Who stole the daffodils by the front door? I planted them when I first moved in  Happy jonquils would join them on flowering But the bed is empty The soil spread around My patch of sunshine gone

questions crocus is the first flower of spring, unless you count snowdrops…depending where you live i guess like this place centred in light from trees longing to be outside again not trapped in this bar(ren)eness of whatever was left behind to be gathered up, witnessed…

moving  breaking : or rather : just entering : people’s (former) homes : has become : just another : something i do : almost without thinking : we need things : houses have things : the people who owned the houses : can no longer…

MY NEW FRIEND Suddenly I saw flashes of light I thought the heavens have now descended on earth My laptop started beeping Crazy signals and funny codes light up its screen A strange page opens Asking me to write what’s in my mind I asked…

Prompt for Hour Five Text Prompt: Write a mystery poem. The crime could be real or imagined. The poem could be clue based or narrative. The details are up to you.   So Close   ‘Oi, Oi, what do we have here,’ Deep breathy voice…

7am Poem 5. Crimes, etc… (a four stanza tanka plus one syllable) Your crime was lying. Mine was believing in you. Both more sins than crimes if I believed sins exist. If I believed in an us. Your crime was vodka. Mine was hiding from…

Deep in the night I heard it ring The doorbell, soft and quiet. A few nights later I heard it again Insistent, strident. The next time I went to the door Peeped through the eyehole At a dark empty landing. Yet again when I heard…

Summer sun on the side of the slope Frames the scene Pleasant, soft, bucolic The soft susurration of the grasses Lulling a sense of security,albeit false, in the police who waited As the divers dragged the depths of the dam Depositing the decomposing dead on…

Victims wash up against the shore from upturned boats making summer passage on quieter tides. The dead are blamed, perpetrators of their own demise, whilst the reasons for their leaving lie unquestioned, uninvestigated. Who would leave their home and family? No-one’s asking.     Author:…

A Crime of Passion (or Not) Shards of glass, strewn everywhere, scattered beneath the moonlit sky Brown footprints appear to dot the windowsill – a clear sign of forced entry perhaps Inside, chaos ensues Tossed memories, loose leaf dreams, lots of questions The glass appears…