I  have always loved to write and remember taking pride in what seemed a long essay written in primary school,  the content of which cannot recall.  I became a copious letter- writer and kept in touch with family and friends  while living abroad for most of 1967 to early 1973. An avid traveller during these and subsequent years, the letters were long and detailed, both introspective and descriptive.
The first poems emerge during my 30’s born of the Sturm and Drang of romantic  relationship, and of the natural world, parallel with early explorations as a visual artist.  In the late 90’s/early 2000’s, after a long  hiatus, intermittent poems explore issues of oppression and social justice, again in parallel with, and sometimes incorporated into my art by varied means. By 2015  poetry replaces art-making as a sustained creative focus and I revel in the intellectual challenge as an unschooled write. As my confidence grows, I seek professional feedback and am offered a mentorship, a valuable learning experience which I embrace for a couple of years and through which I become increasingly self-critical and rigorous, developing a greater succinctness in my work.  The journey continues…




Glazed, yolk yellow
you startle from sand
no passport to declare

Your biting edges
tame now in my pocket,
sun slips behind hill
sea closer with each pulse

We head home,
safe landing for this refugee.

Bonney Bombach

A  LEANING LEARNING: for Peter Porter

And on another day
a meaning finds its place
from verbs and nouns and
syntax sewn with substance,
this madcap learning
leaning like Pisa’s tower
to leave us all 
in praise of Galileo

Bonney Bombach


Like blood, dark, rich,
chords pulse direct
from speakers to veins.
The music dips and soars,
a roller-coaster of
gravitas and playfulness

Fingers fly over steering wheel
arching,  flexing,
my childhood  teacher smiles
over my shoulder

Right foot planted on accelerator,
its twin taps into the swing of things.
My head bobs and nods on
invisible strings,
lips and  tongue conspire,
sound-waves rush the windscreen

Driving with Bach spins me to elation,
I’m pianist, percussionist, a diva!

Bonney Bombach

And from the air
I am a bird,
edge of land
a skein of light,
islands shrunk to lily pads
in skirts of pink
their ruffled edges benign

I trace a river snaking seaward,
slash though sky, soaring
higher on invisible wings,
shadows cast purple
on tapestry below
The roar of engine hauls me back
from windswept feathers
to tangled feet,
a baby grabs at air
The bird has flown, perhaps to
reach my destination before me
Bonney Bombach

  It was early in the piece
en plein air
paintbrush in hand,
eyes squeezed as if
that would offer clarity,
when I asked him
about the colour of shadows
though shadows have no substance
yet, circling round illusion
I came to think of it as purple,
as of sky, storm brewing,
when green screams.
Bonney Bombach

An unexpected wrenching
as you fold into that sleek machine,
each time you leave your
natal ground, a tidal suck,
the finale a new bravura song  
oh how I clap…
as unexpected as your arrival
hidden beneath sunny accoutrements
to surprise, until
in a cloud of revelation
you emerge to a chirruping chorus
and we four
in a summery Matissian  Danse
with olives, wine and laughter
oh how he would rejoice!
and you a clitter-clatter,
hands and arms wind-milling
Too soon  the gathering up of
baskets emptied of celebration 
time-robbed questions
packed away
And on your departure, raw edge
of your predicament contained, a
riveting moment as our spilling eyes lock.
Beneath us, sands shift and deepen
Bonney Bombach

IF: after Ellena Ferrante & Kate Tempest

  If my words could jostle,
clamour, jump and writhe, if
they would hurl and spring with
voltage, like the rapper- poet
who keeps her name or
Italy’s darling who doesn’t.
Prosaic comes cheap for a neophyte!
If only, if only….
They’ve rattled me
pulled me closer
tuned me in-
I’m germinating,
bolting at 45 degrees
If only
is now
and now is it.
I am
It is.
Bonney Bombach



Insufficiency grips,
the inexorable daily daily
stifles in the waiting,
wanting words – head-beating
doesn’t cut it.
From beach walk silence something stirs,
anything better than nothing.
On my desk
a Museo Picasso bookmark,
Retrat de Jacqueline.
His signature flares across the bottom,
booking.com and some password
scribbled sideways in biro.
Jacqueline’s scarf, a green waterfall,
hands chunky as blocks of wood.
Her shadow-self peeks from wary eyes
perhaps just looking within.
And within me, a voice:
Just get on with it, press ESC/
review/ renew/ click. 

