Mix paint so it won’t flow, or so it will drip unexpectedly and in the wrong place, or will dry a different colour, or so it cludges or pools.

Choose a brush that doesn’t work, has its bristles all askew, is dried up like a stick, or is a stick, or a grass stalk, or the hair of a dog, or a clump of your own hair bound with string, or paint with the string.

Choose a canvas that has holes in it, is the skin of your lover, or the hide of your ex-lover.

Take a large garbage bag and into it discard: your concerns, your politics, the shopping list, your body, your hard-earned craft, your ego, your desires, your name.

Look at your subject (if you have one.) Stare at it a long time. Stare at it until it shimmers like illusion. Stare until it dissolves behind its…

The Art of Flight

What wings accumulate is not air
but space, an exemplar

of restraint defied. I listen
and hear feathers

ruffling in the shadows,
a vibration that swells

until it becomes flight or
regret, the retrieval of our

bodies from this dream of ascent.
The art of flight is one of

disturbance, of angles and lift
and touching what can’t be seen.

What we hold carries no meaning.
The beauty lies in the gathering.

I’m really glad it’s Easter.
I’ve had enough of Lent.
I gave up eating chocolate
But soon grew to relent.
An apple isn’t quite the same
As a giant Dairy Milk
Or Crunchie bars or Ripples
And all things of that ilk.

I’m really glad it’s Easter
And so are all my kin.
Who knew that giving chocolate up
Would free the beast within.
I’ve long run out of patience,
My fuse has grown too short.
I find I’ve started being more
Sarcastic than I ought.

I’m really glad it’s Easter.
The day has come at last
When I can end my self-inflicted
Chocky goodness fast.
I broke the fast at midnight
And now I’m rather ill.
I’ll never eat the stuff again,
(But – probably – I will!)