someone always had to pay for it, in the end.”

“Too right.”

“Come to Manchester, just for a few weeks. You can stay at my mom and dad's.”

“And do what?”

“It's 1973. Who knows what the future holds?” Mel smiled. “Besides, there's this blues singer I want to introduce you to, in Canal Street.”

Morninf Short Forms

too dark
for cowpat field
they go the long way round
across the open Bodmin moor.

© Rachel Green 2016

scraping windows
in a bed of morning frost
blackbird footprints

© Rachel Green 2016

in the checkout line
call assistant
Tesco self service
hates Lidl's bags

© Rachel Green 2016

I worry
about the length of time
it takes to do anything.

Halfway through the novella
and nothing's really happened
to our protagonist

adding a demon now...

© Rachel Green 2016

Dogs. Best start to a day.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 20th January 2016

aposiopesis [ap-uh-sahy-uh-pee-sis] noun, plural aposiopeses
[ap-uh-sahy-uh-pee-seez] Rhetoric.
1. a sudden breaking off in the midst of a sentence, as if from inability or unwillingness to proceed.

she demonstrates her
aposiopesis in
conversation with...

laundry, gaming, writing, bathing Amos, writing, gaming

Facebook Haiku

January 20: YOLK

sudden freeze
ends the January spring
discarded eggs

for NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:


The snake tank was collected - one less piece of clutter.

Written today:

poem - 16
Gilded Cage (1000)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

Poetry 2016/016

Lingers Still

when you were six years old
you told me there was a man in the garden
with a chequered headscarf and cap
and one eye white with age
though the other was brown as old tobacco.
He was down by the potting shed
waiting for you to return
with meat-paste sandwiches and a glass of milk
like some marshland Magwich.
There was no-one there when I looked,
just a lingering smell of turpentine
and pipe tobacco,
the same smell that was in your bedroom
when you were on your school trip to France.

Morning Poetry 20th January 2016

bursts of laughter
in the ancient kitchen
where three friends are smoking good weed.

© Rachel Green 2016

in the east
a glimmer of lighter clouds
gull's cry

© Rachel Green 2016

Amazon sales
my Bluegrass Mandolin book
for a fiver
It cost three times that
twenty years ago

© Rachel Green 2016

will I be sad
when my ex dies?
will I grieve?

will I remember
the times of laughter
or the anger?

the broken jaw?

© Rachel Green 2016

ghost tales scare less than husbands

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 19th January 2016

kerflooey [ker-floo-ee] adverb, go kerflooey
1. Informal. to cease functioning, especially suddenly and completely; fall apart; fail:
As soon as the storm hit, every light in town went kerflooey.

an inch of snow and
Britain goes kerflooey. Time
to invest in skis?

Facebook Haiku

January 19: Yoda

old fisherman
gutting herring on his boat
flocking gulls

for    NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

The bin men taking all the accumulated cardboard

Ah, 1000 or so words written, but yesterdays re-written. I've taken out the folk-tale of Old Nick and replaced it with fairies

Written today:

poem - 15
Gilded Cage (1000)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Tuesday, 19 January 2016

Poem a Day 2016 / 15

Old, Old

The snake died, a bag of skin over old bones
on the morning we were going away.
I disengaged the heating mat, staggered with the glass tank
to the chill damp of the morning air,
lifting out the snake, her eyes open, glazed.
She was fine last night...
Still stiff, Mobius curves around her rocks and wood,
sand and sawdust still hot from the mat
as I scan for something to wrap her in.
A linen tablecloth, old, ragged, paint-spattered
becomes her shroud and I inter her
into the warm musk of the compost bin.
Three months, six, she'll be bones
waiting to uncover and thread on spools of silk;
ready to carry dreams to the realm of Spirit.
Sand and sawdust steeped in the memories of bones.

