Posted in Poetry

Song of Myself (1892 version)

By Walt Whitman


I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.
Posted in Poetry

Creative Portfolio (2)


It may be spoon fed to you before

you can choose, like a need.

Honeybees feed on dandelions

after a long bad winter, but this

is no nutritious food. A creeping

buttercup weed, sneaky undesirable

pest, secretly sprouting. Fast growing

deep roots you can’t see. Extermination

is necessary or it will take over a flower

bed. It’s tiring! Guilt binds you, keeps

you in the past, takes over thoughts

and feelings. It’s a hard battle that you

have to keep fighting without rest –

being vigilant and attacking at the slightest sign.


This is the second poem of my sequence about depression. Guilt has been the main culprit in most of my mental health issues; my parents gave it to me, not intentionally for sure, they thought they were doing the right thing and they definitely did the best they knew. I have made peace with them a long time ago because I love them, but I hate that they did this to me and my work in the last few years has been to get rid of this guilt and keep my life flourishing with feelings of self-love and worthiness.

Posted in Poetry

Creative Portfolio



There’s a woman staring

at me. I don’t know her.

I’ve seen her before

playing different roles,

wearing different costumes,

answering to different names.

She laughs in awkward moments.

Speaks without thinking.

Learns useless facts.

Loves without measure.

Cares for everyone.

Smiles easily, frowns easier.

Sometimes she runs around

like a drunken chicken.

Dances away her fears

and sings out of tune,

if she thinks no one is watching.

Often, she cries herself to sleep,

lonely tears. Once upon a time,

she had hopes and dreams,

but now she has no future.


This week, I am starting to post here the poems of my creative portfolio. I have completed a sequence of poems based on my experience with depression and anxiety for my creative project. ‘Mask’ is the first poem of the sequence and describes the beginning of that painful experience. If anyone of my readers can identify with this, please drop me a line with your thoughts. Or if you know of anyone who has experienced something similar, share the poem with them. I will post a poem of the sequence every Monday and, as you will see, there was a time when I didn’t know who I was anymore and I thought my life was over, but things did get better and stayed better.

I am also hoping for some feedback, any suggestions that can make these poems better.

Thanks for reading 🙂

Posted in Poetry

International Women’s Day

My Daughter


She’s a chair. Not a comfy one,

but a corrective and supportive chair.

Not the kind of chair to sit and relax,

but at times you’ll feel the benefits.


She’s a sunny day, not too hot, just

right. The sun gently kissing your skin

and the night breeze making you feel

lazy, wanting to stay out until late.


She’s chicken soup. Good for the body

and soul. Whenever you feel down,

she’ll pick you up will carry you all

the way until you’re fit again.


She’s a pair of bright yellow wellies, rubber

duck shaped. When under the rain, no

matter how dark, cold or wet, she’ll remind

you of better days,

making you smile.


I dedicate this day to my daughter, who is an inspirational younger woman and makes me very proud. I wrote this poem for her in 2014.

Posted in Poetry

Red Clogs

My most memorable possession as a child,

was a pair of clogs. Of course it had to be shoes!

They were red with a black stripe and were on

my feet all the time, day after day! Those clogs

had the courtesy of moulding to my feet. But

I also appreciated the fact that they were so

easy to put on; when you’re five, not having

laces in your shoes is clearly a bonus. I would

get up every morning and put those clogs on.

They were like gloves but for the feet. Once

my mother put them in the bin, but I went back

to rescue my favourite shoes, and started

wearing them again. Although they were deformed

and almost certainly smelly, they were still perfect

to me. I have photos of a five year old me wearing

those clogs. I look superb in my flowery skirt with a red

and white top, but the real honour came from my red clogs.


Today I decided to publish one of my first poems, what I like about this poem is that he reminds me of the simpler and easier days of childhood. Whithout judgements and when it was so easy to feel superb.

Posted in Poetry

Wintry Horizon

It was an icy winter day, my parents handed

me to a stranger. We went on a train, to another land.

