Siren Whispers

Siren Song


Every moment

It defies explanation or definition
yet persists — 
days when it is there, quietly
sitting in the corner
waiting to speak, 
other times

words filling me
with a rush –
images vivid in tone and texture.
What is it that calls my pen to action
my being to yearning …

Published on Medium: P.S. I Love You for Poetry Sunday

Find the complete version here.


©  2020 Christine Kelly

All Rights Reserved.

Photograph by author

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Writing true

writing is like slipping
off your clothes 
in the waning light of day.
exhalation on a sigh.
Most often it is retching
in solitude, a heaving up
of your insides.
Results that are never pretty,
generally painful
but necessary …

Published on Medium: P.S. I Love You for Poetry Sunday

Find the complete version here.


©2020 Christine Kelly
All Rights Reserved.

Photograph by the author



Emotional bloodbath

Quite often when I write it is what I am feeling intensely at the moment and the words spill like blood from a fresh, deep cut.

When I revisit those same words, a day, a month, a year later, the emotions can still feel like a wound that has not been cauterised and I am transported back to the moment my thoughts were bared.

The feelings are not the same, but I am unable to cast an indifferent eye upon them. I find myself gazing at them from a safe distance,  peering over the rim of that abyss, no desire to wade in, hip deep, to the pain.


Copyright ©SirenSong1208

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The time spreads before me,

shining and restless.

I count the days left in my head,

my smile widening as I think of the plans I’ve made.

My adventure.

Will she be everything I anticipate,

the smells,

the sounds,

that my soul hungers for?

I think she will.

She waits for me,

eager to embrace me once again.

It’s been too long since I’ve felt her touch,

heard her voice,

and been reduced to silence by her beauty.

Each day will be rendered with a luster

I cannot find elsewhere

and which I will carry with me when I leave,

leaving a part of myself

on her shores.


Copyright © SirenSong1208

All rights reserved.

Photograph taken by SirenSong1208






Penned in my blood

Parts of my soul

Etched onto paper

An offering of myself

Each day

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You are the Poem


You are the poem

Whose metre is in time

To my beating heart

Each word

A tendril

That wraps itself around me

Binding me close

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Drips onto the Page


The rain

Drip, drip, drips

From leaf to leaf

In much the same way

My thoughts and feelings

Drip onto the page

Before me…

Photo by sirensong1208

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The Art of Writing – A Musing

The art of writing…

Expunging strong feelings

Either to enunciate their importance

Or to eradicate them from our system

Either way

They are given a voice…

And must be heard

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I Love the Rain


I love the rain

The sounds, the smells

But today those things

Provide little comfort to me

Along with the scent of damp earth

Is the scent of missing things

Of melancholy

And loss

Along with the soft sound of the rain

Hitting the pavement

Is the thudding in my heart

Of panic

Photo by Bator Horvath