Morning poetry 19th January 2016

old house
of old legends
with the one of Old Nick
being a primary source of

© Rachel Green 2016

pink skies
give way to dark clouds
magpie chatters

© Rachel Green 2016

from the cliffs
the pure blue-green of the sea
emerald clarity
a broken pine tree

© Rachel Green 2016

major film
Leonado di Caprio
American Hero

the plot starts well
with no explanation
lots of action

then just drags on and on

© Rachel Green 2016

lounging dogs echo her lethargy. Depression.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 18th January 2016

aeonian or eonian [ee-oh-nee-uh n] adjective
1. eternal; everlasting.

aeonian matter:
everything he does and
whatever she says

Facebook Haiku

January 18: yikes

tenant's phone call
mice in the lounge and bedroom
cat allergies

for   NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

Getting some writing done.

Cinema with Dk. "Revenant" Tedious.

Written today:

poem -
Gilded Cage (600)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Monday, 18 January 2016

Morning Poetry 18th January 2016

girl tale
knuckling down
to finish the story
in the next two weeks. Plan it like

© Rachel Green 2016

barking dogs
race around the house
nonchalant cat

© Rachel Green 2016

fabulous weekend
in the depths of Torquay
long walks
the clifftops afford views
cormorants and penguins

© Rachel Green 2016

in the back of the car

a tablet
enables night journeys
to faraway places

motorway lullaby

© Rachel Green 2016

pictures of herself. She's too fat.

© Rachel Green 2016

Friday, 15 January 2016

Morning poetry 15th January 2016

he gives
a piggy back
to his dad's new lodger.
Even his sister can see love

© Rachel Green 2016

glum school child
marches along the pavement
wind-blown chip tray

© Rachel Green 2016

she does tests
on the computer
asks me for help
not to cheat in any way
but to confirm her answers

© Rachel Green 2016

stress test
gives me a headache
eye pain

I don't mind maths
but when I have time pressure
it drives me crazy

the person next to me is gibbering

© Rachel Green 2016

Weekend away. She misses her dogs.

© Rachel Green 2016

Thursday, 14 January 2016

Daily January 14th 2016


hebetude [heb-i-tood, -tyood]noun2016-01-14 18.02.28
1. the state of being dull; lethargy.

hundreds of toys and
games. The hebetude of kids.
The cries of 'I'm bored.'

Took Trickster to the vets. Oddly, the vet was Dina from Jiu-jitsu. How cool. Trickster's got a throat infection and should be fine in a day or five.

Facebook Haiku

January 14: YEOMAN

Grace Lee Whitney,
her sad demise eclipsed.
Leonard Nimoy

for    NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:2016-01-14 18.03.00

My novel "Sons of Angels" appearing in paperback when I was under the impression I had the print rights to it.

Into town for usual shopping

Not a lot achieved today.

Written today:

poem - 14
Gilded Cage (400)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Daily Poem 2016 / 014



Self Portrait at 7:00 AM

Light on, eyes focused

my naked body in the mirror

in the few seconds before the shower

steams up the glass.

My hair, more traces of silver every day,

ratty from sleep. I should have bound it

while I slept the hours away.

My eyes, lighter than I remember,

encased in puffy flesh like two blueberries

in a sackful of croissants

and my huge nose and thin lips

I am at least thankful for the lack

of (visible) facial hair. All could be worse

and further down it is. My breasts still high and firm,

the benefit of smallness though one nipple

remains permanently adolescent.

My belly hangs lower than it used to but

entirely my own fault. Too much food. Too much tea.

Certainly not enough exercise.

My hips are still narrow and boyish

my bum tight as a drum and my legs

are still muscled pistons from all the walking.

Maybe tomorrow I'll do better.

Maybe tomorrow.


© Rachel Green 2016

Morning Poetry 14th January 2016


cow pats2016-01-13 11.32.59
a barrier
to a pilgrim's progress.
She accepts a piggy-back ride.
young love.

