Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Poem: Raining

Posted in Writing on January 24, 2026| 2 Comments »


Raining


I came home alone

on my own (again)

in the rain.

The room was cold

and bare – empty

without you there.

Mind dull with pain,

face wet and stained,

full of mascara and grief.

Of goodbye – disbelief!

Morning holds

nothing new.

The usual chaos

and boredom.

No you…



Frances Macaulay Forde @ 1972

#FrancesMForde  #HeadingleyLeeds  #Poetry  #1968Notebook  #POEMRaining

1st posted 2014: https://francesmacaulayforde.blog/2014/11/22/1968-notebook/

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Remembering mum.

Posted in Writing, tagged family, fiction, life, Love, writing on January 21, 2026| 1 Comment »

Remembering my dearest Mum on what would have been her birthday, posting a poem I wrote in honour of her when I was studying for my Creative Writing Degree.

A Found Memory
Fossil: Dry. Smooth? Not smooth – rough.
Light! Weighs nothing. I move my finger
to slip over the top end and find smooth.
A clean cut. A harsh chopping off.

A crack has appeared. It’s old,
dirt-encrusted, making the fissure
stand out from the beige of light
and dark mottled skin.

This portion of dead twig has been displaced,
into my warm, clutching hand.
It is bowed, perhaps with the weight
of brilliant blossom in fertile times.

But with age and exile,
the object bears no hint of past profusion.
No scar of leaf or flower.
Only grooves in dry, brittle skin.

Viewed from the smooth top,
a solid golden core betrays its strength.
Marred by a red blemish - perfect oval,
tree blood showing the pain of dissection.

Where did you come from, my severed arm?
You stood in proud grandeur.
High, looking down on sheep
grazing green grounds beneath.

Your ghostly mother, her children
housing nests, hollows, where new life begins.
Waving in the sweeping wind. Bowing
to earth’s elements. Dressing for season’s ball.

A young boy climbed your sturdy limbs
seeking adventure, chasing the sun
to knock a parrot’s nest – not caring
about fragile eggs of new families.

You remind me of my mother.
Her honesty. Loveliness.
No frills - just lines of age.
Her purpose obvious. To bear fruit.

The golden core of subtle strength was always known.
The ability to bend when winds buffeted.
Fissures evidence damage – results of force
against will or ability. Life wasn’t always easy.

My mother has been gone for a long time now,
but hugging this piece of dry, light branch,
comforts me. The memories of mother.
The naturalness of her protection.

I remember her hands at the end.
Dry, mottled, beige and brown.
Clutching mine in death. Cold.
The heat from my warmth

trying desperately to infuse life.

NOTE: 1st appeared in 'Hidden Capacity ~ a poet's journey" Pub. Ireland 2003.
#francesmacaulayforde #afoundmemory #dearestmum #poemformum #memorypoem #poetry #parentslove
36s

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Bagdad Ballet

Posted in Writing on January 16, 2026| 3 Comments »

Even though I wrote this about the Iraq War in 2003, the sentiment is still relevent – Peace for all.

Bagdad Ballet

A young boy sits, comfortable on his mother’s shoulders,
smile-excited in the sunshine, taking part in a parade.
He proudly thrusts the finger-sign of peace forward, 1,2.
Nice to see in an Iraqi child – family, bombardered by
‘Shock and Awe’ the night before. Forgiving. But the visual
is blitzed as it flashed onscreen, by the plastic Sten gun
held aloft, background-brandished in the child’s other hand.

Do you think the young lad plays in secret tunnels, knows
where to hide, where doubles walk to keep the myth alive, so
Saddam appears safe, un-dead, ahead of the big game plan…
the magic tricks to keep awake illusions of still-controlled-city.
Streetlights burn in defiance of invaders largesse. Traffic moves
through the night while bright glows explode in distant thunder.
Shelling shock waves shatter windows and shower shrapnel as

we sit on green comfy sofas, presumed warm and safe inside,
miles away, enjoy sunshine day protest for peace in Shannon.
How long before they come knocking on my door? Paybacks.
News channels have started their adverts again, war-ratings
down, who’s funding the theatre – the performance rhetoric
carefully scripted, now? Permission is NOT granted – You are
not allowed to speak for me or kill in my name! Stop War Now!

Frances Macaulay Forde 2003

#NoMoreWar #PeacePoem #POEMBagdadBallet #Slava Ukraini #PoemsForPeace #WarNoMore #POEMSlavaUkraini #DancingInKyiv #PeaceForUkraine #NYResolutions #FightOnHeroes #NoMoreWar #PrayForPeace #PeaceForAll

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Slava Ukraini!

Posted in Writing, tagged books, Christmas, fiction, short story, writing on December 31, 2025| 5 Comments »


Slava Ukraini! 