No sideways scribble now,
I click straight to renew.


I’m all at odds.
Is it whirr of fan or
tap of rain on roof that’s
roused me from deep?
Its reeled me back to
love’s early shores,
your passion spent
my night-body sated.
On silken sheets
alone I drift toward sleep.
In the next room
the old typewriter clacks.
Your busy fingers
now play the keys
that spell out
the smell of sex.

Bonney Bombach

JUST ANOTHER MASTERPIECE: after Richard Diebenkorn
  What is that light
that speaks of landscape
but isn’t?
What the bands of colour
that contain and compress
as Rothko lurks nearby?
What the figure seated
fixed within herself,
limbs like semaphore,
a construct like a puzzle,
mirrors of our predicament?
A folding chair skews
across the surface in
a danse diagonale
toward a curlicued gate
where once stood Matisse.
The painting belies your
second thoughts, erasures;
it’s all present-tense vehement
and you, brave and focused
as a guerilla.

Bonney Bombach

CONJUNCTION: for my late father (after Seamus Heaney & Pablo Neruda)
daylight still a dream away,
an alphabet of poets
rests fat in my hand.
Finger lick, last page flick,
nothing grabs. 
As I sink slow toward weary
Seamus leaps from page,
language sparking – sky-whisk
and bristle of the once barren tree
to tear-duct meltdown of
its crabapple jelly.
We’re drawn in tandem,
he to his earthlife Pablo
as he spreads the jelly thick,
tastebuds ablaze.
With what gusto dear Pablo
you’d savour such flavour!
And I, at my father’s funeral
reciting Neruda-
return me, oh sun, to my wild destiny
remembering the Araucaria
he planted, wind alive
in his beating heart.
Bonney Bombach
*Seamus Heany, To Pablo Neruda in Tamlaghtduff
*Pablo Neruda, Oh Earth, Wait For Me


Cock crows from lush thicket,
through morning light a dove
weaves its call.
Yesterday a different weaver. 

Seamstress first
she measures with care,
cotton bud cleanses
she marks in red. 

 A hairdresser now, she
combs, parts, gathers and twists
to skilful blond Bantu knots,
the beauty of his
unclothed head revealed. 

Delicate as a bird,
she scoops the paste-
spatula meets scalp at
each red point and, like
a weaver, her small nimble fingers
gather and part fine strands of
purple, green, yellow and white.

One by one they describe
a narrative of wires I cannot
fathom, each chosen strand
pressed into paste,
my lover’s head now
a strange bird of paradise.

Bonney Bombach



Something shifted
in that intimate place;
we who loved him and
the halo-ed stranger, gifted,
this angel at our table, full of grace
ginger curls tangle, no fear, no
wrangle with dying and death
she won my heart in          
but a breath.

His washed body sweet again     
breath shallow, no struggle no pain,
hair of silken silver brushed
gently from forehead;
unknowing unrushed.

Beloved wife of sixty eight years
sleeps fragile foreseeing the end,
enduring without tears,
keeping her stoic vigil.

Tending him, breath not yet stilled
the  room fills with talk, even laughter.
With finest instinct, to bid last farewell,
en route another ‘daughter’.

A pallor rises, he slips without warning,
an incredible lightness of being.
Our final embraces coupled with tears
a vast span of years now behind him.

I plant a garden on his breast of ferns,
flowers, photos and feathers, even
sea shells from northern weathers.
And confections for sweet-tooth hungering. 

Now wakened, newly widowed,            
of her former self already a shadow
frail as a bird she comes to his death bed
sparing of words, yet heard.

A daunting test, she has given her best
my mother has lost a precious treasure.
Resignation meets sorrow in  equal measure

Strangely, something unexpected
about his face detected.
As we gather in a deluge of love
an enigmatic smile, as if reflected
from Mona Lisa or perhaps the Buddha,
as if a miracle, we all feel protected

My father would be amused-
an atheist does not believe in
oracles or miracles. 
Still he smiles upon us as we gather
hearts spilling.
The morning unfolds
like a river.

Bonney Bombach