Open Mic Performing

Recently I’ve been able to start doing more events. This makes me very happy. This week I went to The Speakers’ Corner in York and performed at their open mic. I was shaking like a leaf but extremely comforted that I couldn’t see the faces looking at me. Blindness does have some benefits! I’ve even made some poetry writing friends and I’ve had some great feedback.

Anyway- this was just a quick post to say hello, I know it’s been a while. I will be posting some new material really soon (including what I read at this open mic) so please do stick around!

Love and Lemonade,



So Called Safe.

Times like this I shouldn’t be here
Its not stopping my stress it’s stemming it
I’ve been helped
alongside the girls who eat tape measures
and the boys who breathe fire.

But as I lie in bed
I’m whispering to my pillow
“The door’s locked.
The door’s locked.
The door’s locked.”
And it’s not OCD talking.

I’m scared because they’ve been kicking the doors in for hours
and we are two members of staff down
and as patients storm the siren screaming doors
the agency blokes don’t know their names
to phone for the police.

We’ve lost three members of staff 
and gained an army of impermanence.
We are 16 beds of vulnerable young people
Yet for nurses balancing the staff ratio has become a craft
The budget cuts are getting deeper
And there’s no one to stop us when we are bleeding.

But what are parents supposed to do?
When Seb is sixteen and suicidal so sent to be safe.
The psychiatrist is supposedly stalling their son’s surge for suicide.
But in a moment Finn throws a fist and Seb’s got stitches.
Seb’s mind must be bad for six stitches to be the safest.
How scary is that?

The ceiling screams when we do,
Staff scatter.
Skin splits.
And sewn on the skin of my teeth
Are slideshows of scenarios
Seen in children’s psychiatric settings.

But we’re safe here. Right?


The Cabbie Who Wanted To Live Forever

This is a small, very flawed, poem I wrote in the waiting room of a health centre. It is about the taxi driver who got me there in his beaten up Skoda. He had found a dieting secret which he hoped would eventually earn him immortality. He went on to tell me about it, in great length. Crawling through the streets, fast food boxes shifting across the dashboard with every turn and the radio mumbling the news on low. Here is what happened:

The Cabbie Who Wanted To Live Forever

As he drives me to my appointment,

With the aim of avoiding potential disappointment,

The silence

The radio discussing inner-city violence

He starts to endlessly babble.

And in his thought stream I’m unwillingly forced to dabble.

He tells me of his new diet:

“You really should try it!”

He doesn’t know that this suggestion has hardly made my day,

Because I am actually on my way to get weighed

He continues: “All the celebrities are on it!”

“It’s making them fighting fit!”

“It’s vegan”

“The wife thinks I’m a steak avoiding heathen”

“You slice and dice, nothing cooks”

“It’s in all the top health books”

“One man did it and lived to two hundred and seventy.”

“Oh yes- still full of life, joy and fidelity!”

I begin to feel intellectually frugal

As I make a search on google.

‘Oldest man in the world at one hundred and sixteen.’

I would tell him, but why ruin his dream?

“My raw cabbage is ready for lunch!”

He’ll drop by Mcdonalds… this is my hunch.

As he pulls up to the clinic,

I feel somewhat of a cynic.

“Have a nice afternoon” I say.

“What I’d do to live forever” he laughs and drives away.