A short break in the nightly bombardment – peace
of sorts. A woman searches in the only corner left
of her destroyed bedroom open to the pitch black 
with just the hum of many generators (Thank God) 
breaking the reassuring silence. A gaping hole exposes 
all to the now-clear sky. No moon to light the enemy way.

Tonight she will wear bright colours, gather in Independence
Square and dance in defiance remembering her carefree 
youth. Her gay costume will fit because stress and hunger 
have been her constant diet. Somewhere under the rubble, 
it’s safe in a Novus bag. Unlike her bed.  She had cowered
in her bathroom, as soon as she heard distant explosions. 

A small smile of gratitude is quickly replaced by a feeling 
so strong when she thinks of family, friends who can’t join her.
Tears flood her eyes making it harder for her to find the outfit.
Reminding her of days spent sorting through piles of concrete, 
bricks, dust, broken furniture, trying to salvage anything useful…

Burnt and torn photos, bent cutlery.  Lives ruined, everyone 
desperate to find something they treasured so all is not lost.
A stray beam from outside sweeps the pile, catching the blue 
and yellow ribbons, embroidery on a blouse and woven sash
spilling from a plastic bag in the pile. Yes!  Her heart leaps. 

Back in the dark corner, fingers brush her hair, smooth her dress,
find the other shoe.  Feet carefully feel, down what is left of steps.
An old neighbour smiles in the darkness, he eyes the flower crown
with glee. “Slava Ukraini!”  Her heart swells with pride, thinking
of her son in the frozen fields, God knows where, defending their
precious land and its people. She replies proudly: “Heroiam Slava!”

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2025

#POEM:ChristmasInKyiv #DancingInKyiv #PeaceForUkraine #NYResolutions #FightOnHeroes #NoMoreWar #PrayForPeace #WarPoem #UkrainePoem #PoemForUkraine #PoemForPeace #SlavaUkraini

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Merry Christmas & Happy 2026!

Posted in Writing on December 24, 2025| 4 Comments »

This is the temporary Christmas Tree outside last year. It was too hot to sit inside with our decorations and Christmas Tree without air-con, so had to improvise – even though our garden looks like a desert in the 40 Deg C heat! We’re renovating and guess what? It’s going to be 41 Deg C tomorrow, so this time we’re taking no chances and decamping to my daughter’s air-con, south of Perth.

I wanted to wish you all a very happy and safe christmas, spent with those you love. May 2026 bring you all you need and maybe something you wish for too.

Thanks for reading my humble words.

(Photo taken down the road in 2006, on Hillarys Beach, for the Notebook Magazine story about how we reunited after 28 years.)

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Garry Marshall & ‘Love You Mum’

Posted in Writing on November 30, 2025| 3 Comments »

A generous man and great loss to entertainment. Long ago and far away, Garry awarded a short film made from my script ‘Love You Mum’ and offered to ‘see more’ from the filmmakers. Although his focus was on the young student filmmakers, a small moment of indirect personal validation from such an august and revered writer/producer, gave me great heart and kept my hopes alive. Thank you, Garry Marshall.

From The Hollywood Reporter:

http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/garry-marshall-dead-happy-days-912665

From 'Happy Days' to 'Mork & Mindy' to 'The Flamingo Kid,' Marshall was a true Hollywood legend.

And from The Guardian:

Garry Marshall: a genuine mensch who made everything improbably joyous.

Garry Marshall with Julia Roberts in 2010.

This short film of my script was produced and directed by students from Adelaide Centre for the Arts and awared more than 30 times by various festivals in the America, Canada and Australia. I will always treasure the very kind words from Garry Marshall – a director whose many films I have loved.

#FrancesMacaulayForde #GarryMarshall #LoveYouMum #MyScripts #ACAFilmStudents #Scriptwriting #FilmStudents

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Community Diary 1985

Posted in Writing on November 29, 2025| 2 Comments »

In 1985 Peter Aquilina got me a 6 week temp assignment as Secretary to the Managing Director Mike Dorsey (‘Daddy’ of No 96 fame) for a the regional TV Station in Tuart Hill, Mid-Western Television. After three days, he discovered I was also a Writer, Director and Producer of my own small projects through Sphinx Productions, out of hours. From then on, I wrote the news for Liam Bartlett, wrote and made in-house ads in the production studio and stood in for Prod Manager Pam Borain when she was away. Then when the ‘star’ of the studio flounced out one day, I was told to gather all who wanted to be on-air for an audition upstairs. The boss asked me to write and demonstrate a ‘for instance’ script, which I did and he told all the others to go – they didn’t even get a chance. I did NOT want to be on camera – hated every minute. The only thing that saved me was the banter Peter (my cameraman) kept up, trying to make me ‘lose it’ on-air! So here’s a laugh from way back when :o))