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I can stand in the middle of São Paulo surrounded by traffic, voices, engines, music. Yet experience an extraordinary inner quiet. I find this happening often as I walk these chaotic streets. That’s not to say they are always chaotic. The suburbs can be quiet, with only birds, rustling trees and my own thoughts. Sometimes there is no escape from them. Then there is my other home. I can stand alone on a Scottish hillside, with almost no sound at all, while my mind is deafening

I was in a crowded place In a room with no one there You came into my life You came with things to share Music, pictures and poetry The things we both adore A written word, a soulful song And links to so much more I lost love, before it had begun I lost love, thought you were the one But found a friend, loyal & so true Yes, I found a friend, the day that I found you Daytime’s here, it slowly passes As I am waiting for the night For that’s when we’re together That’s the time t

They dropped into the caissons deep Where iron walls held back the sea Mud and rock beneath their feet Where every breath came painfully The briggers walked the narrow beams No harness there to stop their falls Icy winds tore at their skins Above the tidal squalls Iron in the blood steel in the sky We built a giant so it never dies Red as the dawn strong as the tide The Forth Bridge stands and we stand by its side Young lads worked with red hot steel With rivets flying

As the darkness pulls me in, an unseen heavy load weighs me down. For someone who has always lived with a glass‑half‑full outlook, this feels like unfamiliar territory, a place I never expected to walk. Months of ongoing health problems seem to have worn down the edges of my optimism. For the first time I’m confronting something that feels heavier than sadness. I have had low days before, moments of feeling miserable or fed up, but nothing resembled this sinking fog. And it

Written after rehearsals with Crumbling Jack, a band I was in. Alan Reid, the founder, made a comment and this is what came from it We turn up for the gig Anticipation high Worked hard for weeks In rehearsalWhere sets were arranged And arranged againIs the structure right? We think it is Up ‘til this momentIt really has been fun Playing out the scenes Of poetry and songKnowing that…. They are good Or Are they? We think they are In our minds We have heard The laughter The sing

Oh gather ye shadows of clans long ago The tartan’s once blazing now faded and low Their echoes still haunt through valley and glen Of honour and heart in the swords of brave men MacDonalds and Frasers, McLeods were all brave The Robertsons stood where the white banners wave Camerons, Gordons, McGregors they came All fought for a Kingdom through blood and through flame The clans showed their courage their banners held high For freedom and honour they’d fight till they die

This was written after hearing someone talk about being held in dark places but always pushing to get to the light. It was also a reflection of my own feelings as I went through a tough period of an invisible illness. Darkness hangs over me Not always an enemy It walks beside me for years Knowing my footsteps My fears My rhythms But then again Sometimes it turns on me It locks me in windowless rooms Hallways that circle back on themselves Paths with walls too high to climb

This poem was written as I found myself awake in hours meant for sleep. It is my attempt to capture that feeling of the strange comfort of darkness, the confusion of tired senses and mysteries that breathe in the shadows Quiet dreams in a sleepless city How can that be true? Can you dream when there’s no sleep? Of course…. they’re called daydreams But here It is not without sleep For sleep is everywhere No matter the noise Or The silence Neon lights that stutter in the

After a discussion, I was thinking about freedom and what it means, the phrase 'The freedom of your mind is what liberates you' popped into my head so I decided to write a song In a room that has no windows thinking the world was small But a spark rose up within you saying you must break the wall You do not need permission to unlock doors inside Take that step and move forward that’s what you must decide So rise up and redefine everything you thought you knew Think hard think

Living with Ménière’s disease means living with a world that can tilt, spin, roar, or collapse without warning. It’s an invisible illness, one that hides behind ordinary moments and arrives like a storm no one else can see. I wrote a poem titled, When the Room Lets Go, about this experience and you can find it in an earlier post on this site. Many people living with Meniere’s struggle with staying positive. It is incredibly difficult because when an attack hits, fear and drea