As I waved them goodbye, I didn’t know

I wouldn’t see them again, after that day.

I wouldn’t come home after school to my

mother’s honey and cinnamon cake, ever.

I wouldn’t be doing my homework at our

kitchen table listening to her singing

while cooking dinner. Nor would I smell

the herbal shampoo in her hair when she kissed me

goodnight. I would never see my father again,

reading his newspaper while smoking pipe.

In this other land, the house didn’t have the sweet smell

of pipe tobacco and no one was afraid. We went for walks

in the park every Sunday afternoon. We were happy and free!

But I can still see my parents becoming smaller and smaller

before they disappeared in the wintry horizon forever!

Posted in Poetry


I know you want to

help. But, 

when I’m sad,

don’t try to make me laugh.

When I’m low,

don’t try to cheer me up.

When I look fed up,

don’t try to solve my 


I don’t want solutions,

I want to be miserable 

and cry my sorrows.

I want to feel my grief 

deep inside,

and the pain, all of it.

Yes, I know there’s 

a hole on the sofa, 

with the shape of my 

bottom. And I know 

day time TV

is depressing,

I don’t need a friend to

tell me that! And no,

I don’t want to go

to the cinema!

If you stay, 

stay in silence, 


And if I speak,

just listen.

By Anabela V.
Posted in Poetry

Odd sock seeking soulmate


Pure cotton, soft feel, sky blue,

size 11, men’s, like new.

Well-travelled, familiar

with business environments.

Open to change – sports or

perhaps the outdoors.

If you’re out there, likewise lost

and bored on your own,

don’t be shy! Get in touch, even

if you’re silk, wool, nylon, other

colour or shade of blue.

I’m sick of being the only sock

left at the bottom of the basket.

I dream of slipping into shoes,

boots or trainers, feeling the leather

or whatever material, absorbing

the sweat and get smelly with another.

By Anabela V.


I’ve been intrigued by this mystery of odd socks for a long time. I mean, why is it that they only disappear one of each pair? And where do they end up? Who takes them? I’ve imagined all sorts of explanations over the years. This poem is me accepting the odd sock reality. Keep Calm and Wear Odd Socks. What can I say?!

Posted in Poetry



I know you want to

help. But,

when I’m sad,

don’t try to make me laugh.

When I’m low,

don’t try to cheer me up.

When I look fed up,

don’t try to solve my


I don’t want solutions,

I want to be miserable

and cry my sorrows.

I want to feel my grief

pulling me down,

and the pain, all of it.

Yes, there’s a hole

on the sofa,

with the shape

of my bottom. And

yes, day time TV

can make you

want to cut

your wrists.

I don’t need a friend to

tell me that! And no,

I don’t want to go

to the cinema! No,

I don’t want to go

out for coffee.

By Anabela V.


I wrote this poem during depression. Sometimes you feel so miserable and you don’t want to feel any different. Your friends and family want to help, to cheer you up but you don’t want to be happy, you just want to feel the pain. Eventually you’ll come out of it, but that can’t be forced by no other than the self.

Posted in Poetry

Wedding Planning

Just because you’re getting married, you don’t

have to turn into a moron. Rather than ranting

at your nearest and dearest, call efficiency girl

to the rescue – your budget won’t stretch. Over

the years, how you imagined it to be, you

might want to cut down a special treat. Yes,

completely natural to have your eyes set on

a special gown. Refuse to be influenced by the

multitude of beautiful things you see on Pinterest.

Choosing bridesmaids can be a minefield, how do

you approach the idea? Picture the scene: a

bohemian wedding? Current and decadent?

Gourmet food stations with a sense of theatre –

making the eating experience fun for your guests.

Celebrations going into the night, truly unforgettable.

By Anabela V.


I thought this was a good fun poem to start my collection here. This is a found poem, made up of collages from women and wedding magazines. It was my first found poem and I had lots of fun doing it, so it won’t be my last. This is something I will be experimenting with often in the future.

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