Today it has been 18 months since my wonderful Nanny passed away, and it has also recently been what would have been her eighty-second birthday. She was a truly remarkable woman who overcame adversity, fought for the wellbeing of herself and her children, and stood strong through challenging times.

Over a year on since her passing, I feel more empowered by her story and legacy than I ever have before. Sure, I still long for the warmth of her side and embrace, and miss the conversations we used to share. Yet, since the day I was born, I have felt immensely honoured to be her granddaughter, recognising the impact she would have on my life even beyond the day her’s would come to an end. Luckily (or unluckily), I get to continue through life with her strength and devotion, extending her footprints in the sand.

So, what better a time to share a poem that is inspired by the phenomenal grace and compassionate temper of my sublime Nanny, Corrina. Thinking of you today, and every day evermore.

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POEM CONTEXT

Dwelling Place is a poem inspired by my Nanny that I wrote after spending a week with her in July 2024 for her 80th birthday. The last day of that week, 12th July, was her birthday, which also happened to be the last day I would see her. Our big Irish Catholic family were all together for her final birthday (unknowingly). Nan and I shared our last hug, our last laugh, and our last conversation. Whilst it wasn’t until six months later that she passed away, I spent the best part of a month after this glorious week reflecting on how much Nan meant to me. Thus, Dwelling Place was born.

Dwelling Place is also included in my debut poetry collection, Moments of Thought, that I released in April 2025. Moments of Thought is dedicated to my Nanny, Corrina Eileen.

If you like Dwelling Place, or just want to support a small writer with a big dream of making writing her full time career, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber (which will also mean you will be notified when Moments of Thought is back in stock!)

Without further ado, here is my favourite poem that I have written, Dwelling Place.

Dwelling Place

The pungent promise of her patient palms
That wriggle warmly against the skin that cases my shoulders.
Skin that is so akin to hers,
A vivid reminder that we are cut from the same cloth
Of a long line of decorated dames and formidable forces.
Batches of bubbling beings, stewed together in her rich wonky digs,
With the cavities in the curtains that cast flashes
Over the pews of heads shining with significance and sense.
The enormity of the essence she embodies:
From her gentle genius to her stout tenacity.
The velvety stout of the old country and her smooth sincere squeeze
Swell synonymously in a shower of familiar sleet. 
She leaks fountains of love from each organ,
And ferments elation in her pocket,
As we search for her to guide us home.
What a pity it would be to live a life without her.

In case you missed it…

Here are some of my recent posts that you may have missed. I quite like them, and I think you might too.

Towards the end of last year, I had started to write commissioned poems for friends, family, and followers from all across the world. I ended up closing my books on commissions at the start of 2026 when life got a bit too busy, meaning I was unable to keep up with the influx of poems I was being asked to write. Ideally, this wouldn’t have been the case, and I would have had the time to write as many poems as possible, poems that felt authentic, honest, and real for me (as well as for the people receiving them).

During this time, one poem that I wrote really stuck out to me. A young woman had reached out to me asking if I could write a poem for her younger sister who had moved across the world, about how their love, connection, and sisterhood remains fruitful, promising, and strong despite the physical distance between them. I, living over 10,000 miles away from my little sister, responded with the easiest yes of my life. It felt like something that I could write about easily, detailing the nuances of this sisterhood, while being able to write from the perspective of my own.

I think about the poem I wrote for this lovely young woman and her sister often. I only recently thought, maybe there’s other sisters out there who need to read this one too.

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The Moon in this Hemisphere

As I had started to explore above, The Moon in this Hemisphere was born from a conversation about the persistence of sisterhood despite excessive physical distance.

Being a sister was the first title I ever upheld, and is something that I hold dear to me (and will for the rest of my life). Sisterhood has brought me so many wonderful things, as it has and does for so many sisters around the world. Being able to write something for one sister to gift to another sister was an absolute honour.

If you are and/or have a sister, I hope you are able to find something synonymous with your sisterhood within this poem.

