Words scuttle around the square
marking the edge of my mind
running in chaos
from corner to corner
upstairs and downstairs
not lingering on the landing for rest
I struggle to put them to pen!

Words of exquisite love,
darkest despair,
desire and rejection avoiding me,
slipping by me
perhaps favouring my fellow poets
who will embrace my words
and, using them wisely, will shine?

My time will come
I will wait,
I will make my mark.


Father dead before I grew teeth

mother a widow at thirty-two
family born every eighteen months
a tribe of half a dozen in eight years.
Mother working
a clicker at the boot factory down the lane
once owned by my grandfather a stranger to me
a descendant of boot makers I am.
Older children off to school
leftover children keeping watch
for the government man
her whereabouts a lie for the pension.
Remembering small children alone, truth or a story of my mind.
Happy sister, angry sister
angry brother, shy brother
angel sister, fearful and ferocious the last
the easy to love
no time for the rest.
Four in a bed
a brass four poster
boys at the bottom
girls at the top
heavy army blankets with no warmth.
An add on room sat on the porch
meeting the polished stoop at the front door
the oldest daughter frail with tuberculosis
swinging shutters beckoning the healing sun.
The back yard sprouted rooms for consistent boarders
a vegetable garden squeezed against the rotting paling fence
a cemetery for euthanized kittens
pushing up between the carrots and onions.
A rope for the washing held up by the limb of a tree
clothes worn for a week hot from a boiling copper
flapping happily in a summer breeze.
Scorching tin roof of the shed
cadet pilots crashing to the ground.
My brother Mick, my hero
bringing down the Red Baron
our war was won.


Sweet spring
leave winter’s winds
in your wake

come as a shooting star
a sprite
dancing with delight

barely touch my lips like before
bring arousal to my body
with the warmth of a gentle lover


A season of deceit
promising balmy days
relief from the withering heat of summer,
yet the feeble sun has little warmth
racing to the horizon as a diminishing light

trees of blazing hues
stripped by persistent winds
stand naked
skeletal feet anchored by unfertile soil
awaiting their fate
at the hands of the Winter Warriors.

Author’s Biography

Bernadette lives on the SurfCoast of Victoria Australia.   She has always loved words and is now submitting her poems internationally.   She ha travelled around Australia and to many countries around the world.   She I planning to resume travelling in 2022 and get inspiration from her experiences.