First 1000 words of “The End of the Garden”


Since I was last posting I went through a series of Depressive Episodes before I found a regimen of therapy, meditation and supplements that helped. I’ve managed to go a couple of months without SERIOUS suicidal thoughts – actually considering the means etc. I have the odd few death wish thoughts but the’re relatively mild.

In other news I attended a discovery day for new authors held at Foyles, Charing Cross Road where Literary Agents Curtis Brown did a meet, greet and read for authors. The line was through the door and there were timed slots all through the day. I gave them the first three pages of my novel and they loved it. I need to try and get it finished this year and then submit it. They’ve given me a name to submit to so I’m now very motivated to think, act and plan as a writer rather than as a wannabe.

So pleased to present the beginning  of “The End of the Garden” by Yusuf (Smiley) Yearwood. (1st novel on backburner, 2nd novel cooking nicely) Continue reading

Tuesday Haiku


Tepid Winter Sky
It might rain later, might not
Need a holiday

Writing 201: I hate you Woodford Green


Day 7: Neighborhood, Ballad, Assonance

What do you think about when you think about your neighborhood?

Curse this place and curse those who frequent
Curse my face my eyes betray my intent
This town sucks the life out of being alive
Waiting on luck till then beer will have to do just fine

I hate this town

Years fly by, moments are overbearing
I fear nothing I do here is worth sharing
It’s like living in the Walking Dead
Hell is full, they moved here instead
The worse place to be a bored black British teen
I hate you Woodford Green

Nowhere to go while they the fix the Central Line
No fear, no fun i’m bored clean out of my mind
The drugs don’t work, we’re merely wasting time
Dreaming we were high and flying away

I hate this town

Years fly by, moments are overbearing
I fear nothing I do here is worth sharing
It’s like living in the Walking Dead
Hell is full, they moved here instead
The worse place to be a bored black British teen
I hate you Woodford Green

I hate this town

Years fly by, moments are overbearing
I fear nothing I do here is worth sharing
It’s like living in the Walking Dead
Hell is full, they moved here instead
The worse place to be a bored black British teen
I hate you Woodford Green

Writing 201: The Road to to St Martin’s Bay


Day 5: Map, Ode, Metaphor

Maps tell stories — about places we know and others we wish to visit, about technology and the speed with which we can traverse vast distances, and about the things we’ll see (or avoid) on our way from point A to point B. Whether you choose to write about an actual map, an imaginary one, or just about a particular route that means something special to you, make today’s poem about a space you inhabit (or wish to. Or would rather avoid).

Throw me violently from side to side, four soft dice in a box
on this ridiculous road that was planned by a goat
and tarmacced by laborers who cared not a mote
anything past lunch, clocking off and payment
this hill is a dramatic cliffside escarpement
down to the rough shingle beach on Atlantic water
road that bends and twists like no road ought’a
on the western thigh of Barbados
beauty spot on a beauty spot
every Thursday like pigeons shooed by Children
We flock to meet the boats as they return to their origin
hungrily waiting as their prize goes straight from
wooden hold to iron skillet to picnic blanket to hunger unravelled
The worse road on the island is the road more travelled

Writing 201: Not quite right


Day 4: Imperfect, Limerick, Enjambment

We find faults in ourselves, in others, and in the world around us all the time. We may accept these imperfections or complain about them, try to fix them or celebrate them — whatever our attitude may be, they add friction and texture to our lives.

I must admit I’m not quite
alright in the head in fact it might
be I’m discombobulated
and easily distracted i’m fated
to – hang on whats’s that – SQUIRREL

Writing 201: Comfortable in your skin


Poetry, Day 3: Skin, Prose Poetry, Internal Rhyme

Our skin often announces (correctly or not) our age and ethnicity, tells stories of injuries, operations, and accidents, and conveys to our brain everything from the pain of a slap to the warmth of a hug. Skins aren’t only a human thing: they protect animals, fruit, cheese, and more. For today’s poem, choose whatever meaning of “skin” speaks to you the most.

In your poem today, try creating some internal rhymes — a device that’s particularly well-suited for prose poetry. You could start with a pair of words that have an interesting connection, and sneak them into your lines. Or you could decide, first, what kind of pattern you’re going for — same-line rhymes? Rhymes that cross from one line of verse to the next? — and go from there.

If you’re ever short on internal rhyme inspiration, just listen to any old-school hip hop artist: virtuosic internal rhyming was a cornerstone of the genre.

My mask. Slips. Yours not mine. I’m – upright, you’re uptight . Hiding in plain sight as you silently bemoan imperfect warpaint via the app on your phone.  Glance up. Once then twice. Hold mutual gaze, mutually assured distraction – yeah that’s nice. We hold our reverie for a few. Sitting in a cafe admiring the view of the world passing by. But now its you. You’re my girl and I’m your man, you hold my world in the palm of your hands. Slide back and forth, your hand on mine, then mine on yours. The world fades away as we concentrate on our skin, skin on skin.

Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
before you lock my love away

Baby let me testify

Microcosm of lovemaking as our hands caress. You’re the best at me making me feel loved I must confess – and I wouldn’t be anywhere else but here. Our hands speak volumes but their is no sound, fury. Light – vibrations in the air but music is played on our fingers as we hands glide. Satisfied with each other and with our corner of creation, painted in sensations. Skin

Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
before you lock my love away

Baby let me testify

Reverie broken, not maliciously. Our coffees have arrived. Latte for me, mochachino for you. Cold coffee on a cold day. You are mercurial, always surprising. Don’t take away your skin from mine, I could not be happier. Comfortable in your skin.

Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
Before you lock my love away
before you lock my love away

Baby let me testify

Writing 201: V


Day 2: Gift, Acrostic, Simile

Today, write something about a gift.

Today’s form: acrostic

Acrostics at a glance: An acrostic is any poem in which the first (or last) letters of each line combine to spell out a word or a phrase, or follow the order of the alphabet.

Today’s device: simile

A simile, like its name suggests, makes a connection or introduces the idea of similarity between two concepts that aren’t intrinsically connected, leaving an interesting mental image in its wake. It’s a fancy name for saying that cake is like poison, or that a baby’s wails are as loud as thunder. If you’re up for it, include a simile in your poem today.

Vocally you espouse:

Fortitude, Ambition
Or any means you appeal to are gone
Really you are in mortal error!

Verily like leaves you believe you are tossed by
Every vexatious breeze that blows
No power over your pace or path
Don’t you realise you are truly Platonic
Effect your escape from civil servitude
Take note! You are the breeze that blows
The leaves are your problems
And the power that moves you, the breeze, was never absent