The Moon in this Hemisphere

Innately in concert, long hand in hand,
Two paired together, before they could stand.
Lives intertwined, since the day you were born,
Love that extends for miles, a love so warm.
Secluded once, through many golden hours,
I keep by my side, your favourite sunflower.
With our lives now widespread, one thing remains,
The pride of being your sister won’t ever wane.
Love is the warmest colour, sun or rain,
And as it happens, you’re my favourite shade.
May be cliché, yet it would be sublime,
To be your sister in every lifetime.

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Having started writing poems and taking poetry seriously almost three years ago now, I have taken a lot of pride in the things I have written, and where the practice of writing poetry has taken me.

Starting out with only writing poems, with little to no understanding of rules, structure, and form, I had no idea where the decision to start writing my own poetry would take me. Since starting on this journey, I have read many poetry collections and anthologies (more than just the ones I was asked and encouraged to read and analyse at school), written my own poetry anthology, read books such as Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled, and have even had a poem or two published in a couple UK based magazines.

Now, almost three years into my writing endeavour, I have found an interest in writing longer form pieces that I often share on my Substack, - a project I have been contributing to for just over a year, with newer essays also having been published in magazines and newsletters (outside of my own one). My writing ‘schedule’ has become so ingrained into my daily activity now that it feels nothing short of natural, and drips into many aspects of my personal life. Whether it be completing daily morning pages, crafting a new poem, or drafting a poetic reflection style essay for my Substack, writing has become a big part of my life.

Writing, in whatever capacity, feels cathartic for me, and it is my pleasure to get to share some of what I write with you all on here.

It has been a hot minute since the last time I shared a ‘new’ poem on my Substack. It only feels right to share another with you now, to honour the roots of my writing journey, and given the absence of sharing them on here of late.

Today’s Poem: A Week Ending

A Week Ending is a poem I wrote one Sunday morning, a few months ago.

Sundays, and specifically their mornings, have long held a special place in my week: the slowness they can ensue, the quiet that seeps into my well versed routine in repose, many a moment for reflection and connection. I am often careful to not disrupt such a morning.

I have long wondered why I have such a fascination with the morning of each Sunday. Only recently have I determined that being born late one Sunday evening at the turn of the millennium as the reason for my extended appreciation for the calmness of the day’s morning, the same week day morning before my mother’s first labour ensued.

It has long been a bittersweet favourite day of the week for me, but I frequently find myself longing for its morning softness each and every week. A deeper part of me has always longed for the never ending, intentional slowness of a Sunday morning, before late afternoon arrives and the impending arrival of Monday morning reluctantly seeps in through every pore. Before the responsibility of my working week assumes command, before the monotony of the work week becomes blinding, before I have more freedom to wallow in slowness and stillness.

And that is the inspiration for A Week Ending.

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A Week Ending

Sunday morning as the day begins,
Pulling back the blinds,
And locating the house coat.
Soft grins and covering chins
With hands wrapped warm
Around tenanted mugs of tea.
A blue-eyed son orbiting
In singular steps and
Reflected in a sunburst glare.
Solemn and subtly,
A money for jam existence is
A simple way to be.
To be forever tickled pink
With pencilled in shadows of 
Green and amber tints.
Drums of starchy stock and 
Sturdy sourdough crusts, handy to
Absorb this week’s crumbs.
Dreams of eloquence and lapping up
Idiom after idiom with salty
Fingers and a headache.
Now, too torrid to keep the
House coat on, stingingly slipping 
Off of Monday morning’s shoulders. 

Thank you for reading today’s edition of the newsletter. If you liked today’s piece, leave a comment and tell me what you think!

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In case you missed it…

Here are three recent posts to Write Me Some Poetry that may have been lost in your inbox, or you may have missed. I think you’ll like them.

Having started writing poems and taking poetry seriously almost three years ago now, I have taken a lot of pride in the things I have written, and where the practice of writing poetry has taken me.

Starting out with only writing poems with little to no understanding of rules, structure, and form, I had no idea where the decision to start writing my own poetry would take me. Since starting on this journey, I have read many poetry collections and anthologies (more than just the ones I was forced to read and analyse at school), read books such as Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled, and have even had a poem or two published in a couple UK based magazines.

