Wednesday, January 04, 2017

Come over here

I've now established that I'm getting many more views per day on Medium than I'm getting per month on Blogger…so rather than duplicate my efforts, I'm going where the getting is good.

See you there.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016


a letter of apology,
which I delivered to kind strangers
who live in my neighbourhood

As my Rose walked by
this morning, she did spy
the perfect place to do
her stinky greyhound poo.

She left it on your lawn
at six o'clock this morn.
I reached into my pouch,
full of poo-bags, I would vouch.

Alas! Gosh darn it! F#@k!
See, I was out of luck—
Whichever way I'd stare,
the pouch was, sadly, bare.

And so began my caper.
Right then, I spied your paper
in a tidy plastic wrap,
just perfect for her crap.

I opened it with joy,
as if it were a toy
and I were still a child.
(My, isn't my life wild?)

I laid your news back down
neatly on the ground
next to your front right tyre.
(I thieve, but I'm no liar.)

Now, with my hand in plastic,
and feeling quite fantastic
(and perhaps a bit absurd),
I gathered up that turd.

I realised, with regret,
your paper might get wet
or blown around by wind,
but I could not rescind.

I checked around the place
so as not to leave a trace.
Then we resumed our jog
with our little bag of bog.

Sorry, thank you, and I hope your newspaper didn't get damp or windblown!
:) Tamyka Bell

The legend of the poop poem

Once we got back home,
I started work on a poem.
I tidied my first draft
(so I wouldn’t feel too daft).

Then carefully hand-wrote
the poop-dog poem. This note
I dropped in their mail box
(and saved a copy in Docs).

A couple of days went past,
then messages came fast
from lots of friendly folks: 
some sheilas and some blokes.

‘You’re famous, take a look—
your poem is on Facebook!’
‘Hey, it’s on Twitter, too—
your poem about the poo!'

So there, in all its glory
is the rest of my story
of how one untimely shit
turned into such a hit.

About this piece

I think all the detail is in there. I wrote this and dropped it in their letterbox the same afternoon. It appeared on Facebook the next day, much appreciated by the recipient. Poop-de-doop and The legend of the poop poem were both first published on

Friday, October 21, 2016

Sultry…an acrostic Cavatina

Heat rises unchecked, like passion. We come
undone. You wear
my sweat like gloss upon your parted lips.
I’m you, and we’re
drowning in droplets that grant no succour.
I lead you where
this love should give us strength and lift us higher.
Yet here we lie, oppressed by our desire.

About this piece

This poem is part of the series Weather Our Souls, which explores the weather as a metaphor for the human condition. I worked with the twin meanings of the title in the form of a Cavatina, which seems to 'limp rather than flow'. This feeling of unsatisfying oppression persists as the sensual narrative is built over the acrostic base, humidity, and ties them together in the final couplet. Sultry was first published on

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Greater good

in secure
it becomes
for outsiders
to be
in, so curiosity
leads us
to ask
whether we should
in, so curating
for the other,
such that
they can be apart
and still
a part
of what
we offer
in so curing
the world
of its follies
we need

About this piece

I don't normally give too much information about the subject matter of a poem, but it's important to me that you understand that this one describes the tendency for privileged members of society to ignore the plight of others in favour of imposing their own views. It was first published on


It’s not a case of there or not-there; it’s always there.
You can’t switch it off.
You can tune it out, but it’s still there.

You can pretend it’s not, but it is.

You can’t tone it down, defining it in physical terms of no relevance:
it’s an electricity thing, it’s a magnetism thing, it’s a chemistry thing.
It’s no thing at all.

But that doesn’t mean it’s nothing. Oh, it’s something, alright.

You can try to turn it into something it’s not:
doll it up, or pare it back, or add a fine glimmer of mystery.
It’s unchanged.

Always has been. Always will be.

You can’t segregate portions of it and assign those parts labels
like you try to do with people. It’s not like people.
It doesn’t even lie or cheat or steal or war. It doesn’t do anything.

It just is.

You can feel its warmth and you can see its glow but
you can’t contain it. It’s already got a home.
You can try to make it mean something more—but how could it?

It already means everything.

About this piece

I wrote this in response to a Medium piece, at the end of which the writer asked for our thoughts. It was first published there, too.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016


Some mornings we make breakfast,
some mornings we make love and
some mornings make no sound, they just
slip by unnoticed while we make what we can
out of what we have — not much, but enough.

Some days, this world gets too much
and I want to cry out for you but I don’t dare
seek you because you’re already too much
for me, and even when you’re all I want
you’re not my everything — but you are enough.

You can never be my everything;
I won’t let you be my everything,
but if everything else was taken away,
I’d be okay, if you were all that remained —
if you were all I had, you’d be enough.

About this piece

I wrote this poem in response to what I believe is one of society's most foolish myths: that my lover should be my everything. It was linked to an essay I wrote at the same time, with the rather long title I don’t want you to be my everything. I just want you to be enough.

Enough was first published on, where it was also featured in the Reading Roulette curated collection on 12 October 2016.

Saturday, October 08, 2016

Muse…a double acrostic tanka

Prisms shape my flow
of fond memories into
each awaiting ear,
mirrors to my soul, dated
symbols, created in dreams.

About this piece

I wrote this in response to the second Poetry in Form prompt on, and that's where it was first published.

Tuesday, October 04, 2016

Thunderstorm…an acrostic Parallelogram de Crystalline

Carry me
up with you, soaring on
majestic wings and rushing voices.
lust wells up and crashes
over me, tide of turbulent air.
Numb inside,
I tumble down again,
made heavy by your Antarctic words.
Building me
up always ends with me
sublimating to nothing once more.

About this piece

This poem is the first in Weather Our Souls, a series exploring weather patterns and elements as metaphors for the human condition and our relationships. There are few single-stanza poetic forms with the 12 lines I wanted for this acrostic; the cyclic nature of the Parallelogram de Crystalline suited my image of a relationship that grows and breaks down like rain or hail in a cumulonimbus. Thunderstorm was first published on