Themes of Time and Memory

I have always been fascinated with relationship time and memory. Memories seem suggestible, subjective and are colored by emotion. Can we ever fully trust them? Are they able to persist in their own reality?

What if memories could be record by the state for monitoring and social control? What if you were offered the possibility of reliving your most precious memory – would you take it? And at what price? These are some of the questions I am attempting to answer as I write my new Sci-Fi novella, Memory Stalker…

The original idea for this came from my poem Pure Perfection:

Pure Perfection

It happens without warning,

The perfect moment, second, instant,

Fleetingly before it vanishes;

Grasping at its shadow,

Feeling its tenuous texture,

Luxuriating in the surreal essence,

Of past experience.

If only you could preserve it;

Then revive its sleeping princess,

With a stealthy lover’s kiss,

Back into your consciousness,

As if it were never lost,

Abandoned or forgotten,

Only, waiting to be recaptured.

In times of deep distress,

Of disinterest and disaffection;

Relive those precious moments.

Awaken the taste of madeleine cake,

And resuscitate your past,

Time remembered, time forgotten,

Memories intricately reconstructed.

Remembrance of lives once lived,

Of innocent, childhood tales,

And seductive lovers past,

Both saved and savored,

Sweet and persuasive.

Time can captivate and fascinate,

In its pure perfection.

First published in the Screcch Owl 2015

First Eve

First Eve


I adored it

When called me

Your very first Eve,

Entering your

Mystical kingdom,

Where I imagined

I would reign supreme!

Relying on my sensuality

To enchant and seduce you,

Imagining my poor,

Pawned innocence,

Could keep you content.

But deep in the burning heart

Of your abandoned desires,

You had already lost,

The love of your life;

It was never me, whom

You craved in your darkest dreams-

Your vanquished heart,

Having already been stolen

By a deceiving demoness,

Who had disappeared

From your enchanted life,

In a tornado of torturous abuse.

I can no longer believe,

That I was ever truly yours;

I suspect that you lied and deceived me:

I could never be, your very first Eve,

When your disintegrating heart,

Had already dissolved,

After losing your demonic lover, Lilith:

If I were, somehow, able to decipher your pain,

Must you mourn her for all of eternity?

First published at The Screech Owl 2015

Wild Montana

When I was younger there always seemed to be a western on TV in the background.  As a little girl if I had been good all day, I got to stay up for an extra hour before bedtime to watch Bonanza or The High Chaparral. It was an innocent time, when no-one even questioned why our heroes were shooting at the Indians… that’s just the way it was; and someone had to be the bad guy.

As a teenager I moved on to Alas Smith and Jones, and what fun they had cracking safes and robbing trains! Eventually I becoming a fan of the coolest guy to ever wear a cowboy hat; the amazing Clint Eastwood, who is said, never to have had that poncho washed for the entire spaghetti western series… just to keep in character.  imagine how  uncomfortable that was, in all of that heat?

So my love of guys in cowboy hats continues to this day, but it all began with a certain mister Gable and one of my all-time favourite movies, Boomtown with Claudette Colbert and Spencer ‘nice- but totally resistible’ Tracey. But enough of this waffle! Here is my own cowboy themed poem Wild Montana…

Wild Montana

Here in the present,

Living in the past,

Last week,


Back there again,


For the sarcasm to start.

Her spiteful eyes, gleaming,

Vicious mouth screaming,

Wife, life, wife.

My lover, he says,

He’s leaving for Montana.

Abandoned yet again!

My life is secretly suspended,

While waiting for his calls.

Not long now, he murmurs,

But, she glares back,

Feverish with fury,

Destroying the last seconds,

Whilst he’s still with me.

I think of Montana,

Wild and untamed.

Seeing photos he sends me,

I feel a little closer,


He’s out there –

Drinking and riding,

Wild horses and women,

Like Clark Gable –

Without a cowboy hat.

He calls me, desperately;

Needing money to escape,

Will he really leave her?

Naturally, he says.

And for a split second,

I believe him,

Buying back into the old dream,

Of wild, untamed Montana:

It feels a lot like love,

But it’s as real as his cowboy hat.

First published in contemporary Literary Horizon 2014 in English & Romanian

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