Now, almost three years into my writing endeavour, I have found an interest in writing longer form pieces that I often share on my Substack, Write Me Some Poetry - a project I have been contributing to for just over a year, with newer essays also having been published in magazines and newsletters (outside of my own one). My writing ‘schedule’ has become so ingrained into my daily activity now that it feels nothing short of natural, and drips into many aspects of my life. Whether it be completing daily morning pages, crafting a new poem, or drafting a poetic reflection style essay for my Substack, writing has become a big part of my life.

Writing, in whatever capacity, feels cathartic for me, and it is my pleasure to get to share some of what I write with you all on here.

To support a writer on her journey to becoming a full time writer and poet, consider subscribing, or even pledging, to follow along.

Subscribe now

This new week and edition of Write Me Some Poetry brings you a fairly new poem, Landscape.

After having written a few commissioned pieces for friends and family, as gifts for important people in each of their lives, each on the longing and yearning we feel through the multiple stages of our lives, I felt inspired to write a new poem, one just for me. Landscape was what came about as a result.

Landscape is a poem exploring purpose, courage, and place, written from a place of recognition amidst doubt. It attempts to be cyclical in nature and embraces an all encompassing hue and ambiguity in exploration.

Without further ado, here is Landscape.

Landscape

Over untold hours, under moonlit skies,
Beyond streaming blizzards of crying sighs,
Across from the trickling, shadowed brook
Nestled in verdant forest with a book,
You will find me.

Studying perilous passages of
Persuasive punctuation, from above
The earth persists on its oscillation,
Traversing time without hesitation,
Forgetting me.

Bleeding serenity, temper and calm,
Navigating the prospects I hold in my palms.
Content in the hush as it envelopes
The subtly of my ever-buoyant hopes
For freedom to roam.

Submerged in being, somewhere far from here
Arrives in translucence, ever so clear,
A reminder of my mortality,
Vivid and bright in its totality,
Now I am home.

Thank you for reading today’s edition of the Write Me Some Poetry newsletter. If you liked today’s piece, leave a comment and tell me what you think!

Leave a comment

In case you missed it…

Here are three recent posts to that may have been lost in your inbox, or you may have missed. I think you’ll like them.

Having started writing poems and taking poetry seriously almost three years ago now, I have taken a lot of pride in the things I have written, and where the practice of writing poetry has taken me.

Starting out with only writing poems with little to no understanding of rules, structure, and form, I had no idea where the decision to start writing my own poetry would take me. Since starting on this journey, I have read many poetry collections and anthologies (more than just the ones I was forced to read and analyse at school), read books such as Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled, and have even had a poem of two published in a couple UK based magazines.

Now, almost three years into my writing endeavour, I have found an interest in writing longer form pieces that I often share on my Substack, - a project I have been contributing to for just over a year. My writing ‘schedule’ has become so ingrained into my daily activity now that it feels nothing short of natural, and drips into many aspects of my life. Whether it be completing daily morning pages, crafting a new poem, or drafting a poetic reflection style essay for my Substack, writing has become a big part of my life.

Writing, in whatever capacity, feels cathartic for me, and it is my pleasure to get to share some of what I write with you all on here.

To support a writer on her journey to becoming a full time writer and poet, consider subscribing, or even pledging, to follow along.

Subscribe now

This new week and edition of brings you a fairly new poem, Writer in Indigo.

After having written a commissioned piece for a friend as a gift for her family, on the importance of family and togetherness while traversing the loneliness and absence attached to grief, I felt inspired to write a new poem, one just for me. Writer in Indigo was what came about as a result.

Writer in Indigo is a poem exploring purpose, courage, and place, written from a place of recognition amidst doubt. It attempts to be cyclical in nature and embraces the all encompassing hue and ambiguity of feeling blue.

Without further ado, here is Writer in Indigo.

Writer in Indigo

On days blue with doubt and steady shower,
No dayspring in sight, much less a flower.
With little elbow space to pursue or exhale,
A mind crowded with purpose, all but frail.
Occasions so intermittent and stale,
Uneasy, tense, even a little pale.
A nudge to fragments saved and forgotten,
Reminded my being has much in common
With lives dripping with bookshelves of purpose,
Whose contents are more than what meets the surface.

