Bubble Rapt

What’s this?  A bandwagon?  Don’t mind if I do!

I’ve just published my first book!

Bubble Rapt is a selection of short stories with a twist to leave you all tangled up like a tangly thing.  The stories are mostly by me, bar one, which is extra special.

I’ve popped in a true tale by my Dad, Ray Goldsack, as he always wanted to be published, but didn’t quite get round to it before he died. There you go, Dad.  It would have been his 79th birthday yesterday 🙂


Find out what happens to Robert, the coy carp, and Little  Molly Plankton, and  why Jenny Sanders is so Bubble Rapt!

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

You know you want to!


Remember, remember

The first week in November is a tough one for me.
The 2nd, 4th and 6th hold such sad memories.
Loss in the extreme, in only two short years.
Grieving for the three of them, haunted by my fears.

Next year I’ll make a promise to hold myself close.
Maybe take a holiday and give it my utmost.
The first week of November, in twenty sixteen.
I’ll write a happy poem to tell you where I’ve been.

The Ring

He knelt before her and slipped the golden box out from his back pocket, opening it slowly. A diamond ring lay nested within the red velvet – delicate, perfect.

She began to cry. Tears as rivulets flowed down her reddened cheeks.

Whilst she longed to grab him passionately, say yes and live a happily ever after fantasy, she turned away from him. He wasn’t hers; would never be hers. His heart would always belong to another.

She didn’t look back. She ran forward into the past, towards the one who truly loved her.

The End

I’m not a real poet
I don’t know why I try it
It causes lots of upset
When tiredness kicks in

Poetry I shouldn’t choose
I’ve far too many issues
And if you were in my shoes
You’d probably hit the gin

My poemy words get mixed up
The one I love gets shook up
I really am quite f**ked up
I’m lucky to have him

So when my poems seem bitter
Like sh*t sprinkled with glitter
That causes man to jitter
Just throw them in the bin

My world has not been all good
I’ve had my share of dead wood
Memories become mud
With good and bad mixed in

I ask for understanding
When sometimes underhanding
word tactics make a landing
It really is a sin

So, should I write of purity
To banish insecurity
Or sink into obscurity
I don’t feel I can win

Before I call it a night
A little tip – some insight
Think before you do write
Don’t rush the words in

Unconditional Love

There will never be one to match him for unconditional love
Others have tried before and since, but he was a cut above
No matter what I did or said, the twinkle in his eye
Told me he cared enough to let my peccadillos by
(Of which there were many, incidentally)
He would always look at me intently and occasionally frown
One look was all it took for me to know I’d let him down
Yet, still, he’d hold me to his heart – tell me all would be OK
Sometimes, he’d even shed a tear and look the other way
No man has ever measured up, nor come anywhere near
Maybe that’s why I changed my men every other year!
Searching for someone just like him, the perfect ideal
Now I’m older (and wiser?), I prefer to keep it real
The memories are kept alive through eyes with rosy tint
Eyes that reflect his gaze at me; (I have his cheeky glint)
It’s ten years now since he left the hole that nobody can fill
Dad, I miss you every day; no doubt I always will

RIP Dad Ten years
Ten years

Once upon a time

Your soft mouth closes around mine, full lips swelling as hot passion overwhelms us, both gasping as we inhale each other, tongues dancing a torrid tango.

Teeth clash as our ardour grows; fingers grasp hair, tastebuds tingle.

Finally tearing ourselves apart, we gaze deeply into each other’s eyes, dark with desire, sparkling with lust.

Hands grab desperately at clothes, rapidly undressing each other, running eager hands over soft naked flesh.

Opening my eyes, I catch a glimpse in the mirror of a weary old lady sitting in her rocking chair.

Rivulets of tears cascade down her cheeks at the distant memory of once upon a time.


Today, I choose to muse.
Remember those we loved, who lived,
and those we love, who live.

Today, I wander and ponder.
Take a stroll down Memory Lane,
use clichés to underplay the pain.

Today, I’m cold; controlled.
Lost heat from a listless heart.
Chapter closed, page turned, restart.

Today, I try to cry;
feeling I should make the tears flow.
Let it all go to let go.

Today, I’m free to be.
Whilst others play host to their ghosts,
mine return to their rightful posts.

Memories of Hong Kong (80s/90s)

(Work in progress)

Concrete jungle, land of my father
Morning fog across the harbour
Bamboo scaffold scraping skies
Skyscrapers compete for size
In a city constructed but never complete


Neon lighting electric dreams
Expansion taken to extremes
Dirty cockroach-infested alleys
Horses racing in happy valleys
Startled by guns in the searing noonday heat


Toothless drivers pulling rickshaws
Foreign devils on guided tours
Old colonials in safari suits
Street vendors selling oversized fruits
Sticky and smelly, durian putridity


Public transport most exemplary
All the buses; PL, K and C
Ferries cross harbours to islands green
Jetcats and foils to a land unseen
Through a wall of thick and stifling humidity



Sunset junk rides to fisherfolk cafes
Weekend getaways for office staff
Seaside seafood snacks served swiftly
Intoxication comes by briskly
Hungover Sabbaths, repenting intemperance



Clams (Hong Kong style) atop spaghetti
Feeling green on unsteady jetty
Welcome breezes from South China seas
On land, Wanchai bound, explicit sleaze
They love you long time for temporary romance


Backgammon, mahjong played in the dark
Slow motion throng, tai chi in the park
Harmonic movements, sight to behold
Aged acquaintances, teeth of gold
Cleansing beansprouts in baskets at first light of dawn


Pictures gleaned from numerous sources; may not be 80s/90s