Our cat Mitzy is outside, sat on the doorstep minding her own business, doing nothing to anyone. Then she is dead, shot with an air rifle by the young lad across the street. He never said why he shot her and never said sorry. This is my first experience of death and how brutal and evil some people can be.

i could stay here
all day and all night
reading poetry, history, fact and fiction
listening to the squelch of tyres
on wet tarmac
conversations whispered as
people try not to disturb anyone
others are loud and don’t care
the cool air of an autumn
day in summer blowing on my back
at the library i can avoid the responsibilities of life
and listen to the thoughts in my head
as they go round and round
i must go now and face the world
leave my place of
happiness, comfort and security
and see what life has to offer me
outside the library

We’re in Wyke. We’ve moved to a nice council house. It’s big and has gardens front and back. I like it here. My sister shouts at me. I don’t know why she shouts at me. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong to upset my sister. She is older than me and she makes me cry. I tell my mum, she believes my sister, she doesn’t believe me. I’m telling the truth but no one believes me. I’m sad. Why does no one believe me.

I’m at a house, it might be mine, it might not. We have a visitor a woman. My mum and her are talking, I’m playing with my toys while they talk. I go near the woman’s feet, they bare, naked. This is my first memory of bare skin. I’m nervous, apprehensive about approaching her feet, touching her bare skin. Something inside me tells me to stop, to not touch, to not stare, to go back to playing with my toys. Bare skin is bad and should not be touched.

Things move around the house
Leave me irritated and confused
How does he find them so quickly

flights cancelled
airport occupied
disruption caused
do not travel here
is the message
police criticised
protesters sympathise
with bleeding woman
police may move in
protesters go
demonstrations and unrest
is not abating
violence condemned
linked to terrorism
when will it end

My next memories are hazy, hazier than the first memory. I’m in a house, a big house, big to me, surrounded by furniture and people and animals. My mum, dad, sister, George the mynah bird, a cat, our dog Tina. My memory is blurred as if I’m opening my eyes after a good nights sleep. There is colour emerging from the grey, people are talking, there is life forming here, mine, my parents, my sisters, the animals around us, creating life, creating memories.

My first memories of me as a child as a human being living and breathing the air around me. I’m playing with others, other children. We’re sat down on the pavement, it might be Gracey Lane, Buttershaw where I was born, it must be somewhere near there. It’s grey and overcast like an old black and white film. There’s no colour, just a puddle the other children and me. That is my first memory of my life on this planet we call earth. Not my mum or my dad, my brother or my sister but some nameless, faceless children on an unknown street and a puddle, all in black and white not colour.

dark skies

Posted: August 9, 2019 in poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

sky darkens
in an instance
light is gone
i knew where
i was and now
i’m lost
i could be anywhere
all I know is
i am here
wherever here is


Posted: August 6, 2019 in poetry, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , ,

anticipation builds
excitement intense
grains of sand
pass through hands
nothing left
but faded faces