Innocent of deceit, guilty of being,
A mindful temper, soaking in much feeling.
With each day I wear a new shade of blue,
Without care for my content, you wouldn't a clue.
Far gone is woe and all of her disciples,
So long melancholy, so long, denials
Of my effervescence and vivaciousness,
I will thrive each day with my playfulness.
My life is dripping with bookshelves of purpose,
My contents are more than what meets the surface.

Thank you for reading today’s edition of the newsletter. If you liked today’s piece, leave a comment and tell me what you think!

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In case you missed it…

Here are three recent posts to Write Me Some Poetry that may have been lost in your inbox, or you may have missed. I think you’ll like them.

I am honoured to share a poem of mine - “Speak, Easy” - with you that has recently been published in Issue 2 of The Wild Siren Magazine.

The Wild Siren Magazine is a publication run by the lovely Emma (), that centres raw connection around “humans, music, and poetry”. The focus of the magazine has always been community, and is one in which I feel greatly privileged to be a part of, with having written multiple pieces for them now: namely, LOVE! (in Issue 1), and Glitter in the Ashes.

Read more of the wonderful work published by The Wild Siren Magazine here.

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Without further ado, here is my new poem, Speak, Easy - as seen in Issue 2 of The Wild Siren Magazine, which you can purchase a copy of here.

Speak, Easy.

A diet of coffee and nicotine,
I am deficient but eager and lustful
As I write through the feverish amorous evening
Of sensual and steamy poetry.

As expressive and elaborate as I try to be,
Often the words trickle to insensibility.
Vanished and extinct in a sphere of my own,
Disoriented and clueless to the luggage to atone.

An array of pages coating the satiny earth,
A scattering of chapters justifying my worth.
I am nestled amidst this creative fanner,
Suffused with poems to fill a library manor.

Ambience and low-fi are crucial to continue
This tempo of harvest and creative scar tissue.
A temple of fruitfulness and unease no doubt,
Wavering promise and surely a stout.

Eventually I will pause, even hesitate, to embellish
My anatomy and stature, soon to be cherished
By consumption of expansive vin ordinaire,
A night of locution and stiff bar chairs.

In case you missed it…

Here are three recent editions of that you may have missed. I think you’ll like them!

Happy Monday! I am back with another post.

Something was telling me it was time to share another poem with you all.

I’ll admit, it has been a while since I last shared a poem of my own on . This one, I wrote a few months ago and had completely forgotten about until I was searching my laptop for a poem to share with you today.

My reason for choosing it? I fear it may be something you need to hear.

Waiting Lists encompasses feelings of stagnancy and uselessness, moreover the feeling of ‘waiting’ your way through life, for something of significance to occur. It comes from a place of impatience and dedication, from a version of myself in a place of angst and hunger to see my life play out the way I have always dreamed of. On top of that, it explores a feeling of belonging in passively supporting those close to you, before addressing the redundancies of your own fabric.

With that being said, here is your reminder that helping others before you have contentment yourself is as useful as a sieve at holding your cuppa. Yes, the intention means well. Just intend to hold your own cuppa first.

For some reason, unknown to me, I felt the need to share this one with you today. Maybe there is something in the air. I hope this poem finds you in a good place. And if it doesn’t, I hope it makes parts of you feel seen.

Maybe you’ll find parts of yourself in this poem, maybe you won’t. I hope this call for help reaches you, as I know yours has reached me.

As always, I hate having to sell myself, and feel the world would be an easier place for writers to make writing their full time job if we didn’t have to so much. That being said, I would appreciate a few new faces around here (not that I’m tired of the old ones, I love you all!).

Community for creative faces matters. Lets be friendly faces to each other, and make the dreams of writers who are trying to make it full time that teeny bit more of a reality. Thank you :)

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Without further ado, here is Waiting Lists. A poem by me. I hope that you enjoy the read.

Waiting Lists, by .

