Page copy protected against web site content infringement by Copyscape All poetry published on this blog is copyrighted. It is the property of © Glynis J Smy 2008. It shall not be used, reproduced or duplicated in any manner without author permission.


With writing novels, editing for friends, and writing blogs, I am moving my new poetry posts to:

One Night Stand

My poem One Night Stand, caught the eye of  a singer/musician, and she approached me about purchasing it for use in a song. We came to an artist agreement and here is a snippet.

written collaboration by Mona Bode', Tee Tolbert and Glynis Smy

Guest Poet: Jessica Bell Launches Fabric

FabricToday I'm celebrating the release of Jessica Bell's new poetry collection, Fabric. 

Jessica has been featured on this blog with her Twisted Velvet Chains collection. I enjoy her work because of its unique style.

Jessica says:
My poetry will not baffle you with phrasing that scholars award for academic genius and that can only be understood by those who wrote it. My poetry is for the everyday reader. In fact, it is even for those who don’t like to read poetry at all. Because it is real, stark and simple.

The poems in Fabric are no different. They explore specific moments in different people’s lives that are significant to whom they have become, the choices they’ve made. It’s about how they perceive the world around them, and how each and every one of their thoughts and actions contributes to the fabric of society. Perhaps you will even learn something new about yourself.

So, even if you do not usually read poetry, I urge you to give this one a go. Not because I want sales (though, they are fun!), but because I want more people to understand that not all poetry is scary and complex. Not all poetry is going to take you back to high school English, and not all poetry is going make you feel “stupid”.

You can still say to people that you don’t read poetry … I really don’t mind. Because if you read Fabric, you’re not reading poetry, you’re reading about people. And that’s what reading is about, yes? Living the lives of others?
Are you still here? I hope so!

Please support the life of poetry today by spreading the news about Fabric. Hey, perhaps you might even like to purchase a copy for yourself? The e-book is only $1.99 and the paperback $5.50.

Here are the links:

Let's keep poetry alive! Because not all poetry is "dead" boring ...

About Jessica Bell:

If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. And not because she currently lives in Greece, either. The Australian-native author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist has her roots firmly planted in music, and admits inspiration often stems from lyrics she’s written.

She is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and co-hosts the Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop on the Greek Isle of Ithaca, with Chuck Sambuchino of Writer’s Digest.

For more information about Jessica Bell, please visit:


Guest Poet: Elaine Benton

Elaine's book "Parkinson's, shaken, not stirred" is a collection of poems offering support and comfort to fellow sufferers and caregivers, relating to their daily struggles. From personal experience she has written with stark raw honesty and humour, something patients nor doctors rarely get to read which has captured attention world-wide. Elaine has poured her heart and soul into this book, giving a fresh perspective from the patient’s view, which holds a strong message of hope, living a full happy life despite ill health and adversity, whilst raising greater awareness of these two diseases to the general public.


Elaine was born in 1963, England, writing poetry and short stories since she was a child. Diagnosed at the age of five with Gaucher disease; a rare chronic inherited disorder caused by a genetic mutation, for which there is no cure. At the age of 44, she was dealt a second blow being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. As her life began to rapidly change, she began to write poems expressing what so many sufferers were going through but unable to put into words. With the desire to help others in the same situation, a book was born. Feeling she had something unique to offer, she also started  writing a daily blog touching on varied topics all relating to living with chronic disease. Through public speaking Elaine is turning her hardships into something of value and purpose, contributing to society by speaking at various organisations and groups; her aim is to educate and inform. What started off as a book has spiraled into an entire project as she battles each day with determination, great spirit and humour.

To a special lady

Since writing my book and daily blogging, I have had the honour to come into contact with some wonderful amazing people. I wrote this poem recently and dedicate it to a brave lady I have never met.

