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  A Ray Of Sunshine It was my first attempt at DIY hair dying. My friend had transformed her dull brown into glossy chestnut and Patricia thought it perfect to transform her unnatural blond. So I helped her out. Tiger Lily, it said on the packet.   Well tigers are a chest-nutty brown, Or so we thought. But on a base of blond the result was unexpected. Could any creature, any plant, be quite so bright, oranger than orange, more fiery than fire. And this was before the days of punk when the colour would have been lauded   and sort after. Not then. Early for the emergency hairdresser, Patricia called into the butcher’s shop. In spite of the warm day she made sure that   the hood of her duffle coat was pulled firmly forward, hiding what lay beneath. She told me later that she focused on the large spider on the coat of the woman in front of her in the queue to control her anxiety. “Did you brush it off for her,” I asked? “No,”   “It seemed quite at home there”, she t...
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  Imagination’s Real Back in the day   before elderly women   preferred to become blonde, grey turning to blue was common. “Look at that lady there, she’s got blue hair. Look, mummy!” he said loudly,   “I don’t like blue hair, do you!” as she squirmed with embarrassment. Blue was a dead give away   of aged artifice as, unlike blonde natural hair can never be blue, it doesn’t bend the light like feathers to make that specialist refraction of reality. So it was a dead give away of pretence or fantasy,   of unreality, or imagination. But sometimes that’s perfect, perfectly fit for purpose. “Look at the horses in that painting. they’ve got blue hair!   Look, mummy, look” he shouted,   “I like their blue hair, don’t you? It makes my imagination real!” She laughed in agreement   and thought there was an artist in the making. https://stortellerpoetryreview.blogspot.com/2025/12/super-sized-series_0454394594.html
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  Crossing Over Running downhill, on and on, the orange sun bearing down on me. Scorching me,   burning me up until I come to a river cold with ice. Icy water flowing too fast. Too fast. Faster than I can run. Flaming under that bridge. A bridge to somewhere   from here, from where I am. But where is here   or there? And is the bridge real or a bridge of dreams. Or, a bridge for my dreams, leading nowhere. If I cross over will I plummet into the nowhere on the other side. Shall I try? Or shall I stay here running looking for the light until I find it. https://featheredstag.com/magazine/
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  Quite A Puzzle “It was an alternative to Rorschach”, he said just choose the dots to connect   in whatever way suits you, and draw whatever comes to mind. She wondered if this had been the challenge set to God, or the gods, when the night sky had been designed. Random stars joined into a pattern ready to be re-imagined. And named. She looked at the page and wondered if she was godlike, if she was an artist, or if she was a mere mortal   about to construct a puzzle for someone else to interpret just as she had pondered the night sky. https://chainmailpoetry.blogspot.com/
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  Samhain It’s the time when bonfires are lit when it’s easier to cross into another world when places are set at the table to welcome the dead,   to consume the witches so the evil in the world dies   in the heat and the smoke and the flames. But this Samhain in Gaza the evil is spreading in the smoke and ashes. Everywhere is aflame nowhere is safe and everyone is a witch, the old, the young and even the dead must burn. Gazans have become the new Nemeds having already given their corn and milk now they must give two thirds of their children and watch as they are consumed in the fire. It’s the custom after all. https://edgeofhumanity.com/2025/12/10/samhain/
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  The Theatre Of The Absurd Back in the 1960s I loved them, sought out the plays Beckett, Ionesco, Stoppard and the rest who were illustrating the death of logic which silenced argument as the beginning became the end. I didn’t anticipate the re-run in the theatres of Westminster and Washington all these years later as the political players take the stage to play those parts again speaking absurdities on cue   as directed by their part, by their party in a government where ethics are as dead as genocide, where ethics never existed, just like genocide, where ethics are deader   than Rosencrantz and Gildenstern and only the absurd still lives taking us back where we started. https://corncrakemagazine.com/article/the-theatre-of-the-absurd/
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