I find myself to be of little use
Unless I am of use to someone else.
In a room by myself, alone, or otherwise,
I will remain in silence.
The shrouded constellation of colossal cords,
Chiming at incongruous intervals,
I will not answer unless they are yours.
Ridicule me and I won’t laugh,
Give me a reason and my arms are open,
Enveloping the lamentation 
To post to a world away.
Truancy takes its place, absent and obsolete,
While my antipathy remains
In the perpetual post office queue.

In case you missed it…

Here are a few more recent editions of , on poetry, life, and living, that you may have missed.

A note from the author (me):

Thank you for reading this week’s newsletter of . I am so happy to have you here. I share new insights and thoughts on poetry/writing, life, and living every Monday. I would love for you to share more of this journey with me. I would sincerely appreciate it if you consider subscribing to if you aren’t already, and to consider pledging a monthly amount if you are already subscribed. Help keep a writer’s dream of become a full time writer alive.

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Also, as the founder of Blank Canvas Post, I would like to encourage you to read the work to submitted to the post by other writers. Blank Canvas Post is a community driven space for writers of all disciplines to share their work. Submit your writing to Blank Canvas Post here and join the community.

It has been 365 days since I opened up my old, cranky laptop (which I am also sharing this with you from) and shared my first Substack post. Today, there are over 1,000 of you who subscribe and I am so grateful for all of you.

Since March 2025, I have shared countless newsletters under with the aim of sharing opinion on poetry, life and living, in the name of honesty. A year on, without really acknowledging the significance of this month, I started a new collective, namely , with the intention of sharing more writing (not just that of my own) with the world of Substack, but I digress.

The last year has been wild. Finding and sharing on Substack has brought many positive things for me. I feel at home on this platform.

Since beginning my journey on Substack, I have self-published my debut poetry collection, written collaborative pieces, been interviewed by fellow writers, written many a commissioned poem, and have seen my poetry be published for the first time in magazines.

Honestly speaking, writing on Substack hasn’t been all that consistent for me. I have had many a dry-spell of sharing on the platform, have felt disheartened by my lack of self-belief, and have struggled to stay consistent at times. BUT I have, over the last few months, found my writing flair again, and have been putting my heart and soul into sharing new writing, thoughts, and ideas on poetry, life, and living under .

This passion for my writing, that is as strong as ever, has led to the creation of my second Substack baby, : a place for community, where writers of any discipline can submit their work for a chance for it to be showcased to its growing subscribers. This child of mine is merely days old, and has already seen a receiving of over 120 submissions from writers of many genres and almost 300 subscribers. Again, thank you. I am so grateful for you all, and your support does not go unnoticed.

Consider this a nudge to submit your writing to . You can find the submission link at the end of this newsletter, but I hope you read what lies between this and the link first…

With that being said, I think it is time to celebrate the first birthday of . I have loved dedicating so much time to it, and seeing it grow to over 1,000 subscribers (to all of you, I am so grateful). To help celebrate this brainchild turning one, I thought what better a way to celebrate, than to (re)share one of my most popular poems: Slow Burn.

For more insight on the context of this poem, check out the original post here:

Slow Burn…

It was in love I was created,
In a world congested with rotten fruit,
That falls from the branch all on its own,
Thick clouds in my coffee, a fitting suit.
A slow burn, not so interrupted,
As ever present, everywhere,
Carefully curated patterns seem,
Here and now, an impression quire rare.
Fed saccharine oranges and mellow tea,
No need to sting, no desire to cry,
Somebody to love the way I am,
And in love is how I hope I die.

& In case you missed these…

Here are three recent editions of Write Me Some Poetry that you may have missed, or been lost in you inbox. I think you’ll like them.

A note from the author (me).

Thank you for reading this week’s newsletter of Write Me Some Poetry. I am so happy to have you here. I share new insights and thoughts on poetry/writing, life, and living every Monday. I would love for you to share more of this journey with me. I would sincerely appreciate it if you consider subscribing to Write Me Some Poetry if you aren’t already, and to consider pledging a monthly amount if you are already subscribed. Help keep a writer’s dream of become a full time writer alive.