Wish I could bottle what I feel inside,
So you could be free, not have to hide.
Stay your wonderful self, be brave, let all see,
You have Parkinson’s, the same as me!
No one can help you, unless they’re informed,
Knowledge and awareness, ignorance reformed.
Open your heart, tell those who care,
Now enlightened, life’s easier to bear.
Knowing the truth, they’ll fully understand.
Caring souls will want to lend a hand,
I’ll say it again, in case you didn’t hear,
Don’t hide the truth, don’t live in fear.
Those who love you, won’t turn or run away,
But stay by your side, support you each day.

(Written by Elaine Benton 2012©)

Not Poetry...but It is my work

I proudly present my debut novel, Ripper, My Love. 

Purchase: Glynis Smy Books (available in various formats for digital ereaders and ipods)

I Can't Write That!

Be still my beating heart,
Oh, I can’t write that.
I wandered lonely as a,
Shucks, I can’t write that.
Your parents f...
No! I can’t write that.
There is another sky,
Dickens, son, I can’t write that.
The road not taken,
Mm, can’t write that.
I’m not yours,
No, you are Sara Teasdale’s
So I can’t write that!

Sorry I can’t write a poem today,
The great ones beat me to it!

Copyright © GJSmy 2011
(A play on other poet's and their works)

Guest Poet: Simon Daniels

Introducing  work from Simon Daniels, a writer of short fiction and poetry for children and young adults. 

Poet Blog...

Wednesdays Angel

On Wednesday I met an angel. Well, the friend of an angel. Well, not really a friend either, more of an Agent. Not a Literary Agent or, God forbid an Estate Agent, or even a Special Agent, although that would have been cool.

Anyway, the agent looked normal enough. No sprouting feathers or golden halo. Although, when she sat in the bay window the winter sun breathed on her head and shoulders, just like a halo.

Halo’s aside, we started off with a chat, well it was a series of unconnected conversations - topics ranging from my recent marital demise to the meaning of life and her well-fed cats.

Two hours tried on 10 minutes for size and liked the fit. I felt like I’d come home to mum’s hug and a mug of something hot and spicy, after wandering the cold streets wearing someone else’s ill-fitting Summer clothes.

She suggested we start and positioned a dining chair in the middle of the lounge like a mobile hairdresser. She told me to relax and place both hands on my knees in the back-to-school pose

She moved round behind me. I closed my eyes. I’d recently seen ‘Sweeney Todd’ and swallowed hard. She placed her hands on my shoulders with a light, lovers touch. Sensuality and trust becoming one, and after a few moments she moved alongside me. I sensed one flat trembling palm close to my heart like a kind scanner.

The heart is a fragile organ. Don’t believe all that bullshit about gallons of blood and a billion beats. The heart can break as easy as a butterfly’s wing, unless the hand that holds it isn’t human.

Next, the turn of my belly, and crotch. Oh, I forgot to say there was a brief ‘before’ bit as well.  With the aid of a tear-drop crystal suspended from a fine chain she concluded my Chakra’s were not so much blocked as impacted - (nursey) joke.

I digress. With eyes tightly closed slight dizziness took over. The way you do when you look over the side of a high bridge or multi-storey. I snatched my mind back just in time. Then, there was this feeling. Not quite holding, more like slow juggling as though I was being passed from one huge hand to another.

Behind my eyelids it was November the fifth. Pink tourmaline circles of light
pulsed before me, followed by red and gold. I didn’t want it to end.

Heat followed. Dad told me to “get away from the fire!” But I still singed my fingertips. Next, a building nervous excitement like when we take our clothes off for the first time in front of someone we love hoping they won’t giggle at that large dark mole creeping up our back.

I opened my eyes and the rainbow vanished in a slightly altered, better connected world.


By day, I am many things,

Overcrowded molars,
chewing rubber gum.

Grand piano keys
washboard melodies

Drum-drumming fingers,
to flavour nights' crumb

I yearn for the spark of a clog
Or the nudge of a log,
dropped from a high-stacked wagon.

I crave the squeal of a steel rimmed wheel
passing the 'George and Dragon.'

