Jean Green

Is it like a rainbow
the colour of the blowing wind?
Giving to us this world
in all of its endless beauty?

Or do we need to take
a single colour at a time
form our lives around it
until that colour makes a change
and we change colour too?

Feeling blue is easy
The colour blue speaks for itself
Yet blue is not confined
to feeling down or being depressed
it makes me feel cool too

A pale green misty wind
drifting the far fields can help me
to feel the power of
all the things that nature can do –

The misty green has fled
The wind in the desert blows red
The mirage will shimmer
and oases shine indigo

Yellow colours freedom
and ribbons round the old oak tree
Where have the soldiers gone?
To greener pastures every one

The breeze, mist, trees and all
colours combine to help me to
understand what the earth
will give and has given to me
Past, present and future
The rainbow colours of the wind

Ruth Mattison

A Luc Bat to Wind

Come in, my soul breathes
Your living song is creating a
poem of praise to life
I wait for you to end – to break
but still you come.  Your sound
slips sideways through cracks invisible
Your cool breeze lifts me up
I am atom whirling in space
not separate but a
star ready to explode with joy
I am the wind of change
The gift of air blows through me now.

Lynn McGregor

Where does the wind go?

Wind ruffles sparkling sea
Clouds drifting shadows. So sad
the last precious moments.
Is this really, really goodbye?

Waves flowing in and out
when they go and I am left alone,
who am I without them?
My two footprints on the sand

South wind blew white feathers
scattered them all over us
light as truth. So many.
We laugh, remembering good times

White feathers gently float
I watch them fade and disappear
Who am I on my own?
Caressed gently by the soft breeze

Karin Andersen

Come, come, watch the wind as
it walks the field stroking the grass
a song of clouds gathering
hot air breathless, waiting, only
a finger trailed across
a cheek, a dust devil dancing
a song of slow summer
a barefoot dusty song
of swimming pools and naked days.

the wind is a bugle
defeating reason it summons
us to war, to rise, to
overcome, it screams in our ears
saying arise, fight, win
calling us to action, to
movement, to march, a wind
announcing a change, a shift, a
renewal, an overthrow
an insidious wind bringing
days without light or joy.

the sun burns red, the world
holds its breath, the mist rises
from the hollows and dances
hours drag sullen feet into
the morning shoulders hunched
against grey sulking aching days
the sluggish river is oiled by cold
I am a fish floating belly up
a farewell will o’ the wisp.




Who has seen the wind? Me.
In the exhausted tree, the worn
lines of plants in my dawn
garden, in the sand form rushing
along the beach throwing
itself at us, spoiling our food.
I saw this wind.  Its rude
gusts making children brood and cry.
The edges of it, I noticed
in the corner of my
eye that day; now in my memory.


Entangling wind tries to
free even while it captures – holds
us captive with chaos
breeding urgent desperation
to be still and escape
its persistent distraction.


It’s not the season that
Makes the dark but the wind in spring.

Janine Goullée

The Walk

Of different colours
the sun pushing cautiously through,
tickling birdsong and hills.
Bushes shimmering with the wind
visiting fields and seas,
with a cool whispering caress
through the hills. Later on
dancing shadows  cast on the cliffs.
Stilted  slow swaying trees,
only a pale green mist drifting
into tiny air wisps.
A day of self discovery,
layered far horizons,
lunch shared with fat basking lizards,
we rested, exhausted.
Lazy dragonflies dip into
pools of deep still water.
Moving, purply-black canopies –
ferocious elements
escalate to their true power. cloistering together
for comfort, we know that no-one
will visit, save the wind.
Souls have been filled with her power.

Kiki Theo


Float into her dead face
the shadows gath’ring lace-light loom

wild wind pacing the room
as darkness spreads and soon the orbs

of eyeballs dull and torn
will glaze; thin light forlorn will fade

snow breath light puff slow laid
till body’s debt is paid in blood

the wav’ring shadows sud-
denly awash with muddled breath

the wind sigh that is death
unravelling to rest in space

Nina Geraghty

Blown Away

Who invited you in ?

Hooligan gatecrasher up
setting all my care
fully stacked sentences let
ting them flutter loose
like tumble-blown hair
As you brazenly finger all my papers up
ending my words with flippant dis
flicking dain flying  them  through





by your hurricane invasion! And stop that!
Blowing up my skirt and cold licking tongue my thighs
Hard to catch and smack your hit and run hands and mouth as they fly
whipping my hair into disarray.  I’m thoroughly unraveled
by your disheveling presence as you knot and bramble my mind!

I slam-shut-the-door-panting.

The sudden hush is softly breathing
Warm and enfolding, a motherly comforting
and sighing I shuffle up the litter of my papers
primly putting them into their proper order.

But it’s no good.
My eyes have fallen on a falsehood
The meaning’s now lost, my calm betrayed
Every word’s been twisted out of shape, rearranged.
Order forsaken, I’ve been kaleidescopically shaken
Into some other pattern new and strange.

Looks like you’ve quite undone me today.

Unhooked from my foundations
I’ve been shaken free and

blown away.

Gertrude Fester

A newspaper article

In this series we focus on the roles of individuals and what they have done in communities. However, it is not only the extensive work the individual has done that we look at. We pry into the personal and the public political roles of the individual- what makes them do community work and how this affects them personally.