© Rachel Green 2016

lone magpie
hiding in the grass
too-early eggs

© Rachel Green 2016

woken by
Tricker's tortured breathing
snorts and swallows
I comfort her in the darkness
and worry about her heart

© Rachel Green 2016

their new sofas
arrive at nine PM
two guys in a rented van

they 'forgot' the paperwork
so DK makes them write a receipt
on a sheet of printer paper

Happier people

© Rachel Green 2016

Her face, left on a shelf.

© Rachel Green 2016

Wednesday, 13 January 2016

Daily 13th January 2016

bellwether [bel-weth-er] noun
1. a wether or other male sheep that leads the flock, usually bearing a bell.
2. a person or thing that assumes the leadership or forefront, as of a profession or industry:
Paris is a bellwether of the fashion industry.
3. a person or thing that shows the existence or direction of a trend; index.
4. a person who leads a mob, mutiny, conspiracy, or the like; ringleader.

John Siddique remains
my personal bellwether
poetic talent

Facebook Haiku

January 13: YEARN

over the schoolyard
the sound of waves

for    NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

Putting clothes into the new wardrobe, emptying and getting rid of the two old chests of drawers.

Busy day doing stuff.

Alas, I got a bit ratty at one point. Sorry.

Written today:

poem - 113
Gilded Cage (390)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

A Poem a Day 2016 / 013


One Quarter-Tonne

The weight of books

old banana boxes full of them

twenty seven in all.

Two carloads

to drop them at the charity shop

we carry them in

I loved my books

but would I ever read them again

I kept five hundred

Such a weight gone

not only in poundage

but from my heart.

With every book that left the house

I felt a little more free.


© Rachel Green 2016

Morning Poetry 13th January 2016


the twins2016-01-13 00.54.10
born days apart
as like as chalk and cheese
but both fancy the same woman.

© Rachel Green 2016

broken toys
in a box of old shoes
two mice

© Rachel Green 2016

old drawers
left out for the dustmen
bin day
We take it home with us
for a coat of paint

© Rachel Green 2016

at long last
the black dog leashed

a daily fight
but with luck and tenacity
I can win

until tomorrow

© Rachel Green 2016

Police helicopters. Blue veins and scalpels.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 12th January 2016


2016-01-06 11.33.49

peripatetic [per-uh-puh-tet-ik] adjective
1. walking or traveling about; itinerant.
2. (initial capital letter) of or relating to Aristotle, who taught philosophy while walking in the Lyceum of ancient Athens.
3. (initial capital letter) of or relating to the Aristotelian school of philosophy.
4. a person who walks or travels about.
5. (initial capital letter) a member of the Aristotelian school.

befriended by a
peripatetic tinker
she learns to forage


January 12th: yeast

ginger plant
on a childhood windowsill
mother's medicine

for   NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:
Actually getting some writing done

Watched 'Room' with DK and Lu. Harrowing film (and a waste of a twist), Worth watching.

Written today:

poem - 11, 12
Gilded Cage (1080)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

A Poem A Day 2016 / 012


Lifts to Longbridge

Ray's driving his mini cooper, wipers
going crazy but failing to stem the wash
of torrential rain from the windscreen.
At twenty-something he's overweight
and wears a woollen cap to disguise his baldness
but in reality, it emphasises it.
The Beatles on his 8-rack but how many kids
wish they hadn't been called 'Michelle?'
She Loves You but she doesn't, does she? At seventeen
my sister stares out of the passenger side window,
lost in thought of the boy her father didn't like
while I, twelve years old and wedged in the back
am just grateful for the lift. He hangs around her
most days, his moth to her naked light and we
know he's going to get burned and then
there will be no more lifts to Longbridge.

