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If you enjoyed following NaPoWriMo15 – below is an archive of my poems over the month. I hope you have enjoyed reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them :)

1. Oh Dear What Can the Matter Be?
2. Meditation
3. Night Star
4. Tears
5. Morning Glory
6. A Love Limerick
7. Perfect Score
8. Mother Came to Stay
9. I am doing this for you II
10. Intoxication
11. Cherish
12. Finding the Silent Ones
13. When Spiders Strike
14. Poet
15. Melpomene
16. It’s Not Easy Being Me
17. The Queen’s Dreams
18. Carole Withany (Series)
19. The Hula Hoop of Hindrance
20. Homecoming
21. Memory Lane
22. Cinnabar Wings
23. Where this is that becomes
24. Morning Hare – Haiku
25. The Waiting Game
26. Waiting For Morning to Come
27. What If?
28. Seagulls – Haiku
29. Abandoned Angels
30. Muse – Haiku


Picture Credit:Found on

A Big Old Hug


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No that NaPoWriMo15 is at an end, I would like to say a big thank you for all of you who have visited and read my contributions to this year’s National Poetry Writing Month :)


I’m sorry if I don’t get to you,

I apologise, I’m slow,

four hundred plus emails,

my inbox about to blow!


I know I’m not quite regular,

at times I can be slack;

I promise I’ll try to visit you,

and leave a message back!


The spam thing – what’s all that about?

Messages, I just don’t get??

Enlarge my what?!! Increase my stats?!

Delete, delete, forget!!


I try my best, I really do,

so many blogs to read,

It’s becoming like a full time job,

an assistant, I so need!


I’d like to say to everyone,

who’s liked or followed me,

to each I’d give a big old hug,

you’ve all inspired me!!


© A Big Old Hug 2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Muse – Haiku


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Melodious mantra

Mellifluous muse

Macarism misconstrued


© Muse 31.12.12

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:






Abandoned Angels


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Abandoned angels and displaced heroines,

wander this barren land;

perchance you’ll maybe come upon one,

travelling, book clasped, within pale hand.

When first glanced, you will know –

bewildered look upon their face,

complexion pallid, tousled hair,

delicate expression, looks, out of place.

To live within such modern times,

misplaced in space, and wrong dimension,

just biding time, and yearning for,

repatriation beyond ascension.

From classic novels and epic screens,

you’ll see them all, or so it seems,

just waiting, biding, patiently,

for a return from false sanctuary,

to fall within reel, or parchment pages,

from a long forgotten century.


© Abandoned Angels 13.10.2012

By Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:





Seagulls – Haiku


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Circling seagulls soulfully

Singing sea shanties

Sorrowfully surf sea-shores


© Seagulls 05.09.2012

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:

steinwatercolors -Etsy



What If?


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Another day, another dollar,

washing pots, preventing squalor.

Mundane tasks, day in, day out,

the meaning of life, what’s it all about?


She takes the knife from the dishwasher rack,

and dries it slowly, stopped in her tracks,

she stops to think by the kitchen sink –

what if, what if, what if?


To push the knife deep in my gut,

would it slip in,  like a needle in butter

would it wrinkle, like a blunt knife tomato

or would it resist, like a half cooked potato


Would it be simple or would it be hard to

plunge deep the steel, its passage legato

would it feel cold or would it feel hot

should I do it, or should I not?


Would it induce an arterial spurt

like Pollock upon my cobwebbed wall dirt

or would it just ooze and be warm wet and sticky

would she fall to her knees looking pallid and sickly


The dog nudges past which jolts back to reality

and someone shouts through the closed kitchen door

‘Mum, where’s the remote for the cable TV?’

I dry up the knife and place it back in the drawer


What if, what if, what if?


© What if? 2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm



Waiting For Morning to Come


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fe1d6a29efe7eb2fda4d7d081c5944d4The chastising tut

of the petulant clock

as I’m waiting

for morning to come


I stifle a yawn

in the hours before dawn

as I’m waiting

for morning to come


My pillow concrete

as my dreams beat retreat

and I’m waiting

for morning to come


Inky, stifling, air

at the ceiling I stare

and I’m waiting

for morning to come


I long for the sun

and this night to be done

as I’m waiting

for morning to come


© Waiting For Morning to Come 26.04.2015

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:



The Waiting Game


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I am waiting for my turn.

Playing the game,

forever stuck.

Do not pass GO,

do not collect £200.


I am waiting to see the blue Angel,

to battle the red square,

stroll down Park Lane

and stay a while…

at the Mayfair.


I am waiting for my Chance,

my, Get Out of Jail Free,

the bank error in my favour,

to win second place in – anything,

my inheritance.



I go back three spaces,

make general repairs to my green house,

pay my taxes – that’s fine,

for Doctor’s fee – read prescription.


I’m done with waiting!

Do I pay a £10 fine,

or take a Chance,

or do I wait –

two die?



© The Waiting Game 28.12.14

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture credit:



Morning Hare – Haiku


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Window mirrors reflection

Of wild morning hare

Departing into the brush


© Morning Hare 30.12.12

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm



Where this is, that becomes


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When faced with the woven richness

of each slipping second,

I am confounded by its

mystery, absurdity, improbability,

each a miraculously stitched detail

in varying shades of the same thread.


When  meditating

upon physiology of this being,

I can see how the headbone’s

connected to the backbone,

but asking how the heartbone’s

connected to the rainbow,

is a phenomenally fleeting fancy.


Where is the now of this very moment?

An ephemeral essence,

lingering upon the mind’s eye,

to be lost and witnessed,

more subtle than the breath of a bee,

more fragile than the heart of a butterfly

beating the odds – a winding down clock.


This is beyond a sense that is common,

and beyond the grasp of a humble hand;

it is the faint fragrance of a primal memory,

nurtured in the nursery,

played out by the quixotic,

protagonists in the playground of quotidian,

an egotistic boomerang.


So what is mine and mind?

where do I end and you begin?

To see the conundrum, the continuous koan

of life and death, of mind and breath;

do I want to be me or an Oak tree,

aren’t we the same? A branch of humanity,

seasoned with bittersweet reality.


© Where this is, that becomes  01.07.2013

by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm

Picture Credit:




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