Subscribe now

Blank Canvas Post

remains OPEN for submissions, and we want to read YOUR writing. Follow the link below to submit your newest, most effervescent, poetic, intellectual, motivating, and empowering words. We can’t wait to read them.

Submit your writing to BCP here

Today marks a year since my wonderful Nanny passed away. She was a truly remarkable woman who overcame adversity, fought for the wellbeing of herself and her children, and stood strong through challenging times.

A year on since her passing, I feel more empowered by her story and legacy than I ever have before. Sure, I still long for the warmth of her side and embrace, and miss the conversations we used to share. Yet, since the day I was born, I have felt immensely honoured to be her granddaughter, recognising the impact she would have on my life even beyond the day her’s would come to an end. Luckily (or unluckily), I get to continue through life with her strength and devotion, extending her footprints in the sand.

So, what better a time to share a poem that is inspired by the phenomenal grace and compassionate temper of my sublime Nanny, Corrina. Thinking of you today, and every day evermore.

POEM CONTEXT

Dwelling Place is a poem inspired by my Nanny that I wrote after spending a week with her in July 2024 for her 80th birthday. The last day of that week, 12th July, was her birthday, which also happened to be the last day I would see her. Our big Irish Catholic family were all together for her final birthday (unknowingly). Nan and I shared our last hug, our last laugh, and our last conversation. Whilst it wasn’t until six months later that she passed away, I spent the best part of a month after this glorious week reflecting on how much Nan meant to me. Thus, Dwelling Place was born.

Dwelling Place is also included in my debut poetry collection, Moments of Thought, that I released in April 2025. Moments of Thought is dedicated to my Nanny, Corrina Eileen.

If you like Dwelling Place, or just want to support a small writer with a big dream of making writing her full time career, consider getting a copy of Moments of Thought here.

Moments of Thought

Without further ado, here is my favourite poem that I have written, Dwelling Place.

Dwelling Place.

The pungent promise of her patient palms
That wriggle warmly against the skin that cases my shoulders.
Skin that is so akin to hers,
A vivid reminder that we are cut from the same cloth
Of a long line of decorated dames and formidable forces.
Batches of bubbling beings, stewed together in her rich wonky digs,
With the cavities in the curtains that cast flashes
Over the pews of heads shining with significance and sense.
The enormity of the essence she embodies:
From her gentle genius to her stout tenacity.
The velvety stout of the old country and her smooth sincere squeeze
Swell synonymously in a shower of familiar sleet. 
She leaks fountains of love from each organ,
And ferments elation in her pocket,
As we search for her to guide us home.
What a pity it would be to live a life without her.

In case you missed it…

Here are some of my recent posts that you may have missed. I quite like them, and I think you might too.

Thank you for reading today’s newsletter edition of Write Me Some Poetry. I hope you have a lovely week. See you next Monday for another edition of notes on poetry, life, and living.

Yearning in Unison is a poem that explores nostalgia and change, growth and separation, as the persona yearns for a time and place that used to exist. Developed from the notion that a group of women had once lived together, and are now living very distinct, individual lives, this poem pays homage to the company, stoicism, and shared togetherness of early womanhood.

To the lovely friend who commissioned me to write this poem, I will forever cherish your love, support, and benevolence. You are part of me, as I am part of you. I love you.

Without further ado, here is Yearning in Unison.

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Yearning in Unison.

To all leave home and sit lonely on the train
And end up together, under a new moon wane.
Where profound speech becomes habitual
As do sofa bouts, in concert united, a ritual.
On common ground we live, balanced and wise,
Due to friends, we gained and grew alongside.

A closeness that eventually expands
To corners of space, across some land.
A swift reunion under the same moon,
Below new streetlamps, over new, bodied goon.
Here, I walk alone, but chasing at my heels
Is the familiarity that I once used to feel.

To miss something, is to have loved said thing,
Oh, how I wish we all lived through the same spring.
Just once more.

I am still open for commissions if you would be interested in commissioning me to write you, or someone you love, a poem.