© Rachel Green 2016

A Poem a day 2016 / 011


London Delight

They look on, these women,
the poor in headscarves while the well-to-do
display Easter bonnets; bright colours against the dirt
and decay of prison walls, their menfolk,
fathers and husbands in country tweeds,
offered the titillation of gawking as semi-clad women,
safe in the guise of merciful benefactors.
Newgate children, incarcerated with mothers
and sisters because their father's can't cope
or were hanged for the theft of a loaf
white the merchants and bankers pocket hundreds
and fire those too wracked with hunger to work.
She works alone, this gentle lady,
driven to teach by the light of a candle
and the thin grimy air from tiny windows
high out of reach and yellow with smog and birdshit.
Children learn to write their names,
women to read the Gospels
and one day, if they survive, the hope of salvation
in a five-pound note.

© Rachel Green 2016

Morning Poetry 12th January 2016

2016-01-11 11.06.05

a door
padlock secured
little use when close by
is a window frame with the glass
long gone

© Rachel Green 2016

bare birch
against the gloomy sky
passing crow

© Rachel Green 2016

hunting mice
two leap out of a box
and escape
I fill the holes with hardener
that covers my hands in armour

© Rachel Green 2016

stress test
attack with a knife
I'm stabbed

a survivable wound
but if I'd relied on jiu-jitsu
I'd be dead

KAPAP defence

© Rachel Green 2016

a jiu-jitsu defence gets her killed

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 11th January 2016

inveigle [in-vey-guh l, -vee-] verb (used with object), inveigled, inveigling.
1. to entice, lure, or ensnare by flattery or artful talk or inducements (usually followed by into):
to inveigle a person into playing bridge.
2. to acquire, win, or obtain by beguiling talk or methods (usually followed by from or away):
to inveigle a theater pass from a person.

Cameron's new ruse
to inveigle extra votes
from racist Britons

2016-01-11 13.45.13Went to Liane's to get rid of the mice in the scullery. Found them. Ejected them. Filled up the hole they got through with self hardening foam which I cannot get off my hands. Euch.






Facebook Haiku

January 11: yearling

premature calf
from a yearling Frisian

for   NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

KAPAP. And a cinema date night with DK

KAPAP rocks, though in real life I would be dead from the knife wound in the stress test.

Gah! I had every album of his. He was the soundtrack to my life. RIP David Bowie.

Written today:

poem - 10
Gilded Cage (250)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Monday, 11 January 2016

A Poem a Day 2016 / 010


Cromarty, Forth and Tyne


back living with my father

the year away a fading memory

the years ahead planned

with youthful purpose.

Work for a year, then art school

drawing nudes into the night

when the family have gone to bed

and have no course to object

to the swish of dresses falling on the floor

or the whisper of a stocking at half mast.

A Book at Bedtime in the background

soft music on the radio,

The Shipping Forecast

with Dogger, Shannon and Tyne

distant places where night howls with fury

like my father

when he views the tangle of limbs in the morning.


© Rachel Green 2016

Morning Poetry 11th January 2016

2016-01-10 19.30.34

© Rachel Green 2016

silent trees
in a deserted park

© Rachel Green 2016

Tesco Malties
seem to be a stable part
of my lazy diet
too many carbs
not enough exercise

© Rachel Green 2016

comfortable sofa
is the killer
of television

whenever I sit on it
the dogs snuggle
I fall asleep

what happened?

© Rachel Green 2016

Unwelcome touch. She breaks his arm.

© Rachel Green 2016

Daily 10th January 2016


cineaste or cineast, cinéaste [sin-ee-ast, sin-ey-] noun
1. any person, especially a director or producer, associated professionally with filmmaking.
2. an aficionado of filmmaking.

applications09-01-2016 Trickster & Joke 03
made to a cineast
rejected Child

Facebook Haiku

January 10: yew

a flask of colour
in a winter-grey churchyard
yew tree robin

for   NaHaiWriMo


Farewell to Joke (pron. yoh-kay) who returned to Amsterdam and Becky to Bristol

Lots of work in the house -- re-routing a network cable to DK's office; assembling a large wardrobe; dismantling the old sofa for collection and fetching a chest of drawers for upcycling.