I first met DG at a conference. I was amazed at her eloquence and her obvious passion for community work. Her commitment to the poor, marginalised and oppressed people is evident in all she does.  Throughout our interview she tried to undermine or minimise her contributions. However, when you look at her CV, or when you speak to her comrades, colleagues or the communities where she is involved; she really has, throughout her life, tried to improve the lives of others.  And with success too- if we look at Malibongwe   and Vroue voorentoe! but two of the many projects she has initiated.

DG’s central focus is on social justice.  The kernel of all her activities is her concern about the status and situation of poor women. She has been instrumental in initiating many organisations- all focused on improving the lives of women.

She definitely has a passion for alleviating the hardships of the poor. Yet the last line of her CV was for me the most revealing about DG. She dreams of writing a comic novel. When I asked her about this- when she had first expressed this desire- she could not tell me.  ‘Maybe 5 or 7 years ago,’ she attempted. Then she added:’ I cannot remember’.  I scanned the list of publications in her CV- more than 30 chapters –but all in books written and compiled by others.  Not a single book of her own. We look forward to the day when this ‘community angel’ will accomplish her dream and complete her ‘comic novel’.

A psychology journal article

This patient, DG, suffers from marked insecurity. She constantly requires the approval of others. She does not love herself – in fact she deeply loathes herself. She is not clinically schizophrenic but is behaviourally so. There is no evidence of chemical imbalance and hence she requires no medication. What she does require is a series of deep reflections- getting to know herself and her personal needs. I need to emphasise this: the patient sees to the needs of all the people around her but fails to address her own. She is chronically disposed towards trying to help the poor, the oppressed and the marginalised, the forgotten; the materially and spiritually impoverished. However, she forgets that she too is all of the above. This behaviour could well be symptomatic of transference- helping others whereas she desperately requires help herself.

As therapy I propose that she keeps a daily journal. At the end of each day she must assess all her activities.  She should list what she had done for others and what for herself.  She should also calculate how many hours she has spent doing tasks for others and what she has done for herself. Hereafter she should write a reflective passage in which she analyses and explains her actions to herself.

Isobel Terry

The Inquest

The muscle of the wind
thrashes at her Ford Fiesta .
It nestles in beech trees,
in a nursery just off the lane.
She filled the tank and
I wonder did the person at the garage till gave her a smile ?
Her last smile. The receipt found in her satchel on the passenger seat
with her handwritten notes ‘ dog walkers gone by 830 ‘.

An art tutor gassed herself to death in a car at a part of the Derbyshire Dales she cherished, an inquest was told.

She sits waiting for the night. In the small wooden house
nearby for which she has the key
the yellow of the candle, the takeaway pizza.
In the glass of the window she sees her reflection,
a last prayer she leaves behind.

PC Andrew Weston told the Chesterfield inquest that a pipe had been connected from the exhaust to the interior of the car.

The wind crying and complaining
rocks not each tree separately but all together
in a boundless wave of fury. The grass beneath is still.
Cut branches of larch batter on the car roof
placed by her as camouflage.

The body was found laying across the back seat of the vehicle parked a short way into woodland. The engine was running.

This time there will be no leakage,
no escape of air. The windows are carefully sealed with tape.
The fumes contained. This time she will not be found.
The website instructions show her clearly how
to make it work this time.

Oh the calm of the airtight interior,
the lull of a sonata on the radio.
The steel band clenched around her skull is finally loosening
A closed mouth, of lips sealed. No sound just
of breath in through her nostrils.
Vision is the first to go.

She had a history of depression and left a note inside the vehicle.

The pain is like falling in quick sand,
a smothering confinement, of unbearable proportions.
‘I don’t want you to die ‘ I hold her hand
I stroke her skin with my thumb. A gesture I sense she cannot feel.
‘So you want me to suffer then’ she replies
a sharp blade pierces through my chest.
It wedges in my lungs.

Entry was forced into the vehicle but the 44 year old was already dead.

It is a wind of memory
of lilac lavender in June and the jade in a Cornish sea,
of the raspberry red geraniums on her grandmothers doorstep,
of yellow daffodils bobbing in her sisters backyard.
It is a wind of colours
that deepen into purple and blue black
with the fading of light.

I close my eyes, in the darkness
I see a dust, of gold, descending.
I hear the back gate banging on its hinges,
she is no more.
The bare trees bow their heads.
For a moment the wind is still.

The Coroner recorded a verdict of death from self administered carbon monoxide poisoning. Her parents, her sister and her husband were there to hear the verdict.

The wind walks through the hole of her departure.
It makes a howling sound.
It does not blow away the grass.
The spring comes, my muscles move.
And new air finally I breathe.

Vanessa Davidson

Out of the blue

It’s the wild wild west
But can you ride
the crazy steeds
these guys can provide

Beyond the borders of ordinary song
there is a lyric completely forlorn
It wails and it talks
and it cries and it weeps

It wants to tell you of things incomplete
of stories not finished
and goods still unsold
of dusty antiques that are just too old

‘Sinking into the big sky’

yyesbAccording to Natalie Goldberg, ‘Wild mind is like a big sky’ – wonderful words to describe the first of the Writing Awry workshops  which will take as their themes  the 8 trigrams, the patterns used in Chinese philosophy or divination according to the I Ching – the Book of Changes. The word I has three meanings: ease and simplicity, change and transformation, and invariability. In the trigrams, the solid line represents yang, the creative principle. The open line represents yin, the receptive principle. And so , creatively and receptively, sinking into the big sky, we write.

Don’t forget to visit our news page – as always the monthlies are writing up a storm and are engaged in other highly creative and writerly activities! For a description of the work done in the workshop, you can visit the Monthlies page – both seen as page names above.