At night I dream
of bustling streets
when my repertoire was full
of sounds without insulation.

Naked sounds
raw sounds 
smash on the floor sounds
felt in close proximity.

Road works offer some relief
when I'm teased out with giant tooth picks
or flossed with high pressure hoses.

It’s only then that I can truly breathe,
and sense
and listen..........

            Snow on Christmas Eve

A soft,  insulated hush
Eradicated angles
Airbrushed unwanted lines and wrinkles
Smoothed out imperfections.

The night was so bright,
The moon wore shades.
Poor sighted owls caught albino mice
And the sun thought twice
About coming up at all.

Snowballs were moulded, thrown and dodged.
Feet creaked across hidden lawns
Cars wrote their names on roads
While cats probed snow for unexploded mines.

Children squealed.
Parents sighed, then tried to find sledges.
Pensioners appeared like hungry bears
Tipped out of hibernation
But ready to kill for a small sliced white
Or be killed trying.

After the melt
The last snowman standing
Mugged by rain
Blackened by soot
Smiled, as though he’d been told
The best joke in the world.

Jenny Wren                                                    

Real time’s too slow for you
Subliminal vision’s what we need
To see this ballerina at top speed
Arch her back and do a pirouette
Giving slower insects time to leave
Before supper’s served

Too exquisite to be real.
A celestial decoration
Plucked from God’s Christmas tree
This russet hussy flits into our lives
Steals the show, takes a bow
and leaves
            Many Moons

A bull’s-eye for NASA
A lyrical must
A slice of salami
A shilling through silk

A nail on black velvet
A barn owl’s PA
A lunatic’s mirror
A passion for drink

A speech after dinner
An X-raying spot  
A frigid ex-planet
A sliver of cork

A scab of white lichen
An alchemist’s vice
A mariner’s time piece
A future for earth

A crash mat for comets
A self-styled month
A lupine transmitter
A lover’s delight

A telescope’s motive
A plover’s blown egg
A waltz round a partner
in eloquent grey

A blue sky rehearsal
A cheeky reply
The infinite beauty
of borrowed sunshine.


Child of My Child

For my first Grandchild due today if nature allows.

Child of my child,
 breathe my blood within hers.
Sip mouthfuls of loving sustenance,
Generation nectar.
Swim in an ocean of hope,
grow in a sea of love,
Dance to the tune of life,
And when you are done,
show us our future.

Update: September 23rd 2011.
Seren Geri Jessie Rogers was born!


That day-that dreadful day,
added to the list of many.
Bewildered and confused, life
staggered the streets- while death
trampled on regardless.
Maniac minds delighting in their deed,
deafened by the voice of hatred.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
May we never forget.

Accidental Poet

Accidental Poet

I don’t do stanza’s,
I try to rhyme,
I cannot Haiku,
And my sonnet
I write poetry,
Or is that prose?
Do I write Cinquain?
Goodness knows!
This is not an elegy,
Nor is it a Lay.
It is merely a few words,
I scribbled down today.

© 2011 GJSmy

Dead Irises

Written for a friend who went blind.

Dead Irises

Jasmine-remember white, tiny stars,
Lavender, silver grey with tiny purple flowers,
Rosemary, a wonderful rack of Lamb is enhanced with this fine herb,
Tiny blue flowers with a sage green leaf-sage-lilac flowers when left to seed,
Crush in your palm, inhale them one at a time-
Stocks-remember the vibrant red of our favourite wine,
Hear the chink of a glass and remember the lilac flower on my windowsill,
Orange and Lemon blossom, bound with mint-
 Summer evening on the porch-inhale-
Freesia, a rainbow of fragrance with satin petals,
Crush in your palm, inhale them one at a time-
Allow new senses to hold your bouquet-


A breeze brings you to me on a summers night,
Curling high with flowers white.
Tiny stars of perfect form,
Fragrance heady on air warm.
Wine in my hand I raise a toast,
To Jasmine, my summer ghost.