Written today:

too tired. sorry.

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Sunday, 10 January 2016

Morning poetry 10th January 2016



night talk2016-01-09 11.43.02
in a ruined house
I would like to live here
and have five kids grow up  happy.

© Rachel Green 2016

lightening shy
across a rain-swept muddy field
a murmuration of starlings

© Rachel Green 2016

crying for no reason
perhaps he's hungry?
Or maybe it's Amos
taking the best sofa spot

© Rachel Green 2016

printed on aluminium
without hangers

I fail to find the best way
to display the pieces
ebay; amazon fail

I'll try contact adhesive

© Rachel Green 2016

Old lady in the new mirror

© Rachel Green 2016

Saturday, 9 January 2016

Daily 9th January 2016

offing [aw-fing, of-ing] noun
1. the more distant part of the sea seen from the shore, beyond the anchoring ground.
2. a position at a distance from shore.
3. in the offing,
    at a distance but within sight.
    in the projected future; likely to happen:
    A wedding is in the offing.

book deal in the offing
I'll believe it when it happens
/sceptical me

2016-01-09 11.21.51
Facebook Haiku

Jan 9th: Yam

uneaten yams
in the compost bin
frantic activity

for    NaHaiWriMo

Something that made me smile today:

THIS SITE  has pirate copies of my books. In paperback. Even the ones that have never been in paperback. I suspect Print-On-Demand and have ordered a paperback 'Sons of Angels' to see the quality. Not as cheap as if I'd produced them on Lulu, but not too bad. I should complain but... I don't get payments from the genuine publisher, either, and I'm just happy people want to read my books. It might encourage them to read AUC or LfS.

Mostly bummed about today. Black dog and all that (though I did buy a book about depression). Not done very much at all. Tomorrow will be busy, so next week is buckle down and get GC written.

THIS is fabulous. I've lost hours in there.

Netflix secrets

Written today:

poem - 009
Gilded Cage ()

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Daily Poem 2016 / 009


The Man Next Door

“Neversweat,” my father called him

thanks to his habit of wearing a cravat

whatever the season.

He had the house they built next to ours

forever in the shadow of our garden walls

and the forsythia hedge I planted at seventeen.

Lionel Leadbetter (and honestly, why would

his parents think that a good idea?) used to

drop in for a cup of tea with my father

and her mechanic friends (the long drive

could hold half a dozen breakdown trucks)

but never realised their casual cruelty.


© Rachel Green 2016

Morning poetry 8th January 2016

giggles2016-01-08 11.12.54
in the darkness
between the three people
so whose is the sibilant voice?
not her!

© Rachel Green 2016

dead peonies
cling to withered leaves
shivering sparrows

© Rachel Green 2016

new dog
has breathing troubles
coughs and snorts
time to introduce him
to the local vet

© Rachel Green 2016

sports centre
opens in new premises
sign-ups available
they picked the right time
hundreds of people
in New Year enthusiasm
we sign up

© Rachel Green 2016

Her passion for Jiu-jitsu departs

© Rachel Green 2016

Friday, 8 January 2016

Daily 8th January 2016


Sybaritic or Sybaritical [sib-uh-rit-ik] adjective
1. (usually lowercase) pertaining to or characteristic of a sybarit

his rampant sex life
thought to be sybaritic
old man chasing youth

Queen's Park 5PM - self toured the new facility. We'll join.

2016-01-08 11.28.38

Facebook Haiku

January 8: yawn

yawning cat
after a hard day's work
radiator naps

for NaHaiWriMo

Walked Jack and Trickster into town. Shopping

Something that made me smile today

some framing done

2016-01-08 15.58.11

Helped Chris with moving our (Jali's old) table

lovely meal made by DK


Written today

poem - 8
Gilded Cage (0)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.

Where Did Summer Go?



