Tuesday, May 31, 2016


Marvels, mysteries made
dangerous in mad musings, confusing
obsession with love,
friendship with fearful pandering,
panda-eyes and drama—
so much drama!
Accusations of assumptions made,
built on assumptions of accusations; at the centre
you wallow in a muddy mind riddled with despair,
despairing in riddles of your own making and

About this piece

I think we've all got someone in our lives whose constant dramas we'd rather not have to deal with. But it's only your friends you get to choose—colleagues and family come with the territory, and it seems like almost everyone carries baggage these days. After using the word 'wallow', I had to resist the urge to include an image of a hippopotamus in mud. (But they're so cute!)

Saturday, May 28, 2016


Endless promise captured in a single strand,
detained by concertina wire, spiralling out of control
alongside bright white and feint rule. One splotch,
black on hearts unchained, uncharted. A few
notes, here and there and nothing of substance.

About this piece

Writers love notebooks. A new notebook holds so much promise, all that fresh paper ready for brilliant words. But, so often, I fill my notebooks with nothing of substance. I wrote this poem in a spiral bound notebook on a flight to South Africa, 6 May 2016. (The spellchecker seems to think it should be 'faint' rule, but the cover of my notebook says 'feint ruled', so I'm sticking with what I've got.)

Sunday, May 15, 2016


growing up dreaming, believing in The One
who would right all wrongs. Write your songs
with clumsy words and ugly phrases, dripping
with self-indulgent self-pity.

your love is blind, bitter words best left
on the tongue, tasteless, hidden
behind filtered smiles and flawless features, faltering
in feigned fragility.

spending all your years never knowing
The One you claim
to love, as if

knowledge would shatter beautiful illusions, a chrysalis
torn down, down-trodden, trodden upon.

Imagine, just
imagine your love, The One, finds love—

real love that is not blind, but sees;
hopeful love that shines and lights the darkness you crave.

Imagine, just
imagine your love, The One, finds love—

with another, in pleasures you choose
to forego, in a joy you choose
never to know.

Imagine, would you,
could you let them go?

Imagine, but do not imagine you have any say.
They are already lost to you,
to blissful abandon.

About this piece

This is a poem about the bitterness of holding on when it's time to let go. I began it back in February, but spent a good few months getting it just right. I'm off on an expedition tomorrow, so I decided it must be ready.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016


She was broken, once,
bleeding. Her body had been battered,
beaten down, burned alive by
love, too hot to touch,
or so she believed.

She was empty, then,
hollow through. Her mind had been scattered,
eaten out, sucked dry by
love, needed too much,
or so she believed.

She was confused, again,
directionless. Her dreams had been shattered,
flung about, lacerated by
love, slave to its clutch,
or so she believed.

She was naïve, see,
stupid. None of it mattered,
crying so loud as if tortured by
love, a victim as such…
but no one believed.

About this piece

When I first started writing this piece, it was about a friend: she lies to herself and others, and refuses to let go of what was never hers to begin with. As the poem evolved, it became about the way we hold onto unhealthy relationships and tell ourselves that's what love is meant to be, even as we doubt every word we speak. And in its final (for now) iteration, it is about how those relationships drive us into depression. First published on Medium.com.

Monday, May 02, 2016

Echo: when next we meet

Next time we meet,
let’s keep our clothes on.

The nights grow longer and colder and
we only have a few hours.

Last time we met,
we stripped our clothes off.

My muscles cramped and ached and
my lungs burned, though
we only stayed under a few seconds.

next time we meet,
let’s take our shoes off.
Let’s lie in the sun on the rocks by the stream.
Let’s dip our toes in.
Let’s dream.

The summer passes and fades in
shrinking days, and
will soon be over.

next time we meet,
let’s keep our clothes on.

About this piece

This piece is a response to a writing prompt by Mike Essig on Medium. His call was the first two lines of a poem by Diane Wakoski; this is my echo. See more of my words at https://medium.com/@tamyka…and right here.