One Beer Turns The Music On

Inspired by a hot sultry night with a cool beer and my favourite music. I combined words from songs and came up with this one.

One Beer Turns The Music On

Spinning arms above my head,
Santana -Samba pa ti in my soul,
Van Morrison –misty memories
R.E.M, everybody hurts did you know?
No vase to be made by ghostly callings-
I need your love- I need your love-
You take my breath away.
Sorry IL Divo beat you to it it-Hero.
Who’s gonna drive you home?
Nothing compares to you-
When you came in the air went out-
I wanna do bad things with you.
Lock the door? All day long?
Your my man?
Goodbye my lover-
this is a Wicked Game.

Twisted Velvet Chains By Jessica Bell : Poetry Book Introduction

If you enjoy reading different styles of poetry, you will not be disappointed with Twisted Velvet Chains by Australian poet, Jessica Bell.

She has captured a lifetime in poetry. Dark, painful, loving and poignant poems get under your skin. Do not look for soft, sentimental rhymes in Twisted Velvet Chains, embrace the difference. 

Her style is unique, a new voice to be heard. Bell is not scared to pen about the frightening, disgusting side of life. Equally she sketches vibrant pictures of moments of pleasure; of bonding. 

I thoroughly enjoyed the whole collection.

Twisted Velvet Chains is a collection of poems which follows the experiences of one woman growing up with a bipolar, drug addicted, gothic musician mother. Each poem represents specific moments of their life that embrace vivid rich imagery, and illustrate the turmoil of emotions both experience while together. The collection is divided into four parts that flow one into the other from childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and post-death.

Available Here at Amazon

Signed copy direct from author Here.

Patchwork Genes in Black

Yesterday I lost a dear friend, Xenia. She was in her late 40's and died of breast cancer. She was my first Cypriot friend in the village, six years ago. She taught me my first Greek words, clapped her hands with delight at my cards (Cypriots do not send greetings cards) and attempted to read my first poetry book. She stroked the cover so lovingly, I will never forget that gesture. She could not understand the words, but loved the gift I had given her. She knew it meant something to me.

She gave me so many firsts here in Cyprus, for which I am grateful. She comforted me when I missed my children in the UK. She gave me the courage to live in my village. Should the Turks invade again, as they did when she was a young teenager, I could survive as she had. She taught me how to eat from the hedgerows, and how to find places to hide. None of it scared me. I knew she had my best interests at heart.

Sadly, tomorrow she will be the reason I attend my first Cypriot funeral for a friend.

Today I sat with the family and looked at her sad husband. Then I watched her three children. Her 19 year old daughter, her 21 year old son and her eldest girl of 23. Each one bears a resemblance to my friend. I watched her eldest try and greet as her mother would have done, it overwhelmed her. Then my friend's  mother walked in the room...then came the poem; Patchwork Genes in Black.

A blackened room.
We sit; our clothing-black.
You would have despised it-
but gracefully accepted the respect.
You with your vibrant, fashionable red curls;
covering your ancestral tint.
Orange scarves smothering
chemical split ends and white stubble
hides nothing from me.

I see you in this blackened room.
White smile-hidden by black blood spittle-
a falsehood-a wicked lie in my eyes.
Now they only see your soul in the mirror of others-
and you- my eyes see your red locks and white smile.

I see you in this blackened room.

A man in tears, knees wrinkled from prayer,
a girl- a childwoman, a boy with a man’s age-
Another girl-the other you. She slips on your shoes-
Their length too long, their width- ocean wide.
she cries for her inadequecies- black comfort-size zero.

I see you in this blackened room
they have yet to see it-your legacy.

Strands of your hair, glimpses of a white smile yet to shine through,
They are there; in those dressed in black-
Childwoman, Boy and TheOtherYou-
I stare through moving glass eyes that glisten in the sun.
Then in walks your mother-I see you in black-I cry.

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