I have a 20% off discount running at the moment with the run up to Christmas so get yourself booked in while you can sneak a little discount! *

Make Christmas even more special this year by gifting a custom poem! Use the code CHRISTMAS20 for 20% off on my website NOW.

Commission Me ★

Thank you for reading today’s post.

I hope that you enjoyed Yearning in Unison as much as I enjoyed writing it for a special friend.

Consider supporting a small writer this Christmas and shopping small.

Until next time, Charlotte ⋆｡° ✮

* 20% off code applies to the purchase of 2+ commissioned poems of any length.

I have a new poem for you today that I wrote a couple of months ago, inspired by one of my favourite people, my partner. I find it so easy to write about him as his being and character are truly delightful.

He has such an immense impact on me and my life, making all of the small, even monotonous moments feel significant. My life, since knowing him, has been nothing short of wonderful, and I am so appreciative for the peace he brings me. I have never felt such wholeness and I hope to carry this feeling with me for the rest of my days. I am rather lucky.

I hope you are able to experience a similar feeling for a long long time, if you don’t already feel it’s presence in your life.

Today’s poem, Hand Me Down, can be found in my debut self-published poetry collection, Moments of Thought. To support a small writer, like me, I would really appreciate if you would consider getting yourself a copy, so I can make writing my full time career. You can get yourself a copy of Moments of Thought here!

Get Moments of Thought

Without further ado, here is Hand Me Down. I hope you enjoy it.

Hand Me Down.

On occasions with sat, hanging between each hour,
Sitting on the floor, as solemn as a flower,
I try promising to smile, pleading not to cry,
Slipping into the arms of your kind and gentle pry.
Hands so dexterous and patient, I am no longer so sore,
A space so profound, never demanding of more,
From my deficient position, I will crucify
The cards I have been dealt, all tangled and implied.
Tales set in suburbs, I am not one to know,
Of the sensical friends, nor the invisible foes,
Or the distant glance at a juncture of joy,
And the hand-me-down clothes, same goes with the toys.
A deep dive into derelict dungeons, just for you,
My anam cara, there is nothing I wouldn't do,
To live every day with no objection,
A life of abundance and unambiguous affection.

Thank you for reading today’s poem. I would love to know what you think.

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Know someone who loves reading, writing, or consuming poetry? Consider sharing this poem or another of mine with them!

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See you soon for more poetry! I hope you have a lovely weekend, and week next week.

Lots of love and light, Charlotte.

I have been pondering over which poem to share with you next. It seems fitting to share my poem, Tourist, with you now. I wrote Tourist back in 2023 while I was living in the UK. In the midst of what felt like a really chaotic and overwhelming year, I was dealing with a lot of emotion about the country I had lived in my whole life. At this point in time, I had been living away from my hometown for 5 years and couldn’t bring myself to see the town in the same adoring way as I once had.

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It’s interesting to look back almost two years on from writing the poem. I now live in Australia, and have been here for over a year. I see my life and my hometown in a completely different, more positive way, and think I almost needed a drastic change to alter my perception of the miserable town I had once seen it as. I have a yearning for my hometown now that I am so far away - more of a yearning for the people I love who are there still, and the friends I grew up alongside. It’s almost as if distance does really make the heart grow fonder.

Tourist is also included in my debut self-published poetry collection, Moments of Thought, that you can purchase here.

Anyway, without further ado, here is Tourist. I hope you enjoy.

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Tourist.

I have become a tourist in a place I once called home.
A place that once felt like it was mine,
A meticulously intertwined thread in my spine.
An abode full of secrets and webs thick with tears,
Resting in every corner, across from the reams of fears.
Bricks cemented in hope and plaster-thick fallacy,
Meaningfully akin, cognate, like some kind of allegorical poetry.
What once felt like mine is now far from it,
An impermeable space that has finally become unfit.
I may return for a fleeting juncture only to recall the parting,
A swift exchange between myself and it as I find my drive restarting.
Without luck and purpose my feet aimlessly roam,
As I find myself a tourist, in a place I once called home.

I hope you enjoyed today’s poem. I’d love to know what you think.

