Yesterday I received a magazine/newsletter containing five of my short poems: not a very impressive publication, more like a parish magazine than anything literary.

But it's always nice to see my name in print and knowing that people (probably not very many in this case) are seeing my work.

HOME IS...

Kitchenshrunk always wrapped her emotions in clingfilm. Preserve them, keep them fresh; but also squash them, flatten them, distort them.
Her hands were those of a worker, all fingers still intact; but bloodied at the edges, nails bitten (rather than chipped) and callouses erupting from Sunday best palms.
On her left hand her lifeline had long since gone off the rails, spinning two or three times round her thumb and then seeking refuge deep within the scar on her wrist that was a constant reminder of several failed suicide attempts and one fewer failed marriages.

I regularly travel on the buses here in Doncaster and am continually annoyed at the lack of ticketing co-ordination.

Personally I use the services of four of the six bus companies operating in the town and end up having to purchase all day tickets with a variety of names, prices and validity.

If I'm just making a return trip to one destination it's fine and I save money; but if I want to travel out of town to two destinations in opposite directions (served by different operators) I have to buy separate tickets; costing me a fortune.

The government is always telling us to use public transport, some of us don't have a choice; but it's no surprise that those with access to a car stay well clear of the buses.

PETRIFIED

Out of earshot
We dance to the
Rhythm of the rain,
Our audience
Turned to stone.

IS THIS IT?

Night follows day:
Day follows night.
And then what?