Ode to Trump 
You’re only in it for fame

With your haystack hair 

And your racist game

It’s clear to most 

From land to coast 

That the only thing you 

Care about 

Is dividing a nation 

Via self congratulation 

We’re laughing at you 

And your heart of poo

But the prospect of 

The nuclear button sitting 

Under your piles of glutton 

Scare us all silly 

And as for your willy

We don’t need to know

Stop stooping so low 

And get off the stage 

With your orange faced rage 

This world needs a POTUS

Not a dick who’s a right cuss. 
By @extreme_crochet 

Aka me 🙂 xxx 


Christmas Poem 


Time to brush the dust off my Christmas poem – three years old now! 
Christmas in the UK
It’s mild, wet and windy

No snow on the ground 

The kids are running riot

And the Christmas tree’s turned brown 

The Silver Band are tipsy 

As they play carols on the street

No one wants breakfast

They’re all full of sweets! 

Turkey in the oven

But I’m having nut roast

I need special gravy

Such a pain for the host

Presents are opened and everyone’s full

Time to relax now and and watch Dr Who

 Children in bed now, the clocks ticks past two 

Another Christmas is over, another Christmas is through. 


National Poetry Day 


Yes – I know it was yesterday but here’s my contribution that I wrote today anyway…

High chance of rain
When you’re trapped by the ever decreasing circle that is age.

Longing for a chance to turn the next page. 

The Autumn 

The Winter 

Light fades from inside 

And to carry what’s left

Is a burden unwanted 

A memory bereft 
The mirror is showing the self that you are 

In your head there is beauty forged from a star 

See goddess

See dreamscape 

Love freely from pain 

It’s a thick, guilty shame 

But your choices have fixed you, 

There’s a high chance of rain.
So, it is set that this road you are on

Is not the one wanted but the one that has won 

Just bury 

Just swallow 

And those feelings inside 

Are where they should stay 

Never speak of tomorrow 

For it’s always today. 


I Close My Eyes – Poem 


I close my eyes in the darknessIn the hope that you’re not there

It’s a burden that I live with 

A pain I cannot share.
My eyelids are like blankets 

I shroud myself from view 

To feel a certain safety 

And sleep again renewed. 
These eyes are tired and sore

From seeing damage done 

Like dust from absent dew drops 

Those battles only lost not won.
I close my eyes despite the darkness 

A hood of velveteen 

There’s safety in there somewhere 

Amongst treasures left unseen. 

Climbing, grief and tropical storms. 


For those of you who have read all my blogs ( I applaud you, well done!) you may find this familiar and that’s because it’s a part of my life I still need to write about and to heal from. 

Scrolling through my TL on Twitter today, I read a post about a tropical storm baring down on the Bahamas that was named after someone I am more than familiar with. It stirred my brain to recollect the name of the previous storm …. And after a quick check, I was right, it was the name of my late ex boyfriend.

I don’t know if they repeat names but I remember seeing our names listed in 2003 (I think …..). That always stuck with me. I realise that it means nothing, that nothing spiritual is going on but it makes me shiver anyway.

I started writing this poem about it a few years ago: 

Hurricanes – 1st draft 
The two of us like hurricanes 

Our names called up for storms

That blew us together

And blew my soul away

Left me gaping open

Left you a mortal wound

And I never got the chance

To say goodbye

So should I wait for hurricanes 

To rip through me once more
And I was struck by the last line but one ‘should I wait for hurricanes…’ . This burden of grief that I have placed apon myself, has done very little in lifting. I’m wise enough to know that grief never truly goes but it lessens and it many ways it has. It’s not that raw, searing pain anymore. Like someone has torn out your chest and you can’t breathe. Now it’s more gentle but like the weather, there are times when it rips in to me. Today was one of those days. 

This year is slightly more poignant as the climbing wall where we met, where I was thunder struck by him, where he taught me to climb and where we had our fun times too ….. Is to be demolished and a trampoline park put in its place. It’s the whole chest tearing moment again. 

There are ghosts at that wall, not just of him but of other climbers who have died. The smell of the place, the office and the desk, the ropes, the holds, the overhang where he tried to push me up, the sandbag he jokingly pushed me off of, the platform where he taught me how to abseil….. All going and I have nothing physical left of him to hold on to now. 

I have no photo, no letters. Just a grave that isn’t my place to visit and my memories. My main memories  of him being when he apologised for breaking my heart. Then there was the time my ex husband banned me from being friends with him and the last memory I have is seeing him walking up the road with the pace of a man who was not long for this world (we somehow managed to end up living a few houses away from each other). 

I knew when he had died, I felt it. I had been walking past his house for months and literally smelling death pour under the door and out on to the street like black tendrils of tar. That day …. The day after my son’s birthday… I walked past the air was clear, there was a sympathy card at the toddler group we both attended and I cried. He died whilst I was celebrating my son turning 10. Out of fear of my ex husband finding out, I pushed my tears back in and spent many months feeling lost and hollow wirh no one to confide in. 
So …. Danny…. Where ever you are,I hope that you’re climbing. No need to think of me at all. We can let each other go, at least I can let you go. That’s a lie but I will do my best to rest you in peace knowing that no one can take memories away of the time we collided like stars or should that be storms? 


Trigger warning 


They say third time lucky 

Two chances have gone 
To touch the edge 
The sharpest edge known 
And the Sun only serves 
To make the shade darker 
It’s like every atom in me 
Has given up 
So I walk past tree trunks 
Touch the splitting bark 
To ground me back with nature 
Tell myself that Spring is here 
No time to go off hunting 
Yet there’s majesty in turning away 
Cutting off my hair and 
Make a painted canvas of my skin Whilst I chant my last song 
Thumping my heel into the dust 
With the beat of my soul
Until it  ceases to be  


I don’t have a thigh gap – poem 


I don’t have a thigh gap

My legs join at the top
I’ve no idea if my mons 
Is fashionable or not. 
My breast are too small 
To fit into a bra
My stomach has bloated 
To the size of a car
There’s lines on my face
But worse there is hair 
It seems to want to grow everywhere 
No creams, cleansers or lotions 
Applied to my skin can stop it
From giving up and caving in
I have to accept that it
Comes to us all
Not all Cinderellas can go to the ball
The airbrush they use may as well be a gun 
Pointing at women and saying
‘Hey! You look wrong’
So maybe it’s time we said 
‘Fuck you’ to that crap
I’ll grow old in my own way 
So go swivel on that.