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See you again soon for another poem! Lots of love, Charlotte :)

This one is a nice one. One I wrote about my wonderful partner, who has taught me so much about myself, and who is always the highlight of my week.

I hope you enjoy reading this one, as much as I enjoyed writing it.

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Highlight of my week.

With flowers picked fresh,
Neatly in your palms,
You bounce through the door,
Wholly sweet and ever calm.
Sat up and smiling,
Now you have returned,
I revert to myself,
That you taught me to earn.
Moments together,
Shared and satisfied,
The clement breeze gone,
By the warmth of your side.
Despair departed,
Few tears down my cheek,
I think of you often,
The highlight of my week.

Thank you for reading my new poem! Stay tuned for more poems and poetry-related discussion from me!

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See you soon!

Today, I am sharing a new poem with you, a poem entitled A Trip to the Dentist. I wrote this poem very recently, and it is inspired by my wonderful Mum. Without her, I wouldn’t be the woman I am today.

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A Trip to the Dentist is an introspective commentary, detailing a young girl’s perception of women, observed initially in a magazine picked up while waiting for a dentist appointment, and eventually transitioning to her perception of her mother.

I hope you enjoy this new poem.

A Trip to the Dentist.

The moments under magazine covers,
Flicking through magic metaphors and echoes
Of the pious parchment clenched so tightly.
Gentle women in grand decoration,
An eye cast towards the admired idol,
An affection so alluring and easy.
Innate pinches and subtle grasps at her
Soft still beams, prepossessing and just slight - 
Allied by her charity, warmly snug.
A character so correctly home-made,
Ingredients ingrained, baked to perfect
The wholeness unveiled on the terraced plate.
Radiant taste to conclude each juncture,
Mouthfuls of momentous distinction that
Do not deny each minute utter miles.

Thank you for reading A Trip to the Dentist. Stay tuned for more poetry.

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See you soon with more poetry!

Nice one, Char :)

Read more

Money For Jam is a poem I wrote a few months ago. It is my attempt at encapsulating a slow moment in your safe space. While writing it, I considered the things I find comforting and safe, so in some way, I am exposing the intricacies and vulnerabilities of the space I am privileged to feel safe within.

I hope you enjoy this insight into my little world.

Photo taken by @jwfilm_ on Instagram.

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Money For Jam.

As ripened unblemished fruit straight from the punnet is a particular treat.
A crisp collection of puzzled pages filled with plenty of promise.
Minutes that feel like hours of soaking in reams of beams cast within your favourite space.
Bathing in spineless pages of endless hope, crammed into one evening of bellowing bliss that screams from the walls that you rest within.
An existence as money for jam as can be, is one enough, alright for me.

I hope you enjoyed this new poem. I would love to know what you think.

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I try to post every Monday and every Thursday. For unseen discussions, essays, and poetry, upgrade your subscription now!

See you on Monday for a new publication.

Nice one, Charlotte :)

I find myself craving more of these ‘slow burn’ moments more and more, and hope that one day, every day, could be just like this. This may be very unrealistic but is certainly still a dream of mine. Luckily, writing poetry helps me get a glimpse of moments like these - so I must cherish them (and write more poetry!)

After catching myself remembering the lines to certain songs that had stood out to me in recent days and weeks, I found a lot of them appearing in the front of my mind as I settled into my space to write this poem. I wonder how many songs you can name from some snippets of some lyrics hidden in this poem.

I hope you enjoy my poem.

Slow Burn.

It was in love I was created,
In a world congested with rotten fruit,
That falls from the branch all on its own,
Thick clouds in my coffee, a fitting suit.
A slow burn, not so interrupted,
As ever present, everywhere, 
Carefully curated patterns seem,
Here and now, an impression quite rare.
Fed saccharine oranges and mellow tea,
No need to sting, no desire to cry,
Somebody to love the way I am,
And in love is how I hope I die.

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She sadly passed away in January, and I was lucky enough to get to show her the words she had inspired before her time came to an end.

I will forever be heartbroken, but am so glad I was able to capture her essence is these words.

I hope you enjoy.