I looked up, and it was autumn

where golden hues were cosseted

by warm September light

and the willows stopped being so prolific,

turning their leaves from the coming North.

Soon it will be winter

with its shades of white on roof and hearth

courted only for the relief

of a well padded spring.

I looked away for only a moment

still relishing the spring

the mind's fingers playing over photographs

where sullen rain turned to bubbling springs

and the songbirds called in the evening.


© Rachel Green 2016

poetry 8th January 2016


2016-01-07 10.34.07

gi o'er
her churchyard walk
becomes a dope fuelled trip
to an abandoned old smithy.

© Rachel Green 2016

bare branches
the peep-peep-peep of a bluetit

© Rachel Green 2016

cold road
grass verges torn up
tractor tyres
deep ruts filled
with mud and rainwater

© Rachel Green 2016

old lady
walks her Westie
past our house

red coat
dark against the winter greens
white dog

it hesitates, wanting to play

© Rachel Green 2016

her starvation diet. she craves pizza.

© Rachel Green 2016

Thursday, 7 January 2016

Daily 7th January 2016

terpsichorean [turp-si-kuh-ree-uh n, turp-si-kawr-ee-uh n, -kohr-] adjective
1. pertaining to dancing.
2. (initial capital letter) of or relating to Terpsichore.
3. a dancer.

assumption: contest
would be terpsichorean.
Reality: knife fight

2016-01-07 10.55.16

Facebook Haiku

January 7: yak

holiday jumper
a gift from Mongolia
rancid butter

for NaHaiWriMo


Something that made me smile today:

Finding a very old 34th handmade birthday card from my ex-nephew


Took all three dogs today. That was fun. Amos is very well behaved.

gaming, writing, odd house jobs.

Written today:

poem - 007
Gilded Cage (500)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent I thank you.

Kali off Leicester Fields


She danced under the orange moon
as the smoke from burning stubble
hazed the air and made the stars twinkle
like the light in her lover's eyes. Mice ran;
a seemingly endless river of them,
escaping the flames. It didn't matter
that her bare feet crushed a few,
their spines snapping like summer-dry twigs;
a natural sacrifice for the bounty of the earth.

Her eyes shine with moonglow
as her skirts swirl above grasping fingers,
teasing them with the promise of good food
and the hissing of fat as the bones crack
to release the marrow within. Her hands cocked just so;
middle finger to thumb, a path for chi
to circle through her and within her,
drawn from the pale open eyes of her lover
as the heat fades from his body
and her footsteps tread the dance.

© Rachel Green 2016

Poetry 7th January 2016

one warm jumper
that smells of beer and sweat
(almost) guaranteed to make her
love him

© Rachel Green 2016

bare birch
decorated with raindrops
and rainbows

© Rachel Green 2016

pirate website
offers my ebooks for sale
as paperbacks
they must print them at lulu
without my permission

© Rachel Green 2016

more wire
to go upstairs
to DK's office

We debate the merits
of going outside
vs up the stairs

easy vs neat

© Rachel Green 2016

She has company today. Human interaction.

© Rachel Green 2016

Wednesday, 6 January 2016

Daily 6th January 2016

unputdownable [uhn-poo t-dou-nuh-buh l] adjective, Informal.
1. (especially of a book or periodical) so interesting or suspenseful as to compel reading.

reading on the loo
Chris Fowler and  Christmas pud.

Facebook Haiku

Jan 6th: yarn

tales of chasing tigers
according to my somnambulist corgi
I let sleeping dogs lie

for NaHaiWriMo

I don't know. What did I do today?

Something that made me smile today:

Hurrah! Some writing managed.

How interesting. I found a site selling some of my books in paperback that weren't out in paperback. I may buy some.

I discovered Amos can puke his dinner up in perfect aesophagus sausages. Which he then eats again.

Written today:

poem - 006
Gilded Cage (500)

You've been reading Of Literary Bent. I thank you.