New Moon

My guardian angel
is mostly wing.

Silk-soft pillows
enfold me
in milky-
white safety

when I can’t find
the moon.

He says,
“Love is in
the ashes,
and there ain’t
nothin’ brighter
than the stars
on a new moon.”

My angel
is from
the streets.

Who would have
guessed I got
one from here?

“Did you fall
from heaven
or something?”

He flaps a
and grins.


This fun poem just came out as I pictured a very cool-looking angel helping me through this tricky lockdown time. I hope you can find humor and truth in it. – Giulietta


Joy Sings

Joy sings
from every tree,
trills and whistles
embrace me.

Spring shines
with buttercup eyes
as tiny wrens
flit on by.

I came dark
with winter’s grief,
eyes and roots
hiding deep.

Rising up
from memory,
cloud-hearted days
are lifting me.

Here is another joyful poem, hoping it lifts your spirits, dear readers.-Giulietta

Starling Hearts

If we skip forward
with starling hearts
we will breathe in
white blossoms
of Hawthorn tree.

Magpies flapping
in shallow, bright
pools will throw
to you and me.

Let’s skip forward
with starling hearts
and journey with
together in light.

Swooping swallows
will catch our breath
and bring us from day
to silvery night.

I thought we could all use a cheerful poem, may you skip in the light, dear readers.

Flower Moon

Blackbird, silent.
Owl, orange

The trees, still
as stars.

Hidden squirrels
curl in branches,
waiting in the
cool touch
of night.

I, human,
feel animal

as I cross-leg
on rough dirt
and leaves,
the ground
colder than
where night
meets my cheek.

My bones echo
the bones buried
in Earth’s
dark embrace.

I left many
the biggest,
to be here

A screech warns
the shadow
of myself,

a blackbird song,
a glow to the East,
a lifting curve
of rose.

We all hold our breaths,
blackbird, owl,
squirrel and I.

She lifts higher,
until she is a
loving circle
of rose.

My hands
my shadows

I for a moment
am something other
than human.

This is inspired by the supermoon, 7 May. The May moon is sometimes called the Flower Moon.

Just Before Lockdown

I am honoured to have guest poet Arwen on my site today:

A ‘matted-hair ascetic’,
Head-scarfed like a chemo-
Therapy cancer-sufferer
(Recalling my dead sister);

Somehow still alluring, though,
In ‘Peaky Blinders’ cap, and
Trousers billowing and grey,
As I skip behind in my

Flowing purple, hippy skirt –
Like we’re both gender-diverse –
For, in that respect, I desire
The reflex of myself;

Your eyes a beautiful,
Open and expressive grey –
Though in the shops determined
(Recalling my dead grandmother).

We have reached a place of comfort;
So you thread my wrap-around skirt,
While I stand in dutiful
“Suits you” underwear.

A memory of non-essential
Shopping, two ‘girls’– you a
Shadow Julie Andrews,
Umbrella fighting the storm,

High up on Elizabeth
Way Bridge, worrying about us
Being bludgeoned by ‘far-right groups’ –
Always worrying about death;

Covid-19 on your mind
As you gave in to a melting
Hug – just before lockdown –
Two beings in a soft embrace.