Archive of ‘poetry’ category


Happiness: Happiness is a mental or emotional state of well-being characterized by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy.

I didn’t think it possible,
A dream I’d always chased.
Wishing, hoping, yearning.
Not wanting life to be a waste.

Courage came from deep within.
Forced myself to try.
Worked harder than I ever have before,
Not once questioning why.

Supported by so many people,
All believing I could succeed.
Encouraging, listening, inspiring.
Giving me everything I could need.

I chased my dream and caught it,
I’m so excited I could cry.
Like a dragonfly emerging from a pond,
I’m spreading my wings preparing to fly.

Life is for the taking,
Grab it with both hands.
Don’t stay in stagnant water,
Fly away to different lands.

Spread your wings and gather speed,
Do what you were born to do.
For the only person responsible for
Your happiness is you.

Prose for Thought

At Night

When it’s the middle of the night and I’m not allowed to sleep,
I panic and I feel wretched and I slowly start to weep.

The weeping turns to anger and I feel out of control,
Hate myself, hate no sleep, into darkness I begin to fall.

Evil words leave my mouth and cruelly abuse those who are near,
Words I don’t mean designed to sting all fuelled by anxiety and fear.

Not being rational I think the worse and always sink so low,
I want to run, I want to escape and get out of here just go.

There’s no air, I can’t focus, I need time out just to breathe.
But all I do is hear the noise, and scream and shout and seethe.

And when it stops or I’ve blocked it out the calmness soon comes back,
Rational again, able to cope, with everything colourful not black.

I say I’m sorry, guilt sets in and I feel I’ve let everyone down.
The day is hard I struggle through, wrinkles formed by a constant frown.

Will this always be a weakness, will no sleep a trigger be?
Is this what it’s lasting legacy is, the bitch that’s PND.

Prose for Thought

Tears Bubble

Tears: Lacrimation, or lachrymation, (from Latin lacrima, meaning “tear”) is the secretion of tears. Tears formed through crying are associated with strong internal emotions.

Tears bubble under the surface,
I will not set them free.
They won’t escape, just bubble there;
Always a part of me.

Sadness washes over at times;
Overwhelming, sudden, shock.
Instead of listening, addressing, dealing,
It’s in a box, shut tight, no lock.

Not wanting to admit the pain,
Not seeing the honest truths.
Smile and say I am ok,
Believe it, as if smiling is proof.

Please don’t ask too many questions,
Please don’t delve too deep.
I will not cry, I won’t go there,
I cannot bear to weep.

Just know I take cover, hide away,
Say I’m ok, that I’m fine.
Tears will always bubble inside,
But that’s where they’ll stay for some time.

Prose for Thought

Jog on PND

You know you’re not welcome here anymore,
Go away, get out, I’ve shown you the door.
Don’t you dare come back and ruin my world,
I won’t let you, I’ll stay strong for my boys and my girl.

Get lost, jog on, go away, just scram,
I’ve worked too hard to get well and to be where I am.
You were beaten, overcome, I was rid of your hold,
You can’t break me, can’t destroy me, I refuse to fold.

My ears are shut to your self loathing attacks,
I shan’t be irrational, I’ll hold on to the facts.
You will not absorb my energy and spirit,
You can say what you like for I’ll choose not to hear it.

I’m stronger than you and I win every time,
There’s no point in fighting, all choices are mine.
Try all you like you’ll never beat me,
So give up, f*** off and jog on PND.

Prose for Thought

MAD Blog Awards

For the body I had, I will not weep.

This poem was inspired by a post by @ErickaWaller1 to whom I recently emailed a picture of my post baby stomach.

I earned this body,
It’s mine to keep.
For the body I had,
I will not weep.

Pert breasts were given,
these saggy ones were not,
I worked hard for them, I fed with them,
I miss the others not.

Stretch marks did not come in my youth,
Nor when I was a teen,
They marked my skin forevermore when my babies grew within.

My stomach once was beautifully flat,
Then three times a rounded dome.
Smooth and flawless skin outside,
Before inside became a home.

Darkness reigns beneath my eyes,
Puffed and wrinkled now for a while.
I love those lines for each one marks,
the times you’ve made me smile.

It’s where I grew you, where I first loved you,
Upon where you fell asleep,
For my old body, waiting to grow you,
I will not now nor ever weep.

Prose for Thought

MAD Blog Awards

Not enough time

Too much to do, so much undone,
Not enough time.
Want it all, to have it all,
Not enough time.

Gallop here, race there,
Not enough time.
Rush around, never stopping,
Not enough time.

Half done, a rubbish job,
Not enough time.
Never finished, rarely complete,
Not enough time.

Anxious and worried,
Not enough time.
Less than perfection,
Not enough time.

Give my all, give everything,
Not enough time.
Work so hard, constantly strive,
Not enough time.

Do my best, be the best,
Not enough time.
Expectations high, unrealistically so,
Not enough time.

Something must give,
Something must go.
But just what that is
I do not know.

Love my life,
Love everything that’s mine.
Want it all, but there’s,
Not enough time.

Prose for Thought

Fallen Leaves

This is my entry to the Center Parcs and Tots 100 November challenge. If I’m chosen, I would like to visit Longleat Forest.

Center Parcs is a wonderful place for a fantastic family break and so I’ve decided to enter this poem into their family blogger competition! If you’d like to enter then Center Parcs Whinfell Forest’s resident nature expert and Conservation Ranger, Emma Tapp has some fab tips on their site if you need some inspiration! The inspiration for my poem was her first tip:

1. Be inspired by your surroundings – Observe as the leaves change colour from green to red and let the beautiful burnt oranges get the creative juices flowing, what does it look like and remind you of?

