I am getting ready to go away for a few days, and my hand might have accidentally slipped into the biscuit tin due to the stress of packing. Before you know it - a poem popped up too!

The biscuits in the tin, 
Were making quite a din.
Betting who'd be sacked.
Betting who'd be packed.
The Holiday Tub
Was an Exclusive Club.
Bourbons in for sure!
Shortbread gave a roar. 
Hobnobs, not a doubt. 
What with all that clout. 
And as for Custard Cream,
S'all part of the dream.
What about Ginger Nuts?
They don't get many Tuts.
What about Jaffa Cakes?
Nah, they're nowt but Fakes!
And as for Jammie Dodgers,
They're practically the Lodgers. 
Excuse me, said Wagon Wheel. 
I think it's time for a Deal. 
The lid came up.
And up they shut.
As tiny hands came down.
And began to scoot around.

K M Pearce
Nurturing the Roots

Here's a poem I wrote to myself when I was revelling in being a recluse. [I still am, actually]

It isn't too much to say, 
How do you do today?
Or to give a little wink,
To a kid in garish pink.
Or to give a tiny smile,
At a really out there style.
Or to give a small nod.
To a geezer on his tod.
Or to give a mini hug,
To an angry-gentle thug.
Or to give a bijou blink,
To a skater at the rink. 
Or to give a titchy like,
To a poem with a bike [in the picture].

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

So here's a tiny little poem about how most of us probably felt about having to share treats when we were little. 

You can have half-each.
OH.
Inside I would quietly die. 
Half was never enough. 
For a growing girl like me. 


K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

I wrote this poem after having watched [admittedly the entirety of] a particularly terrifying crime series, when I had a sudden longing for a binge session of Murder She Wrote and Columbo to feel safe again. As my Scottish Grandmother would have said, 'I do draw the line!'

I liked the crooks and grannies,
From the 70's on the telly,
loveable ruffians most of them,
with brave old ladies,
telling them what's what.
Now it's not the same.
To quote those in the ageing game.
The criminals are cold, stabbing bastards.
Who go too far.
And the grannies.
Well.
They rub their eyes in despair.
Half the time.
Bring back the ruffians.
With loveable hearts.
Will Someone Please?
So we can at least Pretend.
That life really can be good again?

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

I took up experimenting with creative art several years ago, this is a picture I painted of an egg - cosmic, pieced together, complex. Kind of me in a way - mid-life onwards, speaking. Here's a poem I wrote about Eggs, standing in the kitchen of our old house, about 10 years old, feeling very special and privileged, that I had now learned the Secret of How to Fry an Egg Properly.

My Dad taught me,
Some Things.
One of them
was how to 
Fry an Egg.
The trick is to
flick the oil.
Onto the yolk. 
Just a little bit.
Not too much.
So an opaque
dome forms.
The wondrous yolk.
Stays soft and
runny inside.
They are the
Best Eggs.

K M Pearce
Nurturing the Roots

On the 17th June 1631, the 22 year Taj Mahal project began. So here's my own much smaller Monument to Love, particularly the experience of falling in love for the first time, which, of course, is the sweetest thing.

Thick draped cloth.
Pools everywhere.
I want to lie in it.
Become absorbed in. 
The creases.
Each one inviting a new place.
To hide.
And to be. 
Within the sultry curves.
Of beauty in. 
Fabric form.
Silk against.
Silky skin. 
The lightness. 
And darkness,
Of being
Young and
Dropping
Lightly 
Into 
The
Full
Heavy
Experience 
Of 
Love.

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

This was one of my earliest memories...so I wrote a poem about it. The poem is entitled Arson Snuffed Out, as I like to think the experience scared me off becoming one.

We had a beagle named Trigger.
When I was a little girl.
He curled up in my Dad’s work van.
Like a black, white and gold pastry.
One day, bored, I lit a match.
The flame roared quietly.
I was in trouble.
I snuffed it out beside his fur.
And waited for the howl.
He snored on.
I was reprieved.
But I never forgot.

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots