My Mind

Personal website of M.G. Daniel. Sharing poetry, my writings, snippets from my life and whatever's on my mind.

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Exchange is no robbery

May I propose: will you..emm…er…? Barter away a little of your money – very little – for my ‘fair trade’ unique brand name poetry?  My ‘Mindfield’ eBook is available on Amazon and we can get the deal going as soon as you click here 

THANK YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT!!! Here’s a bonus gift of a chunk of a poem from Mindfield, in appreciation:




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Today is ‘Happy Day’

Because 7 is my lucky number! October my ‘delights’ month before November and Lady, living and cherished mother, Saturday favourite
day of the weak — a confluence like no other.

Feel the joy, as Paul Laurence Dunbar did in his Merry Autumn poem:





The leaves are still quite green where I am, but that’s ok. Colour them smiling.autumn-209479_640

I am not complaining about joy and warmth on my decreed ‘Happy Day’ that falls close to Thanksgiving Day.  Good morning everyone. Enjoy the day, and some great poems about October.

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High Horse Fall

By Melania Daniel

Fall Bike Mountain Bike Accident Fell Down

Bruised and broken is learning

What life is really about;

All this longing come to nought,

All this aching discomfort


Ends in unsated yearning

Of fine youth turned stale and stout;

They whom misfortune has sought,

They moored in a stormy port


To know the grace of earning

In voices that softly shout;

The way life’s victories are fought,

The racers slowed to a trot.


For information on how to read more of my poems, please visit my writings page.


Is a poem ever too old?


Harvey dredged up a hurricane poem from my late teens scribbling. Last night, watching video from Texas made me go ‘wait a minute, I did write a poem after Hurricane Allen’ — my first experience of the devastation of these storms. I am sharing a draft I marked as version 1 (ver 1 in image) – there is a version 2 but it shows no evolution; only the line breaks are different. I may  have forgotten about the poem in the swirl of cleaning up, clearing fallen things, having a much longer commute time to and from school due to the condition of the roads, rebuilding and generally making do that took over our lives for some time after.

Harvey, in its early days, was headed straight for my homeland of Saint Lucia, but turned away at last minute.  I am wondering if this poem is too old to try to rescue. And new sensitivity about what is looting following a disaster has me pondering the ending. Anyway, here it is.

Paradise Found  (ver 1)
                                            – Melania Daniel
That night, at nine o’clock

Our clattering roof sent us jolting out of sleep.

Up in time to witness an abduction, we heard

The scream of clouds being dragged out of the sky

Into the vortex of a cyclone; with every bang

Our eyes, hopeless nails, held down the roof.


But only for a while.

The wind, like a merciless tyrant

Showing contempt for our huddled forms

Soon yanked it off, the inquisitive sky

Blinded us with a spotlight of lightening.

When all thought it over the stars tried to peep out

To see what the commotion was about,

A sudden gust spat its rage in their eyes,

A blackness so sudden descended as if

The stars had shut their eyes fast like falling trapdoors.


We saw next day trees plucked from the back of earth

Like chicken feathers and everybody’s business

Drawn out of homes like entrails; headless palms

Stacked in rows like victims of a medieval inquisition,

Innocence sent to the guillotine for just being there.

Battered faces of villages, broken branches

Of family trees bent over, moaning lost ones.

Beheaded houses groaning, liberated rooftops

Menacing their former masters.


The day was smashed to seconds

From metropolis factories and friendly neighbours,

We could only live one at a time.

Paradise was lost in the gale

And found


(Awe and ugly of a beached whale)

An instant garden of Eden blossomed

Carpeted with fallen fruit,

Cultured beauty destroyed

All walked at one with their nakedness.



Where all the men were of one calling,

Carpenters rebuilding the spirit of togetherness,*

And all the women gatherers

Rounding up possessions rejected by the storm,

Making head counts of the children.


Sifting through the workday

Ground to a halt

To find permanence,

I saw looters

Who had proclaimed the island

One vast self-service store.

I pondered

Was paradise found?

(UPDATE: The line marked * is taken from version 2 and substituted for “Architects redesigning the spirit of togetherness” of version 1)


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Can you please buy my book

If you have spare change and want to buy light poetry (I’ve been told by some readers)  for your summer reading then I will appreciate your support to no end.  You can find the eBook version of my Mindfield on Amazon.


Also, my Articles page has loads of samples of my journalism work.

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The fool’s creed?

I didn’t know of Padraic (Patrick) Pearse as a poet until a couple of days ago. I am fool-140229_640.jpgguessing that name is not popular in the UK at a time like this – given recent events –  and his poetry may not be presented for public celebration.  Regardless, I read and was touched by his poem, The Fool. Perhaps it speaks to an interior conversation I have, about when to accept the fall as something that goes with the territory, brush the dust off and keep going in the same determined direction, or decide it’s time to pack it in, give it up, drop it down, let it go…and so on. Gwaaad, I have been foolish, as in this chunk of Pearse’s poem:

Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save;
Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all;