And this photo:
Leaf: A leaf is an organ of a vascular plant, as defined in botanical terms, and in particular in plant morphology.

Fallen Leaves

A fresh skin, new paint.
Reached the end of one journey,
Ready to start anew.

Budded, began with such hope.
Flourished, success, recognition.
Then start to wane.

So brief, time passes by.
Surrounded by many, fighting for light,
One by one they fade and fall.

Meant to be, out of control.
Powerless in nature and outcome,
Fate already decided.

Sunlight fades all heat is gone,
Yet more beautiful with time.
Vibrant colours fighting on.

Changing, trying to last.
Solitary and clinging on in hope.
Fragile, no choice but to finally let go.

Different, but the same

I’d just like to say that after reading this poem back, it could possibly sound like I’m a bit dissatisfied with my life at the moment, which couldn’t be further from the truth!! I guess I’m just very aware at times that even though I do different things everyday, my days are still very much centred around the same stuff I do as a mum….and I really do sometimes feel like I am forever on my hands and knees clearing food from the floor…just from lots of different floors!

Each day I wake, know what’s ahead,
Rub my eyes get out of bed.
Packed lunch to make, teeth to clean,
A few smiles and tantrums in between.

School run; walk come rain or shine.
Smile and wave, pretend I’m fine.
Home to put breakfast things away.
Change a nappy, out for the day.

Different people, same things we say.
Talking comes easily, brightens the day.
Home to make lunch, pick remains off the floor.
Nap time, me time, always need more.

Pick up from school, pop here and there;
Dentists, shopping, cutting of hair.
Home for dinner, cooking some more.
Again clearing remains up from the floor.

Bath time, bedtime; one, two then three.
Time for just my husband and me.
Exhausted and sleepy, weary from work,
Eyes start to close, limbs start to jerk.

Head hits the pillow, another day done,
A new one tomorrow, opportunity for fun.
Another play date, another game,
Each day different, yet somehow the same.

Prose for Thought

A Monster Ate My Mum Press Release

Written by Jen Faulkner

A children’s book, written in rhyme, looking at Post Natal Depression from a child’s perspective.

First Edition, published on 18th October 2013

Print version: £7.49
ebook: 99p

An important subject, and one that can be tricky to talk about, is Post Natal Depression, which affects between 10% and 15% of new mothers. To highlight this important issue and to facilitate its discussion comes the story ‘A Monster Ate my Mum’ by Jen Faulkner.

As a sufferer of Post-Natal depression herself, Jen knows how debilitating this illness can be and just how much it affects the whole family, especially siblings. Watching her older children see her suffer and finding it hard to find the right words to explain to them what was happening to their mum, Jen took to something she knows well, her love of writing.

She wrote a rhyming story talking about PND, as seen through the eyes of a child, to help her children understand what was happening to her. She hopes to help other families affected by the illness with the book. The central character, a young boy, goes on a hunt to look for the monsters that have taken different parts of his mum. He looks for her smile, her laugh, her spark.

“Excuse me but have you eaten my mum?

I want her back I want some fun.

I want to see her smile, my mum.

Is she in your big round tum?”

The boy learns that they didn’t mean to eat his mum and that in time, all of the things they have taken will be returned.

“No she’s not here I just ate her smile.

I’ll give it back after a while.

I’m sorry I was hungry you see.

I don’t know where your mum could be.”

Aimed at children across the age range from 2 right through to 12, the initial response from the first appearance of the story on her blog has been amazing, and included an invitation to read it aloud on BBC Radio Bristol during Dr Phil Hammond’s Saturday Surgery show. More information can be found on the blog:

Currently available through this link:

Jen Faulkner is available to discuss her PND journey and the story it helped to create.

For further information please contact Jen Faulkner: or @MonsterAteMyMum
Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

MAD Blog Awards

The Why Cowboy

Now, I’m not sure if I’ve banged on about it enough, but I recently I self published my A Monster Ate My Mum poem. The response so far has been overwhelming and I’m thrilled. It’s an amazing feeling to know you have reached out to people and are helping others that have suffered or are affected by post natal depression. The process of self-publishing has been exhausting, but extremely rewarding, and now I’ve done it once I am confident it will be easier next time. And…oh yes…there will be a next time!

Which brings me to today’s poem for Prose4T, hosted by the lovely and tremendously supportive Vic Welton Now this is very much a work in progress, but I wanted to get a feel for whether it would work or not. The idea was originally called ‘The Why Monster’ and was intended to focus on a children’s tendency to always ask ‘why?’ Over time it has developed into more of a magical, imaginative adventure story and, as I’ve just written a book about monsters (did I mention that already?!) I have changed it to a cowboy…but who knows, it could end up being a pirate or a spaceman!

So here is the beginning, let me know what you think…

The Why Cowboy

Alf sat down and had a look,
Wanted to read his favourite book.
It was on a shelf, way up high.
‘Not now,’ said mum. Alf wondered ‘why?’

He loved that book, he loved to read.
It was a very good book indeed.
He wanted that book, he wanted it now,
The challenge was to think of how!

He heard a small voice in his ear,
A cheeky voice that whispered clear,
‘Let’s climb the mountain, reach up tall,
Let’s get that book, not be so small.’

A little cowboy was at his side,
‘Hello!’ The little cowboy cried.
Alf looked at mum, and then the book.
He went to climb, she went to cook.

The shelf was on the playroom wall,
Oh how Alf wished that he were tall.
The cowboy said ‘We need some stairs,
Let’s use your cuddly toys and bears.’

To be continued…

Prose for Thought

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