Spring cleaning | Britta Benson

The kitchen…

Nightmare!

So many things.

It takes a great many paraphernalia to make

baked beans on burnt toast.

The living room…

Full of unread books I don’t trust.

They lead exciting lives.

I swear, they have parties late at night, out of spite!

The hearts…

Hoarders, greedy.

Could do with a rummage,

spot of Swedish death cleaning.

I’m afraid, Marie Kondo won’t do.

‘Does this spark joy?’ – the wrong question.

Sell? Donate? Recycle? Chuck the lot in the bin?

I know… Postpone.

Good things come to those who wait.

Spring cleaning?

Perhaps in June.

Or, we could build an extension.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

Pondering | Britta Benson

Reeds and rushes, we,

like moorhens, whisper

red billed truths through

debris, duckweed. Reflections

of our freshwater hearts

flash white and echo

the bottom of our soul,

forever present, forever secret.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

Friend | Britta Benson

I walked barefoot next to you along the beach

and we stopped to look at a stranded jellyfish.

I felt the softest sand between my toes

and the strongest bond between our souls.

I stared silently into horizons through your eyes

and we sat on that wooden bench forever

until the sun got bored and went for a dive.

I shared a poke of chips with you in a crowd,

joined by local pigeons, starlings and a sparrow.

We solved the problems of the universe

until the last bus drove you back home.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

The sailing boat | Britta Benson

The sea takes a swig at me.

I rise and fall,

naughty waves tickle my belly unashamedly,

then slap me in the face.

Dreams sting forever.

I like it rough.

I breathe freedom

sandwiched between elements,

a traveller,

bobbing for adventure,

not meant to be anchored, chained.

Let me be.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

Peace | Britta Benson

I listen to the wind

and hope for answers in all directions.

Cold waves crash through blackened rocks,

some snarl in the frill of bold white crests

while others whisper,

licking pebbles on the beach

with salty, swirling tongues.

I carry the life that never was

to the smooth dark shingles

piled up high in the pit of my heart

and finally make peace with my self.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

The cold call | Britta Benson

The cold call of winter enters lightly through a gap in the window,

throws a sudden chill on old skin trapped in solitary confinement.

White walls and sterile floors reflect years, hopes and dreams,

their echo a faint murmur in slowly freezing hearts of gold.

Stories told long ago hang like snowflakes in thin air,

to dance with the dead, the lost, the never again.

Time stands still once more, almost north.

The front door too far to reach.

Cool blue light from a phone

a beacon of warmth,

true connection

to the south.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

Selected by the editor as a featured submission, July 2022

The storm | Britta Benson

The storm is coming.

Funny how the wind knocks,

three times, four, a dozen.

Soft little brush strokes tickle

the fidgeting fingers of barenaked trees,

whisper ‘Forget decorum, dance, I’ll lead,

I’ll linger, I might break your neck,

three times, four, a dozen.’

The storm is coming.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com. She also stares out of her window a lot and drinks far too much tea.

Selected by the editor as a featured submission, April 2022

You flipped your flops | Britta Benson

You flipped your flops until they were almost fictional, the stuff of legends. A beautiful memory, exhaling its last.

They were the ones you walked along the beach in. They’d been filled with hopes and sand and ocean, the visions of a lifetime. Bondi Beach, eat your heart out. There was still so much sunshine trapped in the last little layer of decomposing rubber, that see through sole, with such excellent views right to the core of the earth.

You flipped your flops every day with steely determination and shuffled on the soft carpet of our living room, the only surface suitable for those reluctantly clingy, almost immaterial survivors of your younger self. The notion of a student exchange and the other side of the world, still on your feet, just.

Then, one day, I heard you flip down the stairs.

I waited.

Flip.

Waited.

Flip.

Waited and saw, you had a frown on your face, for the flop would no longer follow your flip, had abandoned ship, just like that. Perhaps, it was time to let go? Say goodbye to the flimsy bit of rubber, the spectre of selves long shelved.

Their memory flips and flops on, never stops. Even now, decades later, we both still hear their warm, sunny rhythm, the visit of a friendly ghost. Never did a pair hold so much promise, so much sunshine in so little sole.

But I guess, you’re feet are much warmer now in cosy chunky knit slipper socks.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing German, a writer, performer and linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000. She runs a creative writing group and writes a daily blog, Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland brittasblog422041504.wordpress.com as well as the poetry blog, Odds & Ends oddsends707138946.wordpress.com.

Autumn Truths | Britta Benson

Summer lingered long, never took.

Light spilled, sat easy, asked for a truce.

Now, laughter darkens, learns to wait.

A season peels off trees in golden ochre, bloodred, rust.

Eyes roll, all colours whisper, no intention of remaining.

‘Hear me’, the caught leaf sings, pinched between two fingers.

I close my fist.

The faintest heartbeat stops.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends
Selected by the editor as a featured submission, October 2022

Not a nice wee girl yet | Britta Benson

She doesn’t use a net. A jam jar does the trick.

She filters, scans and captures summer, beauty,

keeps a tally of her spoils and bottles rainbows,

then watches them bounce off the sides. She smiles

and follows their fight for an afternoon, until one

by one, they end up limp, exhausted on the bottom.

This feels like justice to her, the moment of truth.

Someone’s got to pay the price for this innocence.

Many butterflies will die until she can stand nature

without instantly feeling the need to retaliate.


Britta Benson is a happiness & poetry blogging, circus skills instructing & common butterfly following German, a writer, performer & linguist thriving in Scotland, her chosen habitat since the year 2000.
Britta’s Blog – Letters from Scotland
Odds & Ends