(In 3 Movements) I have been thinking about creating a piece that relates to the title of my site. I finally came up with something that is written over three movements. I hope you enjoy. Movement I My mind is a quiet archive of unfinished lines and verses ideas that grew in the dark waiting for me to return Melodies that started to rise then fell back into the quiet but still humming there like a memory of sound Poems that broke off mid breath but kept breathing small roots

Sitting quietly with a book the room breathing softly around me A fullness rises in my ears a warning I know too well Oh no here it comes A sudden rush a whoosh that tears through the stillness like a tornado splitting the air open Vertigo unfurls and my eyes lose their place in the world everything spins a thousand miles an hour I feel myself perched at the edge of a cliff waiting for gravity to make its choice Nausea climbs and I try to stand try to reach the bathroom holdi

After almost six months of creativity, I was thinking about how I previously struggled with my writing. I came up with this Sitting quietly in a room A book full of ideas A thousand kingdoms trapped in ink Poems, songs and stories Legends, fables and facts Where do I start? Have I got the skill? Is my turn of phrase good enough? Doubt lingers and takes hold Sapping the energy out of every bright idea Fight Challenge Every negative thought Finally The writing starts Pages crum

Alan Hewitson Today I woke up to news that I did not want to accept. A sentence that should not have been spoken for years to come. It hit me hard. My brain fogged over. My heart felt like it was splitting in two. One of my dearest friends had departed. No illness, no warning just a sudden parting that made my world tilt. After that call, my mind began replaying our times gone by, especially our first real encounter. It rose to the surface immediately, as if my memory knew ex

Isso foi escrito como uma peça curta baseada em uma discussão na sala de aula ATO I – Abertura do Debate Cenário: Sala de aula moderna em uma escola pública de São Paulo. Há um cartaz na parede com os dizeres. Heróis ou Colonizadores? Ecos do Brasil Colonial. Cadeiras em semicírculo. Um projetor está ligado, exibindo imagens de mapas coloniais. Luz: Clara, ambiente de dia. Sons suaves de alunos conversando ao fundo. Professor Silva (Ergue a voz com calma e autoridade) Bom dia

This was written as a short play around a classroom discussion ACT I – Opening the Debate Setting: A modern classroom in a public school in São Paulo. A poster on the wall reads: Heroes or Colonizers? Echoes of Colonial Brazil, Chairs arranged in a semicircle. A projector displays images of colonial maps. Lighting: Bright, daytime atmosphere. Soft background sounds of students chatting. Professor Silva(Raises his voice calmly and with authority)Good morning, class. Today we’l

Oh, you up there looking down on me What do you see Do you think I look back at you In awe In fear No I look at you in pity I’ll tell you why You see You built walls To keep me out But instead They keep you in Trapped inside that bubble Where you were taught to look down Even before you could look around We live under the same sky Breathe the same air We may seem different creatures But Our blood is the same Hearts beat the same rhythm Even if out of sync One day You may need

From the cobbled streets of Edinburgh town To Sao Paulo nights where the stars fall down I carry two skies in the beat of my chest One wild with wind, one warm with zest And every time I cross that ocean wide I feel both places pulling at my stride Let the pipes start calling through the samba sway Let the drums keep rolling like a Highland day Raise the rhythm high, let the two worlds run Samba in the Highlands, pipes in the sun Two hearts dancing, beating as one Samba in th

Flowing curves A waist cinched tight Along the slender neck Silver veins taut with held breath Air is heavy and trapped In the hollow of her chest Until Your hands, unable to resist Trace the smooth grain Sounds awaken in the resonance A beautiful voice finally exhales The room fills with a ringing copper light As she finally tells you her name Do you know who she is?

I thought coming back to Edinburgh would feel like slipping into a familiar coat, worn, warm, and perfectly mine. Instead, I landed and felt something I never expected, a quiet ache to return to São Paulo. Edinburgh is not just where I grew up, it is where my identity started to be shaped. My parents played a big role in teaching me life skills from an early age, a resilience that I was able to build on as I grew. My father, unable to work due to health issues, and my mother,