Sunday, 10 December 2017


the thief of words
the lurking killer
of layered worlds

let us deny it
welcome the liar
make space for it
by that inner fire

come, my dear
pour that tea
let us set aspired
desired dreams aside,

dulled but free
we have no schemes
to shatter, no stars
that matter out of reach.

pour that tea, and look!
the tea-leaves scatter
porcelain slips and
heart's fragility will shatter


Saturday, 9 December 2017

And so is science servant to Art, a follower and not a leader;
because we crazies can see the curving shape of a galaxy as a lovely equation in blue, and when mathematics fails to define that hue, physicists kneel to poets.


i skipped the rain
slipped past
the teardrops
of heaven's pain

i fled again
under opened palms
of sheltering hands
of loving friends

i fled but met
that pain again
as memory was gain
again, again a mad refrain

come back oh rain
sweet sour rain and soak
that dead dry tongue
of loss that pain
made liquid lyric
song again


Tuesday, 31 October 2017

For Dorothy and the dudes in Oz - HAPPY HALLOWEEN FROM THE WICKED WITCH!


"Ding-dong the witch is dead..."
Now that song
Always confused
Me a bit:
Which ding
Or witch dong?

Did the witch
Ding the dong?
Or did the dong
Ding the witch?

Is it me or is it all
Vaguely obscene?
Like dignified Asians
Unfortunately named
Long Duck Wong?

Was the witch
the Dong?
Or being Donged
On the aforementioned

Let me however clarify
One little thing:
I have nothing against
Dings, or dongs
Prongs or wongs;
Be they shorts or longs.
Nothing! I swear!
I'm an equal
Opportunity dinger...

I fact ,one
Of the nicest things
A man ever said to me
Was: "I miss your ding"

(It's actually not
As exciting
As it may seem;
Or as thrilling
As it may sound
But it was sweet
And quite profound.)

What can I say?
My life is actually
Quite limited;
Rather like
A Munchkin

Which brings us
Back to the story
Of the poor, poor witch
Lying dead in a ditch
Crushed like a louse
Under a huge house?

It just reeks
Of overcompensation
On the part of
Those little
Munchkin pricks
Mulling over their teeny
Weeny little prongs...
And singing
In a joyful throng...

Now that we are on the subject
Of uncomfortable truths?
I have serious doubts
About Dorothy too.

Come on!
Three guys in the woods?
And TOTO???
All you girls and boys
Into the whips
And other sick toys
Know that Ruby Slippers
Really means...

That's right!
Little Miss Dorothy
Wasn't quite
Miss Purity!

She was probably
With the Tin-Man
Denting the ding
And having a fling
With the Scare-Crow
And how about the Lion?
That wasn't Aslan out there!

But back to our
Original analysis...
If the poor witch
Was dinged to death
By the dong...

The witch was dinged
To inglorious death
By the dong
Of Long Duck Wong!

So all along
They were detailing
In some obscure code
The last incursion
Of the American-Asian war?
And how they
Evened the score?

And here I was
Maliciously thinking
That they were hinting
That that Bitch
Of a Witch was just
Another cheap whore!

Manuela Cardiga

I'm stirring my cauldron tonight
For the magical witches' brew
That makes things right;
The perfect mix for Samhain-Night.

So if you are travelling,
Soaring high on the wings
Of the World's Wind
Or skipping through the dog-eared
Collection of regrets
In the back of your mind?

Watch out, because you see,
I'm stirring my cauldron tonight
For the magical witches' brew
That makes things right;

And whatever you wish for
May just come to life
And bite you
On your unready behind...

Manuela Cardiga

Friday, 29 September 2017


The wind
that whines
and twines
around the edges
of my mind
rises at twilight.

I hate that
hollow sound
that howl
an almost growl
I hate the constant
endless sound

I wish it would
die down
fade away
let me stay
in my silence,
my prayer.


Wednesday, 27 September 2017

Autumn is coming...

Today a sharp sour scent of chill and sadness blew in across the bay, defying the high blue sky. Autumn. Autumn comes. Strangest and saddest of all seasons. How I hate it.

Oh Spring smells dizzy and absinthe-green with drunken hope, bubbly with buds bursting into tremulous dances of desire; and Summer is ripe, rich spice and sultry heat - slow with languorous, swollen-lipped fertility...

Winter now, Winter is silence. Hushed whispers of rain, white silence, cleansing purity of cold, scourging that voluptuous sin from our skin, blanching us. Every Winter we are parchment patiently scoured for a new beginning. Each Winter is a season of prayerful fasting, waiting, waiting for the Sun to come again. Winter I can love.

But Autumn I loathe. Autumn is an overblown and blowzy whore, clad in scraps and rags of scarlet and gold - pretending to a lushness long gone. Autumn is a sad slattern, dropping colour, dripping wet putrescent leaves to be mangled by a million feet.

Autumn smells of death and decay. That frantic last dance of Indian Summer, that pretense of ripe apples and syrupy wine is a lie. Lean closer. Under that sweetness is the grey and bitter exhalation of decay.

So burn Autumn in a pyre, pile up high those slippery maggoty logs, the limp and viscous leaves. Burn it. Let fire devour that lie. Let Winter come and bring that grey and gentle mourning sky.
And so let us weep rain, and know that through that pain, we learn to hope again.